70 Plays
Day 3: A Song that reminds you of one/both of your parents
“Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin
There are over 100,000 songs in my iTunes library. I own roughly 2,500 compact discs and around 500 LPs. I wrote about music professionally for close to 10 years. I’ve been to at least 300 concerts. I played guitar and bass in a handful of local indie bands in the 1990s.
Most people are surprised when I tell them my parents were never into music.
When I was young, they had maybe a half dozen records in their collection. My mom had Simon & Garfunkel’s “Greatest Hits” and Seals & Crofts’ “Summer Breeze.” My dad had a couple of albums each by Sil Austin, a saxophonist who played tepid ’60s jazz-pop, and Joni James, a forgettable ’50s pop vocalist.
So when my dad became a partner with a Big Five accounting firm and they were forced to have my dad’s new boss and his wife over for dinner and drinks, my mom had to venture out and buy some new music for the occasion.
Of course, my mother was seven years younger than my father, who in turn was at least a couple of decades younger than his boss. As a bit of a tortured soul and college dropout, she also never quite fit the mold of the stereotypical yuppie’s wife. Having grown up in the church as the daughter of a Baptist minister, she’d rebelled strongly against her stifling upbringing and wasn’t thrilled to find herself back in a world where keeping up appearances was paramount. She tried, but deep down she was still a misfit.
And a misfit can always spot another misfit. So when she asked the store clerk for recommendations, he probably figured this “dinner party” she spoke of was a considerably hipper affair, perhaps a group of twentysomethings getting together for food and a few laughs.
I’m sure you can see where this is going.
The boss and his wife, well into their 60s, turned up in full formalwear, discussed work in serious tones, sniffed at the food and didn’t smile once. When they finally retired to the living room for the customary after-dinner drinks, my dad walked over to the stereo — one of those giant cabinets with built-in speakers from back when a record player was a piece of furniture — and put the needle on the record.
In college a female friend of mine described Robert Plant’s suggestive singing style and libidinous lyrics thusly: “It always feels like he’s swaggering up and sticking his dick in my ear.”
Hey hey, mama, said the way you move,
Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove
As the story goes, everyone in the room was horrified, and the boss and his wife didn’t stick around long.
Incidentally, neither did my mom.
