Sometimes I feel like I’m 100 years old. Social media is partly to blame, but no one forces me to check Instagram. However, I was in a doctor’s office recently, and the music that was playing overhead was enough to make my head explode. I couldn’t figure out what kind of music it was. It was very mournful, and it didn’t seem to have any rhythm. Likewise, the singers — every one of them — sounded so sad. I didn’t even need to understand the words (which was a good thing, because I couldn’t, even if my life depended on it) to know that their relationship with someone was ending or they just found out that they only had six weeks to live.
I was curious, so I secretly asked my watch — well, Siri, actually — to “name that tune.” She cheerfully provided me with the artist’s name, which I then googled. I don’t remember the woman’s name, but her genre was called indie pop. I’m glad to know that, because if I’m ever driving eight hours in a car with one of my grandkids, and they ask me if I want to listen to indie pop via their Spotify, I will know to give them a vehement HELL NO. I attended enough sporting events, dance recitals, school continuations, etc., that they owe it to me to let me listen to Chris Stapleton and Brothers Osborn for the eight hours. It won’t be accessed, however, via Spotify, because I haven’t the foggiest idea how that all works.
Here’s the extent of what I know about Spotify: for some period of time — perhaps even still — three of the four McLain grands were sharing a Spotify account. They shared expenses, but only one could be on the account at a time. Addie apparently payed the most. As such, she issued the edict that she had first dibs on listening to music on Spotify. So, when Alastair was mowing our lawn and listening to music with his headphones, he very possibly could get a phone call from his big sister ordering him to vacate because she was feeling musical at that moment. He would obey, because when Adelaide Grace issues an edict, one obeys. Remember, she’s the one who will be president some day.
At any rate, it makes me understand how my parents felt about the music of my generation. Imagine being used to listening to Bobby Vinton or Vic Damone, and suddenly this young man with an electric guitar and shaking his hips like someone dumped a cup of ice down his pants is The Big Thing. Or Ed Sullivan is introducing these four young men from England with goofy long hair and unusual harmonies, and the young women in the audience are losing their minds.
We are a musical family, and I’m happy that my grandkids like music. And truly, if anyone overhears me asking any of my grands the question my grandmother asked me: “Is that music?,” contact the nearest senior facility and make the arrangements.