Joyful Noise

My love for Top 40 music goes all the way back to the mid sixties when a new console stereo was brought into our house. It was a big piece of furniture – a polished walnut wooden cabinet with a hinged door on top. When you lifted the lid and looked inside, there was a turntable on the left, and a row of radio dials on the right. To me, it was a gateway to a whole new world waiting to be discovered.

The first album my parents bought was by Roger Miller, a crossover country artist who had a radio hit with the smash single “King of the Road.” Since the album was the only one we owned at the time, I got to know the songs very well. By placing the diamond needle stylus on the vinyl disc you could feel the rich warm tones of the tunes, along with all the snaps and pops that could be heard crackling from the speakers from repeated playing.

Every morning I would wake up extra early, creep into the parlor before the sun came up, and begin my 5:00 a.m. ritual of tuning in songs on the AM.radio. I would set the volume low and curl up on our royal blue polyester danish modern sofa, tuck an orange pillow beneath my head and listen to The Supremes, Barbara Streisand and Tom Jones sing about life and love until it was time for me to eat breakfast and get ready for school.

The nineteen sixties were a golden age for pop music, and Casey Kasem’s weekly American Top 40 countdown became a staple of my Sunday morning radio listening habit (as soon as I got home from church). I wanted to learn to play an instrument to make my own music but my training only went as far as the fourth string of my guitar. By the time I quit taking lessons I was semi-proficient at Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I could read the musical notes on paper. I knew my F-A-C-E from my E-G-B-D-F. However, I recently discovered there is more to understanding music than just knowing where the notes are.

 Music may be the universal language, but currently in my home there is a cultural divide between my jazz-loving son and his pop music father. “That’s not real music,” my son recently told me regarding my musical preference. “Jazz snob!” was my snarky retort. I'll take my father/son bonding any way I can get it.

My son is attending college majoring in jazz composition. On a recent ride home from the dorms, I thought I'd pick his brain for some technical musical knowledge. I asked him what “intonation” meant. I heard the word used on several occasions by Harry Connick Jr. as he critiqued would-be pop stars on this season's American Idol. I got my answer in the form of a vocal lesson from my son. He sang the scales in various keys to show me the difference. It takes training to hit the right notes and sing in perfect pitch. This explains why my attempt at becoming a vocalist in Vinnie and Larry’s teen-age garage band in the mid seventies didn’t quite work out . My vocal style falls somewhere between The Clash and Patti Smith.

Music comes from the soul, no matter if your a jazz purist or a Top 40 rapper. There is no right or wrong in my book. It's all about personal preference.

My son and I have agreed to put our musical differences aside. He’s listening to John Coltrane while I'm enjoying “Happy” by Pharrell Williams from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. In the world of music, it’s all good.

 Although I realize a career in pop music is a long-shot for me, I still dabble in the Garage Band program on my computer. I've produced a few original songs of my own, enough to burn a CD or post on the web to amuse my friends.

Thanks to my son, my musical horizons have been expanded. I've discovered jazz is an acquired taste but it's not my cup of tea. To understand what the perfect pop song should sound like, I suggest listening to anything by the seventies group ABBA. I hear the band has a reunion tour in the planning stages. I hope it happens soon, before I’m the old guy clapping along from the handicap section.