Sound of silence

It's day two of infant school of rock, vinyl edition, and I briefly entertained moving on to John Lennon's solo career after catching the second half of that Lennon documentary from what was it, 1980-something? the other day on cable (is it hopelessly dating to even refer to cable as "cable?" Who doesn't have cable except for one cave-dwelling person I know who drives a dented Geo Prism?) Except that I determined, after sitting through all the bla bla bla about Lennon's slumber party for peace and the whole crap with the lost weekend, that -let's face facts, America- John Lennon took himself a tad too seriously. How would I explain Yoko Ono to a six week old? Can't be done.

And so Simon and Garfunkel it would be, although at times, I see eerie parallels between these sensitive newsboy-hatted troubadors and, well, Hall and Oates. Moving on.

When I was a sullen, big-haired high school student in the 1980's, I had a strange preoccupation with the 60's. This was before I figured out that the summer of love was basically an excuse for kids to delay fooling with the trappings of adulthood, sort of like graduate school works today. There was nothing really very peacemaking about sitting in a free clinic waiting to get tested for "the clap" (which STD is "the clap," exactly? Anyone from the 60's care to explain?) if we want to be honest with ourselves, and so my 60's fetish was admittedly misguided, although it's hard to blame someone who came of age in the era of Paula Abdul, Whitesnake, and the lowered mini-truck for seeking solace in another time.

At any rate, part of my personal, sullen religion at the time involved playing my dad's Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits LP in my room, while burning incense and ignoring my mother's call to come and eat dinner. The whole record was unbearably earnest and angst-ridden, like I was myself (and still remain-- I can't listen to "Kathy's Song" without getting a little misted up). And yet, S&G have no trace of that Lennon hostility-- they had nothing to prove. They were just all about kickin' the cobblestones and feelin' groovy, and I don't know about you but that seems like a good place for an infant to start out. So I busted out that record, the same faded, frayed one I used to play in high school.

Before the end of track one, that AM radio staple "Mrs. Robinson," the infant was asleep.

I get misty

What's with this gale force blast of spray-based consumer items lately? The lubes, the dressings, the suntan lotions? Why did I not get the bulletin about the fact that pouring products onto your salads/privates/tan lines has suddenly become an unreasonable burden for consumers to bear? Is this just another wave of products solving imaginary problems, like the Flexi-Hose or the wide-mouthed jar of Miracle Whip?

A lot of questions, I know. I guess I am just skeptical about the superiority of misting nourishment and personal grooming products in or on to my person as opposed to more traditional forms of application. Call me a curmudgeon but I'm sticking with my tube of Banana Boat.

Revolver

Struck by a tidal wave of pedantic fogeyness, I dug out the household copy of The Beatles' "Revolver," (no CD here, this was the musty LP from the 1960's, not even the other, remastered copy I bought in '87) and threw it on the ancient Realistic turntable from an old stereo my dad had set up in our garage in the 1980's. (Somehow, although I have lost every other possession I have ever owned prior to age 30, I have managed to drag this item along with me for the last 20 years).

Anyway I figured Revolver was as good a chapter as any to start our household infant out in the school of rock... not that pandering Jack Black comedy mind you, but the inevitable education she will pick up from ambient radio waves and tasteless peers if I don't attempt to intervene.

Let's face it-- most Beatles albums are a mixed bag at best. And yet I somehow recalled Revolver as being a flawless progression from one ironic, yet sing-able song to the next. Just the thing an infant needs... especially one that will scream unless held over your shoulder with one arm for long stretches of time each afternoon while you pace about, feeling the disks in your spine grinding together.

Upon re-listening, however, I had to conclude that, where Revolver is concerned, the other Beatles excessively indulged George Harrison. The record is littered with atonal, hippie-dippy Harrison-penned dirges like "Love You To" and "I Want to Tell You" that just absolutely wilt in comparison to thoroughly ass-kicking Lennon-McCartney numbers like "And Your Bird Can Sing." Now don't get me wrong, George had his moments, particularly in his solo career, when he finally got the hang of the whole pseudo-maharishi aesthetic with stuff like "My Sweet Lord." But back in the mid 60's, the guy was quite frankly still wearing his Huggies pull-ups, musically speaking,

I tried explaining this to the infant. "No one will admit this about George," I told her, "which I've always thought was weird. Why are we still being so polite about this 40 years after the fact?" The record on the whole kept her from screaming though, which was a vote of confidence that perhaps I had started her out on the right sonic foot. As an infant, I explained to her, I was marinated in the syrupy sounds of K-108 FM, the easy listenin' station from Sacramento CA, and thus at her age was cutting my musical teeth on stuff like "The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald."

"You aught to thank me, really," I said, which prompted her to wreck her 1000th diaper by way of response.