Adam Epstein Epstein is a fan of all
things dope, fresh, fly and off the hook. Drop him a phat e-mail at
eppyad@hotmail.com.
The Who sang “I hope I die before I get old” in
1965. Considering that Pete Townsend, Roger Daltry and John
Entwistle are fast approaching their years of senior discounts at
the movies, is the above statement hypocritical? Maybe.
Anyone who has attended the recent, overblown and overpriced
rock-operas that are present-day Who concerts is quite aware that
yes, they are old, and no, they did not die (save for Keith Moon,
but so would you if you pounded a fifth of Wild Turkey every night
and sucked up cocaine like it was going out of style).
Their present-day geriatric shenanigans notwithstanding, the
music and the lyrics of The Who and other bands of that era hearken
back to a time when youth were exploring new ways of living,
activism was at an all-time high, and awe-inspiring, free-love
philosophy encouraged attractive coeds to sleep with more people
than a motivated, promiscuous, porn star.
To put it plainly my friends, these were wondrous times.
And lo and behold, do you know who the spirited participants,
the passionate protesters, the acid-droppers and bong-rippers, the
naked dancers and sexually “permissive” individuals
were? Look no further than good old mom and dad.
 Illustration by EDWARD OYAMA Yes, I know, it’s sad
to admit it. When they were your age, your parents were cooler than
you are now. Now compose yourself and repress the vomit building
from images of your parents actually having sex, and even more
shockingly, not necessarily with each other. The cold, hard truth
is that your parents’ generation was more open to
experimentation, social change and an overall “looser”
way of life.
You may look at your harmless Daddy today and see a mismatched
plaid shirt tucked into pants that are pulled up just a little too
high, but don’t kid yourself. Your father used to be cool as
a cucumber, daddio, listening to music that’s far superior to
the drivel you enjoy, wearing clothes that are now considered
“retro-chic” and getting with girls who didn’t
delve into such deep issues as, “Are we seeing each other, or
just dating or, like, something else?”.
“But,” you may argue, “my music is my music, a
new expression of a new generation giving deep insight into modern
teen-age angst and poignant portrayals of how life is hard for me
and my homies on the street. We’re keepin’ it real
today.”
Sure, but let’s be honest about this. Your parents’
music is still popular today, is often embraced by members of our
generation, and sounds just as original now as it did the first day
the vinyl was pressed. Chances are, you can readily sing along to
most of your parents’ favorite music; this music has become a
part of our cultural consciousness.
Conversely, there is absolutely no way that the vast majority of
today’s music will stand the test of time. Our children will
not look back to the “good old days” of Brittany Spears
and Eminem and I can guarantee my child will never ask me,
“Dad, do you remember buying your first Ol’ Dirty
Bastard album?” Today’s offerings are rarely
“original” musical expressions, and even groups that
manage to earn a sense of credibility come off as little more than
a retro remake, however disguised in modern clothes the act may
be.
Hear Lenny Kravitz and you hear every riff-based artist of the
late ’60s and early ’70s. Hear Fiona Apple and you hear
Joni Mitchell. Hear Kid Rock, Limp Bizkit and Korn, and you hear a
big, smoldering, heaping pile of loud, processed garbage.
Not only did our parents have the advantage of a remarkably hip
music scene that we still try to emulate today, but the fashion and
the style that they casually embraced are now considered to be the
pinnacle of designer trends. Now granted, I don’t believe
that the Peace Corp look is in or that tie-dye and sarongs are
going to be popping up all over campus any time soon. Our desire to
imitate a cooler time is seen in less extreme styles.
Take for example those jeans with print patterns or fancy
fabrics sewn onto the bottom of the legs. Yeah they’re cute,
yeah they’re fun, but don’t think for a second that
they’re new. I have a 30-year-old picture of my mother
wearing jeans almost identical to these. She made them herself. Now
Versace slaps a label on a pair and they are suddenly the only
thing to be seen in, setting you back a mere $700. I repeat: one
pair of jeans, $700. Inflation in 1930s Germany was never this
ridiculous. We pay a high price to get a look our parents just
threw together.
Apart from the music, apart from the look, there was the
lifestyle. In no way am I implying that all our parents were
promiscuous rogues, who engaged in casual sex and a outlandish drug
habits with the reckless abandon of a young Rick James on tour. I
am merely alluding to the deep sense that parents are hiding
something from their children, the feeling that they did some crazy
things that: (a) they wouldn’t want you to do, and (b) you
probably wouldn’t do anyway. Every once in a while though,
they forget to keep the mask of normality on, and something ends up
slipping out.
“Yeah dad, I was at this crazy party last night. Tons of
girls, booze everywhere, it was just insane.
“That’s great Adam. Sort of reminds me of the time
when me and those two blonde girls that I picked up on the side of
the freeway filled up my bathtub with gin and took turns…I
mean…it’s been great talking to you. Your mother is calling
me. Bye.” Click.
I challenge all of you to question your parents about their
behavior at your age. Ask them to name the craziest thing they did.
If they actually agree to answer, I guarantee it will put whatever
you have done to shame.
Members of our generation must realize and embrace the fact that
no matter how foreign it may seem to us, our parents got
“buck-wild-freekay” at some point in their lives. It is
still possible to see them in action nowadays, it just takes a
little extra effort on your part. Attend as many wedding parties as
possible. Go to a few Jimmy Buffett concerts and observe the thick,
sweet smelling cloud of smoke that floats daintily above the bald
heads. Watch as half-centenarians dance wildly and sing along to
all the words as if they held religious significance.
We are our parents’ children in the sense that we try to
be them, or at least what they were. Admitting this is the first
step to realizing that the woman who made your lunch and the man
who drove you to school were exciting, energetic people long before
you knew the meaning of the word “keg.”
Your parents know they were cooler than you. They relish in this
knowledge. They use this wisdom as a silent weapon, one that gives
them the upper hand in a situation without even having to say a
word. Next time you call one of your parents a geek, a square or a
nerd, watch for the little smile that follows. In that little smile
lies all the wonders of their youth, every one of the all-nighters,
the one-nighters and the times that are now nothing more than giddy
hazy memories.
It is the smile that says with reserved confidence, “If
you only knew, my child. If you only knew.”