Out of the mouths of babes emerge comments that make me feel like an old fuddy duddy.
One
of the occupational hazards of being a photographer is that,
occasionally, I run into kids who remind me that I’m no longer one of
them, and they would know. The latest instance occurred a few weeks ago
when I was grabbing some shots at an after-school youth program in Biddeford. I was chilin’ with a couple of fourth- grade girls in a study
lounge – do kids still say “chillin’?” – when the conversation turned
to music.
Music
is a subject that’s right in my wheelhouse, so I thought we were
covering safe terrain. But when I asked one of the girls what she
enjoyed listening to, her answer left me positively flabbergasted.
“I
listen to a lot of stuff, like Eminem and Shania Twain,” she said. “I
like a lot of different kinds of music. I don’t really like heavy metal,
though. It’s old people music.”
Wait, what?
It
wasn’t a response I was prepared for. I was shocked. Stymied.
Mystified. If my jaw had dropped any farther, I would have whacked
myself in a sensitive man area, and spent the rest of the day cursing my
fate, all in the voice of Mickey Mouse taking massive tokes off a
helium balloon.
See,
I’m a metal guy. Like the young lady, my tastes are varied – gimme some
smooth jazz or classic rock any day of the week, brother – but when I
hear a crunchy guitar riff that could singe eyebrows from across a
football stadium, that could peel the paint from a sports car, that
could melt the wax holding together Joan Rivers’ face ... well, it does
something to me. Something primal. It stirs up my innards with an iron
finger, stoking a joyous rebellion that would shame the warring
Scotsmen of “Braveheart.” If it were in any way socially acceptable, I’d
respond to the opening riff of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” by
felling a mountain lion with my bare hands, hosting it above my head in
the town square, and yelling “Freedom!” until my vocal chords were so
much charred meat. Then I’d slink away for about a week, because that
would be stupid.
But
you know, I look at some of my metal heroes today, and while they still
rock the house, you can see the crows’ feet and gray hairs sprouting
like dandelions. Dave Mustaine, the frontman for Megadeth and a
legendary drug fiend, is starting to look like a rumpled mail sack. Time
makes fools of us all; that’s true for musicians and fans alike, except
for the members of the Rolling Stones, whose organs are preserved under
a thick crust of cocaine.
When
the girl spooked me with her old people comment, that’s when it occurred
to me: If I can make it to old age, I’ll be listening to this stuff in a
retirement home. It’s hard to imagine how that would work.
A
couple years ago, during a different assignment, I found myself at one
such retirement home shooting some photos of a pianist who had come to
entertain the residents. The songs he played, naturally, were selected
from the era in which that generation came of age; the set was heavy on
Sinatra and Martin and some of the public domain ditties from the great
American songbook, tunes that the house bands on late-night shows can
play without cracking open the company wallet. It was fun. The piano guy
was a good player, the residents were clearly enjoying themselves, and
even as I was contorting myself to get various angles, my toes kept
tappin’ to the rhythm. If I had stayed any longer I’d have played a few
rounds of canasta in a pair of pink slippers.
That
kind of music, naturally laid back and mellow, is a nice fit for the
age group. More difficult to imagine is Piano Man ripping into a
frenzied acoustic version of Slayer’s “Angel of Death.” I picture a
cluster of elders leaning on their canes in a geriatric mosh pit, with
Dolores from 309 hip-checking her friend Beverly into the snack table
during the blistering solos. Then, when Slayer morphs into “Bring Your
Daughter to the Slaughter” by Iron Maiden, all the World War II veterans
who fought in Iwo Jima can stage-dive off the beverage cart and crowd
surf while dousing themselves in beer.
Seems
like a farfetched scenario. But when “old people” like me reach that
age, there’ll at least be a handful of us still taking bands like
Anthrax and Black Sabbath for a spin. This should make for some
interesting musical requests during these special events; maybe future
musicians who play the retirement home circuit will be dragging around
Flying V guitars instead of settling gingerly behind the keys of a
stately Steinway. They’d better be prepared. Not all of us are hip to
Shania Twain.
Granted,
metal’s a fringe genre. It mainly appeals to people who have unruly
body hair and wear lots of leather. I’m sure that others in my age group
who’ll be enjoying their twilight years will be perfectly content to
whistle the day away to the soothing strains of Michael Buble or Adele,
and that’s fine – I’m a man, I can take it. But no amount of aging will
ever convince me that Megadeth’s “Holy Wars” isn’t the greatest things
since the invention of Fluffernutter.
Mmm. Fluffernutter.
Maybe
the young girl is right; maybe metal’s made the leap from empowering
youth music to rusted artifact of a time gone by. Gives a guy some
outside perspective on his life, at least. What’s comforting is that the
accumulated years have given me some perspective of my own; and I know
there’ll come a time, one day, when someone says to the girl’s grown-up
counterpart, “You know, I don’t really like Shania Twain. It’s old
people music.”
Won’t that be the day. And I. Can’t. Wait.
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