I have distinct memories of sitting in the backseat of the Lester family 1999 Ford Expedition. Even though there were only two of us, my brother and I would fight over the middle seat of the third row, leaving what seemed to be an immensity of space between the driver and us.
Sometimes we would unbuckle our seatbelts, just because we could. Even though our parents claimed to have eyes in the back of their heads, we knew those “eyes” couldn’t possibly be powerful enough to see past the vastness that was the empty middle row. No, in that third row, we were invincible to the laws of the road, but we weren’t invincible to our parents’ music.
Whether we were on the way to school or the grocery store, the Expedition’s radio dial was always turned to 97.1, Fox 97 (that’s nineeeeee-teeee sevennnnn), “Atlanta’s feel good music station.” Golden oldies roared throughout the confines of the car, and it seemed like with each song, our parents would recount a story about where they were when that song debuted.
Headed to school, we’d sing along with the Beach Boys—“wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long”—and hear tales of a first middle school dance in the 1960s. The tune was catchy, the lyrics easy to remember (and void of swear words!) and the message appropriate for impressionable children.
On the way to soccer practice, Marvin Gaye would re-seduce my mother like he’d done in ’71, crooning “What’s Going On.” She’d tell us that this was the “single best song to dance to in college,” whatever that means, and her hand would keep time to the beat as we weaved in and out of traffic.
The Expedition’s radio playlists were composed of wholesome, “feel good music” that my parents wanted to share with my brother and me, even if we distanced ourselves on the third row island. The songs served as glimpses of a life back when times (and music) were simpler.
But that was then and this is now.
I’m leaving my nostalgic tone behind and turning on my sarcastic switch because, you realize, our children are never going to have the experience my brother and I had in the Expedition. If you’ve been listening to the same sort of music that I have for the past 10 years, I hope you don’t plan on sharing it with your future kiddies.
When I think of my own middle school dances, my first kiss and my first pair of totally awesome low-rise Seven jeans, I don’t think of a Beach Boys’ song about saving myself for marriage. No, I think of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s infamous one hit wonder, “Baby Got Back.”
My waspy tween friends and I would awkwardly dance in the school’s gym, screaming lines like, “I want ‘em real thick and juicy, so find that juicy double.” I mean, 20 years from now, I sure hope San Francisco (Facebook’s “What city do you belong in?” quiz told me that’s the city that best suits me) doesn’t have an “oldies” station that promotes “feel good music” from the Aughts.
It would undoubtedly play a lot of songs about hoez, rimz and bling, and I can just imagine making up answers to my kids’ uncomfortable questions about the songs’ subject matter.
I can see it now… “Hey Mom, what’s a freak?” Or, “When we were babies, did we have ‘back?’” And worse, “How come Kelis’ milkshake brings all the boys to the yard?”
Sadder still, if my hypothetical, futuristic children were to ask me who performed at my favorite concert of all time, I’d have to honestly answer with Kanye West, Usher and a surprise guest appearance by Ludacris.
The year was 2005. I was 15, my skirt was short and I knew every word to every song performed that night. The highlight of the evening was the finale performance of “Yeah.” Ludacris appeared on stage and the whole crowd went wild as he told us he wanted “a lady in the streets, but a freak in the bed.”
So how exactly do you share the music from your young adulthood with your children?
I’m thinking you don’t. I’m thinking you lose the radio, load up the old iPod with everything but the rappers and tell the kids that in addition to magically growing eyes in the back of your head at age 30, country music was your favorite genre.
By the time they realize they’ve been deprived of sharing in your musical history, they will be old enough to keep your “thug lyfe” in perspective.
Molly Lester is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
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