2007 Christmas Letter

I am not surprised that my children listen to the music I play around the house and in the car. In fact, I am pleased because I consider it my obligation as a parent and an American to school the youngsters in the foundations of roots music and its modern legacy. The trouble is some songs on these records contain less than wholesome lyrics. Peter has detected this and points this out to me. Constantly. He’s like the FCC. I tell him that it wouldn’t be rock n’ roll if it didn’t offend somebody’s parents (or kids).

“By its very definition rock n’ roll should rebellious, loud and offensive,” I tell him. Sometimes I get a little preachy in my defense of Rock. “So that makes it all right. Sit back, buckle up and prepare to have your mind blown.”

Now that the filth has been exposed, Peter is simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. Part of him wants to deny his interest, but yet he cannot turn away. He has the same response to cheerleaders. He listens closely and tallies taboo words and subject mater. “That’s three of the S and one of the F,” he points out. I assure him that the quality of a song is not determined by the presence or lack of S or F but it does little to deter his enthusiasm. Maybe I should have refrained, but Peter was even more engrossed (appalled?) when I pointed out some lyrics in certain songs that he had misidentified.

“I thought he sang, ‘Here comes the children.’”

“No, Peter,” I replied. “That would be ‘Here comes that shit again.’”

Initially horrified, it was a satisfied, outlaw smile that crept across his face.
Peter made a list that catalogs the S and F in most of my disc collection categorized by artist name, album, song, and the exact time in the song at which the offense occurs. We’ll be driving when he blurts out “Dad, skip ahead to one minute fifty five. He’s about to sing the first S.”

So now the burden shifts to my daughter, she must carry the torch of purity and innocence that my son has so violently shattered. Nina was in the garden by herself the other afternoon chasing a butterfly from flower to flower in the late autumn sun. She was singing softly to herself. It was a picture of beauty and peacefulness that can only be captured by an 11-year-old girl. As the wind shifted, her lilting, sing-song voice carried up to the porch where I was sitting: “I shot a man in Reno… just to watch him die. . .”

Everything is smooth here in Iowa: A little of this and a little of that. Ann Marie and I would like to confer upon you a Merry Christmas and Best Wishes for 2008.