The Soapboxx
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Oh Crap, I'm Turning Into My Dad
The other day I was watching The Hits channel on Freeview. And by 'watching', I of course mean I was reading whilst it was on in the background giving, at most, casual attention. My 10-year old son was in attendance, however, and was observing the current show quite keenly, which from what I could tell was some kind of countdown that had been determined by viewers' requests.
At one point, I looked up, studied the screen for a moment to figure out exactly what was making that hideous whine.
"Who is this," I said, then paused for a moment. "Keane?"
I noticed the change in my son's face immediately. Suddenly, it became clear that the weight of the world have been thrust upon his youthful shoulders, and the look he gave me was full of the kind of scorn I typically reserve for grown men and women who buy and claim to enjoy Haribo.
"Does it look like Keane?" he said, clearly unable to bear my blatant oafishness a moment longer, "It's Kasabian."
Or, at least it might have been. It was definitely a band beginning with the letter 'K', but that doesn't mean much in today's musical climate, as it seems that all you have to do to get a modicum of success in Britain is to pick up a guitar, flick to the 'K' part of the dictionary and pick a name at random. Keane, Kasabian, The Killers, K.T. Tunstall, and, if you're a prat, even Pete Doherty has an invisible but audibly offensive 'K' in his surname somewhere. Within a week Kajagoogoo will make a critically-acclaimed comeback and the NME will be wetting themselves over a controversial but Daz-friendly Southcoast rock act called The KKK. With that name alone they're bound to sell ten million records.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, and obsessed with electro and the early days of hip hop (although back then it was known as 'rap music'), I was walking to the car with my father when I started humming the melody to some house track.
"What's that?" my father asked.
I told him, and then rewarded his interest with a little extra effort.
"Ah," he said, turning away, "That stuff all sounds the same to me."
This is, of course, a rite of passage for all fathers. No matter how much you think you are 'with it' and how much you pride yourself on your 'incredible album collection', there will come a point in your life - and it literally is a point, an apex - where you'll suddenly realise that not only are you basically out of touch with modern music, but that you don't care at all and that your father was right - it does all sound the same. Quite frankly, it's all rubbish.
I know, that sounds like madness, especially if you're currently in your early twenties, consider yourself a bit of a muso and you have a Playstation 2 and an Xbox-360. But, believe me, and I know this hurts: one day, you'll look up and go, "This is all shit."
And only a decade ago it seemed pretty good.
Nirvana, of course, changed everything. Both with Nevermind and Kurt Cobain's timely death, because that's exactly what it was. If he was still around today, he'd have turned into Chris Martin. And nobody wants that, as one of them is bad enough. 27 seems to be the right age for every rock God to die and Cobain must have been aware of this when he was pulling the trigger. The release of Nevermind in 1991 not only had a massive influence on music for years to come, but for guitar converts like myself it also had an enormous backtracing effect as well, as Nirvana's influences (and choices of cover tracks) pushed me, and millions of others, to make an eager visit to the past. The Who, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Blondie, The Doors and, yes, even The bloody Beatles suddenly became essential. And from here you discovered The Clash, The Jam and The Sex Pistols, and, you swear, for five minutes at one point in 1995 you thought that Steve Harley and the Cockney Rebels Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me) might very well be the greatest song ever written. Even though it was originally a hit in 1975. You can still make an argument for it.
And then, post-Nirvana, the UK had its own music revolution in the Britpop movement. And it was a movement, as at least half of the bands involved were shit. Still, for a moment there it was a bit like the 1970s again. Rock was back. Oasis made two fantastic albums before they got swallowed up by the khasi. Radiohead actually managed two and a half, then found themselves trapped in a Pink Floydesque mire of pretentious fretwanking and commercial obscurity. Pulp wrote at least five good songs. I quite liked Blur's Song 2. I'm sure Suede did something.
The problem is, and remember I'm saying this as both a father of three and someone whose 35th birthday is less than two weeks away, when you've been privileged with that kind of majesty, where the hell do you go from there?
You certainly can't go up. And so inevitably at one specific point in your life you suddenly become aware that you're trapped in this entertainment limbo. Your iPod bears the brunt of your displeasure. You'll find yourself uploading all the latest albums, listening to them once (partially), and then deleting them a week later to make room for L.A. Woman.
I thought I'd figured a way to cut out the middle-man by picking up one of the myriad of compilation albums but I'd stripped out four-fifths of that before the day was over, and within a week all that was left was Pulp's Disco 2000. Which I already had.
And it's not as if any new records from your now-ancient favourite bands help at all, either. Those of them selfish enough to still be alive like Robert Plant and The Rolling Stones just can't cut it anymore. And even when you see that a new album by The Who is getting great press, you refuse to pay any attention because you know it won't be any good at all. It can't be. Roger Daltry is 85. Nobody wants to see that.
So, what to do? Well, you can stop watching The Hits, for starters, as you're never going to get anything out of that. Otherwise, the best advice I can give is to make yourself a really good sandwich, grab a bottle of beer, find a nice, quiet place in your house, and sit there in the dark with your iPod on shuffle. And if your 10-year old son happens to wander over and asks you what you're listening to, tell him to sod off. We have to keep some things for ourselves, after all.
At one point, I looked up, studied the screen for a moment to figure out exactly what was making that hideous whine.
"Who is this," I said, then paused for a moment. "Keane?"
I noticed the change in my son's face immediately. Suddenly, it became clear that the weight of the world have been thrust upon his youthful shoulders, and the look he gave me was full of the kind of scorn I typically reserve for grown men and women who buy and claim to enjoy Haribo.
"Does it look like Keane?" he said, clearly unable to bear my blatant oafishness a moment longer, "It's Kasabian."
Or, at least it might have been. It was definitely a band beginning with the letter 'K', but that doesn't mean much in today's musical climate, as it seems that all you have to do to get a modicum of success in Britain is to pick up a guitar, flick to the 'K' part of the dictionary and pick a name at random. Keane, Kasabian, The Killers, K.T. Tunstall, and, if you're a prat, even Pete Doherty has an invisible but audibly offensive 'K' in his surname somewhere. Within a week Kajagoogoo will make a critically-acclaimed comeback and the NME will be wetting themselves over a controversial but Daz-friendly Southcoast rock act called The KKK. With that name alone they're bound to sell ten million records.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, and obsessed with electro and the early days of hip hop (although back then it was known as 'rap music'), I was walking to the car with my father when I started humming the melody to some house track.
"What's that?" my father asked.
I told him, and then rewarded his interest with a little extra effort.
"Ah," he said, turning away, "That stuff all sounds the same to me."
This is, of course, a rite of passage for all fathers. No matter how much you think you are 'with it' and how much you pride yourself on your 'incredible album collection', there will come a point in your life - and it literally is a point, an apex - where you'll suddenly realise that not only are you basically out of touch with modern music, but that you don't care at all and that your father was right - it does all sound the same. Quite frankly, it's all rubbish.
I know, that sounds like madness, especially if you're currently in your early twenties, consider yourself a bit of a muso and you have a Playstation 2 and an Xbox-360. But, believe me, and I know this hurts: one day, you'll look up and go, "This is all shit."
And only a decade ago it seemed pretty good.
Nirvana, of course, changed everything. Both with Nevermind and Kurt Cobain's timely death, because that's exactly what it was. If he was still around today, he'd have turned into Chris Martin. And nobody wants that, as one of them is bad enough. 27 seems to be the right age for every rock God to die and Cobain must have been aware of this when he was pulling the trigger. The release of Nevermind in 1991 not only had a massive influence on music for years to come, but for guitar converts like myself it also had an enormous backtracing effect as well, as Nirvana's influences (and choices of cover tracks) pushed me, and millions of others, to make an eager visit to the past. The Who, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Blondie, The Doors and, yes, even The bloody Beatles suddenly became essential. And from here you discovered The Clash, The Jam and The Sex Pistols, and, you swear, for five minutes at one point in 1995 you thought that Steve Harley and the Cockney Rebels Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me) might very well be the greatest song ever written. Even though it was originally a hit in 1975. You can still make an argument for it.
And then, post-Nirvana, the UK had its own music revolution in the Britpop movement. And it was a movement, as at least half of the bands involved were shit. Still, for a moment there it was a bit like the 1970s again. Rock was back. Oasis made two fantastic albums before they got swallowed up by the khasi. Radiohead actually managed two and a half, then found themselves trapped in a Pink Floydesque mire of pretentious fretwanking and commercial obscurity. Pulp wrote at least five good songs. I quite liked Blur's Song 2. I'm sure Suede did something.
The problem is, and remember I'm saying this as both a father of three and someone whose 35th birthday is less than two weeks away, when you've been privileged with that kind of majesty, where the hell do you go from there?
You certainly can't go up. And so inevitably at one specific point in your life you suddenly become aware that you're trapped in this entertainment limbo. Your iPod bears the brunt of your displeasure. You'll find yourself uploading all the latest albums, listening to them once (partially), and then deleting them a week later to make room for L.A. Woman.
I thought I'd figured a way to cut out the middle-man by picking up one of the myriad of compilation albums but I'd stripped out four-fifths of that before the day was over, and within a week all that was left was Pulp's Disco 2000. Which I already had.
And it's not as if any new records from your now-ancient favourite bands help at all, either. Those of them selfish enough to still be alive like Robert Plant and The Rolling Stones just can't cut it anymore. And even when you see that a new album by The Who is getting great press, you refuse to pay any attention because you know it won't be any good at all. It can't be. Roger Daltry is 85. Nobody wants to see that.
So, what to do? Well, you can stop watching The Hits, for starters, as you're never going to get anything out of that. Otherwise, the best advice I can give is to make yourself a really good sandwich, grab a bottle of beer, find a nice, quiet place in your house, and sit there in the dark with your iPod on shuffle. And if your 10-year old son happens to wander over and asks you what you're listening to, tell him to sod off. We have to keep some things for ourselves, after all.
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