Tuesday, December 1, 1998
On subject of music criticism, father believes he knows best
COLUMN: Dad promotes interest in talents of Ice Cube, Marilyn
Manson
This Thanksgiving break my father gave me a lot to be grateful
for. Actually, besides turkey and yams I was forced to digest a
whole lot of old-timer goodies from Frank Sinatra to the Beatles.
All of a sudden everyone, including my dear old dad, has joined the
mission to make a true musical connoisseur out of Michelle.
Let’s see if I learned anything.
My father, Edward Zubiate, thinks he is truly hip. A middle
school assistant principal, he walks around very tough-like behind
dark sunglasses intimidating all the 12-year-olds that cross his
path. He prides himself on being a fan of Tupac Shakur, but this
weekend, he went too far. Unfortunately for him, I’m beginning to
see music through my own eyes, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
All my life I have been taught to love the basic B’s: The
Beatles, The Beach Boys and Bob. (As in Dylan, not Marley. No
matter how hard I try, I will never appreciate reggae.) I used to
choreograph cute little skits in my little bathing suit holding a
beach towel while The Beach Boys sang "California Girls." So I am
proud to say that I do love some classic music (meaning
pre-1990s.)
But my father has never been a consistent fella. His musical
tastes vary as much as the other fads he gets into, such as cheese
popcorn and sunflower seeds. As well as hanging onto the stuff from
his youth, he frequently ventures into the land of the present to
turn on the radio and impress us all with his knowledge of 92.3 The
Beat. Ever since I joined the Daily Bruin, every weekend has become
a battle where he reads my clips from the week and gives his own
criticism and interpretation. My own is not good enough. I’m just a
punk kid.
Once in a while I’ll bring my father something I think he, as an
old man, will appreciate. Seeing as he likes the blues, I brought
home some Johnny Lang. Score one for me, he ate it up in an
instant. Recently I played Beck’s "Mutations" for him because many
of the songs sound very, very Beatle-ish. This was not a pretty car
ride home. Bored and uninspired he announced to everyone, "I know a
star when I hear one and this one, my daughter, will never amount
to anyone."
"Uhhh…too late, Dad. Beck’s last album was a huge hit, and his
sound has been described as the future of music. This album alone
has already been given great reviews, and the melodies are truly
moving."
"Sorry," he says. "I know good music when I hear it." So speaks
the voice of God.
And of all the things for my father to instantly love: Marilyn
Manson. It’s kinda embarrassing when you live in a neighborhood of
old folks and your father is blasting "Dope Show" louder than
you’ve ever been allowed to blast any sort of music your entire
life.
My father is filled with these little quirks. On a trip to
Vegas, my old editor, Mike Prevatt, opened up the glove compartment
to find a stash of tapes belonging to my father from when he used
to own the car. To the amusement of everyone present, a majority of
these tapes are labeled "EZ Best: Volumes I-VIII." I will never
hear the end of it. Every once in a while, Mike will now suggest
something my dad will like and add, "Hey, maybe it can be another
EZ Best!"
But my father has good intentions. If it weren’t for him I
probably wouldn’t be a music writer now. I would be laughed out of
the office if I never had heard of Jimi Hendrix, and no one would
bother to read my work if I didn’t have a little bit of knowledge
of the blues, swing and classic rock.
It is kinda cute when he quotes Ice Cube. Who wouldn’t laugh
when a chubby little Mexican man whispers in your ear War’s line:
"The world is a ghetto"? It is also pretty sweet when he invites me
to look up at the stars with him while Sinatra croons ballads of
love and good times.
Because of my dad, I’ve been forced to hear all kinds of music
and love it. He took me to see "Phantom of the Opera" the first and
second time. He sat me in front of "West Side Story," and a love
for musicals bloomed.
He loves music more than almost anyone I’ve ever met. When I ask
him the moment at which he was most proud of me, in a second he
will say when I sang "Don’t Cry For Me Argentina" for him my senior
year of high school.
Despite the fact that he calls all my records "bubble gum" music
and refuses to ever let me have control of the radio in the car, he
supports me when I write something he can relate to and brags about
me to all he knows.
Dads are funny that way. Even though you argue about everything
from clothes to politics, you can always find a common ground.
Unfortunately in this case, the common ground is Marilyn Manson.
What is the world coming to?
Zubiate can be reached at mzubiate @media.ucla.edu when she is
through being punished.
Michelle Zubiate
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