And I guess sometimes it is, if I’m going to be honest about it.

To his credit, Dad never actually called it “THE DEVIL’S MUSIC” (Jerry Falwell, God Bless You) but had an even more cryptic title he addressed it with: He called it “that loud music.

That Loud Music

Good description. A bit dry, but accurate nonetheless, for never in my life have I turned the radio down when a good Zepplin song came on.

Like you dear Reader, like all of us, I recognize and have my own bouts with the harsh realities of the generation gap. To Dad’s ears, the banshee wail of Robert Plant must have sounded like the gates of Hell had opened up in our kitchen. He never heard that sound in The Barrio growing up as a kid, sure wasn’t no “La Bamba.”

And now it’s happening to me too. It started with Grunge. I loved Mother Love Bone, thought Andrew Wood was a mystic genius, but the rest of the depressed lot… including Nirvana and Pearl Jam??? “AW, MAN - SHUT UP!” is what I wanted to scream out every time I heard some winy crybaby’s depressed heroin ode to nothingness.

I grew up (literally) digging ditches for my father; I had no use for Seattle’s sad post-adolescent white men crying out for substance, as I already had years of said substance under my nails. By then I was in my late twenties, already a US Army Vet, married, struggling, clumsily busting my butt trying to make the rent and learn a trade. These men, Vedder and Cobain, were charlatans of despair and depth. Vedder would make his broad political statements, yet had never once held office; much less a weapon on post or road marched till his feet bled. And Cobain and Courtney Love were busy making a baby and fixing each other’s next rush of junk. When he died, I didn’t really care. Life came to him like it comes to all of us: harsh, difficult, and full of confusion. Cobain simply turned his tail and ran, his personal demons receiving greater priority than the future demons of his young daughter. As for the demons themselves, I’m sure they simply laughed; they didn’t even have to move out, they instead just changed their shoes for a smaller size. Watching with disgust the enormous candlelight vigils held for the spokesman of a young detached Generation Y, I feared for the lack of perspective in this generation who chose him as their beloved prince, and consequently became my father in so doing.

Then it crept up on me again, the Generation Gap.

I have this recurring bad taste in my mouth and I realize that it’s called POP CULTURE. I can’t even watch MTV anymore, because it’s one long hype machine. 90% of the bands that you hear today – are 100% PRODUCT, they are filler, they are pre-heated, pre-painted, pre-quoted, pre-molded. They look the same, talk the same, cuss the same, definitely SOUND the same and will all disappear the same way. And while we’re on the subject, all you young angry white males from the hood of Livonia and Farmington Hills put your hat on straight, pull up your pants and stop talking Gangsta. You live in your mom’s basement. She still does your laundry, including your stupid T Shirt that says REPRESENT. I am not fooled, and I’ve seen hard – you aint it.

As these thoughts roll through my head I realize that I’ve crossed over to the dark side. I find myself saying things like “Back in MY day…” and …. (sigh) ”They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.” And then it hits me, this realization that (gulp), I AM my father. Thank God I left LA while there was still time…

As I’ve said many times before, Detroit, to me, is a real Rock and Roll town. It’s not just because of the influences of great Detroit mainstays such as Nugent and the MC5 and Seger and Harpos and even The Token Lounge. It’s the spirit here, that blue collar thing that we’ve talked about before. People in Detroit work hard. They freeze their butts off for long cold winters. The economy makes them worry, the overcast sky makes them depressed, and they lose heart watching thieves like Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick and his band of thugs loot their city and flaunt themselves as above reproach. They deal with constant division among sub-sets of sub-cultures, and that damn snow plow that keeps piling up snow right at the end of their driveway. This is a hard place to live, Detroit, but I see a certain beauty to that struggle, because it’s real.

And at the end of the day, when they want to Rock, they’re not playing around. That’s what I like about the music scene out here, there are no posers, it’s just too freakin’ cold for that.

And so even though Dad does not approve, I have to hold on to what I know is tried and true about myself, despite my age, and despite the vacant trends of today.

Now, how bout you (since we’re being honest here) Dear Reader? How many times in your life have you held that Spaulding tennis racket while your favorite Deep Purple song was playing and you just tore it up? Played it with your teeth, between your legs, behind your head, and then closed with a “THANK YOU DETROIT – GOOD NIGHT!!!”

Here’s a better question; how many of you STILL do it when the wife and kid’s are over at Meijer Thrifty Acres? Thought so. And why the need for all that secrecy? Cause you know, you’re grown up now, you’re a regional manager, your kid’s play A-League soccer, you own several pairs of pleated slacks and at the very at least you wear Dockers when your going casual in public and God Bless You, why I believe those are tassels on your shoes...