April 2003 Issue - Essay # 1
Generation
Rock
By Susan Major
My Italian grandmother, my
Nonnie, loved Lawrence Welk. I would sit cross-legged on her thin brown
carpet in front of a boxy TV, mesmerized by a stream of piano, polkas
and women in swirling dresses. While Nonnie was busy serving up steaming
bowls of pasta, only the daring tried to change the channel. Complaints
would ring out from the kitchen in lyrical Italian and the set would
immediately be switched back to her favorite show. My mother and father told us
music-tinged fables from the decades that gave permanent shape to their
lives. My mother was a screaming "Bobby Soxer," who worshipped
Frank Sinatra. In her old photos, she is fresh-faced and glamorous with
a broad smile and a 1940s cascade of dark, wavy hair. My father grew up
with Neapolitan ballads sung to him at bedtime. He loved opera, Jerry
Vale and Mario Lanza. He embarrassed us by singing everywhere: in the
car, at family gatherings--along with spontaneous outbursts in
public. He met my mother at a dance, big band music sparking their
turbulent, life-long marriage. The images from my childhood
shimmer and blink in memory; the sounds fall in and out. Ed Sullivan on
our old TV, my father snorting when he saw the Beatles, pronouncing:
"They'll never last." My sister and I felt an excitement that
erupted as squeals of delight. We were awestruck by such shockingly long
hair, so dangerously different from the close-cropped heads of my father
and brother. Suddenly, we were blindingly aware that we understood
something our father would never comprehend. The power of rock'n'roll music burst forth for us in that moment with unrestrained velocity. Life sped up to schoolyard
pop and the green plaid skirt of a Catholic school uniform. In my group
of friends it was crucial to declare your favorite member of The Monkees.
We met in the shade of a brick wall at lunchtime, calling ourselves by
secret names: Mickey, Davy, Peter or Mike. In a break from the group, I
tacked a picture of Paul Revere and The Raiders on my bedroom wall. My parents bought me scratchy
45’s that spun on a suitcase record player. I earned the privilege of
using their cabinet hi-fi and records by solemnly promising to treat
them with something close to religious reverence. I sang along to
everything, and danced when I was sure no one was watching. My older sister drifted away
to Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and The Lovin’ Spoonful. My brother
went Motown and the house rang with Aretha, The Supremes and The Four
Tops. One summer my worried mother kept vigil by the phone when he
followed mysterious new musical urges all the way to My high school music of Elton
John and Alice Cooper gave way to college in snowy Flash forward to my twenties
in I crashed VIP seating at The
Ritz when Squeeze played, and Southside Johnny grabbed my arm as I
stumbled down a staircase, keeping me upright as I skated on puddles of
spilled beer and maneuvered past broken bottles. In my shoebox apartment
in Where do the songs reside? In
my brain? In my heart? I’m hardwired for the music that made me dance
in my bedroom, or daydream a new existence when I wanted to be anywhere
on earth that wasn’t the back seat of my parents’ car. Strip away the layers of
wisdom. Peel away the thick skin of jaded maturity. Take a core sample
from deep within my bones. The music is locked in like a dominant trait,
as resolute as nature, as eager and persistent to be passed on as DNA. When my own child pushed into
the world, she sported a thick crop of bright, red-orange hair that
stood straight up. "Look," I told the nurse, "she looks
like Johnny Rotten's baby." The nurse hesitated,
confused. The Sex Pistols’ reference meant nothing to her. She smiled,
said nothing, and tied a bow in my newborn's hair. My daughter grew up with
Morrissey’s voice in her ear as The Smiths sang her lullabies and The
Clash provided dinner music. She says it’s a great gift I have given
her, this music that has taken root somewhere inside and become entwined
with her very essence. She furiously scribbles poetry and her graceful
fingers dance across a computer keyboard that clatters with emerging
lyrics for songs as yet unwritten. On her 15th birthday we saw U2 in
concert and the night was seared forever in her heart and head. One day
she strapped on a bright blue electric guitar and asked: "How would
you feel if I started a band?" And so, the next generation
hears London Calling and feels the storm that gathers inside. My years
roar past me; I sway gently in their wake, seventeen in my heart. My
aging body is merely a cruel joke already told and best forgotten. I will become an old woman
with a punk snarl, sharp elbows and edgy tales. I will slip whiskey into
my tea, eat cookies for dinner, and tell anyone who will listen about
the last band that really mattered. I have so many stories to share. The first one
begins, “You
are never too old...”
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Author's Biography Susan Major lives in E-mail Susan at
smajor2000@cswebmail.com
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Essay
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