Happy Father's Day -- Ain't Noise Pollution

Going into the no-so-way back machine for a nod to my dad (which my grandmother told me made the ol’ Ditka lookalike shed a tear or two). As first published at Modern Conservative in 2007. Love ya, rocker pops!!!

Most every son remembers a particular “first” moment with their father. First throwing around of the football, first baseball game, first night going out drinking, first time sneaking a copy of Playboy into your room … okay, the last one’s not communal, per se, but a shared father-son bond nonetheless (c’mon, fathers knew about the Playboys and, much to our mothers’ chagrins, I think dads secretly enjoy that passing of the torch … sorry moms).

While I definitely recall all of the above with various degrees of fondness, the one memory that sticks out most in my head and continually brings the biggest smile to my face remains our first true music-bonding moment.

Dad was fiddling on his work bench, knowing him at the time, building clubs and placing a driver head on a golf shaft, as I built a fort with stray boxes, cushions and whatever else was laying around the basement on Old Route 82. As always, the beat-up transistor radio was pumping out static-ridden tunes from some AM station and Queen was the band of the moment.

The hard-pounding, hand-clap inspiring “We Will Rock You” had just given way to the more melodic “We Are the Champions” and my inquisitive head turned and asked the simple question, “Dad, why does that song always follow the other one?” Sure, I was only five, but these are the things I apparently noticed as we drove around town or I played in the basement. Though my dad typically qualifies as a man of many words, an equally simple reply followed: “It’s called a medley.”

If one moment in time can define itself as a marker in a person’s practically life-long obsession with anything, this very brief Q&A has to be mine. Blessedly, my father was always there to assist and nurture it along the way, too. Granted, in retrospect, I think he would have been happier if my fascination with record player needles didn’t involve such a clumsy hands-on approach, but with more patience than should ever be expected of anyone, let alone someone with three clumsy and hands-on sons, my dad soldiered on and mentored me in the ways of music appreciation.

For the record, my mother probably deserves some recognition, too, but I still harbor a slight grudge for her constantly singing “Age of Aquarius” and other selections from the Hair soundtrack when I was younger. Sure, I’m the one who decided to stick around in the womb for an extra month (uh-huh, you read correctly, a month), thereby missing Capricorn as my astrological sign, but that’s beside the point.

No, it was my dad who initially played Beatles and Doors and Ventures and Three Dog Night albums for me. It was my dad who did me the ultimate favor by one day cranking “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” as he drove me to baseball practice. It was dad whose Columbia House Records membership had me waiting anxiously for him to get home from work so I could discover what surprise waited on the other side of the cardboard box (usually Billy Joel). I also remember feeling like I’d turned a corner towards manhood when he asked me if there was anything I wanted from the Columbia catalog.

Once I reached that milestone, there was no turning back. Birthdays and Christmas and all points between became times to receive music. Some great (Synchronicity, Purple Rain), some damn good (Freeze-Frame, Emotions in Motion), some, well, a little of the moment (Condition Critical, Rhythm of Youth). Regardless, dad was always there to listen along or, on occasion, raise a cocked eyebrow.

Naturally, there were a couple less-than-enjoyable musical moments during the teen years, but I look back on those memories just as fondly, probably because they were two of only three times I was actually able to outwit my father (the other involving The Empire Strikes Back and Animal House, a story perhaps for another time).

Although dad eventually became a decent Van Halen fan, I’ll never forget his constant mocking of the admittedly repetitive chorus for “Jump”: “Hit and jump, flip it and jump, go ahead, jump-jump-jump-jump.” “Sure, dad, ranks right up there with the lyrical tour de force known as ‘Sugar, Sugar.’ By the way, #1 song in the country.”

The other incident involved the Rolling Stones’ Dirty Work album. I wanted to buy it and, being a respectful son, asked if that was cool. “No drug addict bands in my house, bunch of potheads,” so on and so forth. Also being 16 and mysteriously possessing a slight lawyer gene, I nodded my head and proceeded to gather some records from the collection he had been so kind to share with me through the years. Sgt. Pepper’s, dad. What were you saying about drug addicts? Strange Days– Wait a minute, what’s this album with “Incense and Peppermints” on it? Hold it, this one here, is this a Doobie Brothers album? What’s that name mean, dad?” Again displaying more patience than such an insolent child deserved, dad simply slammed the records on the counter and huffed off to the den. The next afternoon, I was gifted with the Stones and Judas Priest’s latest album as well (for better and worse, while those days of conflict are gone forever, I still have Dirty Work and Turbo). Music this time playing the role of peacemaker.

Unfortunately, though, like most fathers and sons separated by 2500-some miles, there’s not a whole lot of time for man-to-man bonding, but on those times I do make it home (and after political grousing), conversation eventually finds its way back to music and our current favorites (dad’s in a weird Michael Bolton renaissance so I keep trying to turn him on to Hank III). I’ve even returned the AC/DC favor by helping bring Metallica into dad’s world. Quite frankly, since he no longer has a record player and needles to replace, it’s the least I could do.

Oh, the magical first thing I asked dad to order from Columbia House: a cassette copy of Bob & Doug McKenzie’s Great White North. Yup, a comedy album, with a whopping two songs on it. Of course, this would have a much more profound effect on my life since it eventually led me down the path to becoming a voice-over artist and nearly recording as a Rick Moranis sound-alike for Disney. So, thank you, dad … and Happy Father’s Day.

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