I’ve Got To Get This Off My Chest
By Aaron Goldstein (02/17/04)
I may have been the only person in North America watching Super Bowl XXXVIII that did not see Janet Jackson bare her breast. In fact, I did not become aware of it until after the game.
How is this possible?
I can offer two reasons.
To start with, I live in Boston and along with the rest of New England was rooting passionately for the Patriots. If anyone outside of New England remembers the game, it was scoreless until more than half way through the second quarter. Then the Patriots and Panthers scored 24 points in six minutes and the Patriots a 14-10 lead at the half. I spent most of halftime talking with my friend about the game.
But surely others were talking about the football game while watching the halftime show?
This is where the second reason comes into play. I did not watch the halftime show. This is not to say that I changed the channel. The halftime show was on the TV. I was aware that P. Diddy, Nelly, Kid Rock, Justin Timberlake and, of course, Janet Jackson were performing. But I wasn’t paying attention. Why? Because their music means nothing to me. I can say much the same thing of almost all the music that is being made today.
Certainly, the vulgarity of contemporary music is a factor. The use of foul language is certainly an assault upon the ears. But there are virtually no interesting songs to be heard. The arrangements are bland, the melodies nonexistent and the lyrics are nondescript. Indeed, the only interesting song on Janet Jackson’s last album was “Someone To Call My Lover” and that was because she borrowed the guitar riff from the 1970’s classic “Ventura Highway” by America.
I admit that I am partial to rock n’ roll from the 1960s and 1970s. Indeed, virtually my entire CD collection consists of artists from that era both famous and obscure running the gamut from the Beatles and the Zombies to Tim Buckley and Fever Tree. When I do buy newly released CDs they are generally from friends I have in local bands such as Kieran Ridge of the Kieran Ridge Band (you can check them out at www.kridge.com).
Not surprisingly, I am listening to the Oldies station on the radio as I am writing this piece. What might surprise some readers is that I am only 31 years old and most of the music I listen to was at its epoch before I was even a sparkle in my parents’ eyes.
So what draws me to the music? Well, aside from the arrangements, melodies and the lyrics, I grew up with the music. I didn’t either realize or care that it was not cool to listen to your parents’ music. Indeed, I went much further than either of my parents in my passion for ‘60s and ‘70s music as my collection rivals theirs.
Although I sometimes find myself disagreeing or at the very least questioning some of the sentiments expressed in the songs there is little doubt about the care that went into crafting these songs. The artists who recorded them played them with a delicate combination of both passion and restraint.
Since the 40th anniversary of the Beatles arrival in America recently passed let me address the Fab Four for a moment. To a certain extent, the music of teenagers is going to rile their parents. Many baby boomers who first heard them in 1964 recall that their parents thought the Beatles would be a bad influence on them because of their long hair. But the test of music is its ability to appeal years after it was made.
The Beatles broke up two years before I was born. Yet Abbey Road is a significant memory from my childhood. Significant enough that I remember John Lennon when he was alive. When he was assassinated, I was only in the third grade but remember being every bit as much overcome with sadness as my parents. In fact, he was assassinated on my younger brother’s sixth birthday. It troubles me that I will never be able to remember my brother's birthday without remembering that tragedy.
Just today, I was listening to the radio and I heard a 12-year-old girl request the Beatles’ “Birthday” from The White Album. The fact that a song recorded more than 35 years ago resonates with a 12-year-old girl says all I need to know about the Beatles and most of the music from the 1960s and 1970s. Somehow I doubt that a Janet Jackson song will have much meaning to a 12-year-old girl in 2039.
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