My musical Journey

At first I was kind of jazzed when my teenage daughter discovered 70s style rock music.

At first.

Before going on I should say my musical taste has evolved over the years – and NOT in the direction of Justin Timberlake. However, I will take even his little vanilla ghetto sound over the harsh street rap that throws down disrespect with every yo yo syllabo. All that bass may be woofer-worthy, but to me it’s also as agonizingly repetitive as Chinese water torture.

But I digress.

I came of age in the late 70s and early 80s – after the Beatles and before the mall hair bands. Car radios were blasting Boston, Jethro Tull, the Babys, ELO and Steve Miller. In those days Peter Frampton had long golden curls, Elton John was considered eccentric for his wild eyeglasses, and no one knew why the band Queen was named Queen. (Just for the record, I knew EVERY word to “Bohemian Rhapsody” and still do.)

In my humble opinion, it was the golden age of guitar rock music. The Doobie Brothers and Bob Seger were filling sports arenas. People would even pay to watch a guy like Meatloaf. There were no music videos on TV. It was a kinder, gentler, uglier time. (Hair and dental technology have come a long way.)

When I grew up I put away my childish things - primarily because no one made vinyl records anymore. And while the world was making the transition from tapes to CDs, I was busy with being married and rearing children. For a long time my music repertoire was more along the lines of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and whatever that stupid purple dinosaur was singing.

As I matured I grew to appreciate jazz and classical music. But along with high school, we remain imprinted with the music of our youth. When I would hear certain songs on the “retro” stations I would be transported to another place – another time – the lithe, hip years B.B. (Before Barney).

Such was the case when the aforementioned daughter first discovered “my” music. It was rather a novelty to have a connection with this person who’d looked at me blankly for the last three years – a period during which we seemed to have nothing in common aside from some aggravatingly familiar genetic traits.

But then, the light shone at the end of the tunnel. The generation gap was being bridged and we were no longer estranged creatures.

We both loved Journey!

Journey was perhaps the most commercially successful of the super groups of that era, selling 40 million albums (more than Jimi Hendrix and The Who combined). I was rather surprised to realize that the long locks and distinctive voice of crooner Steve Perry had caught the fancy of a new audience – mostly feminine, but also more accepted by a generation of young men weaned on Emo indie groups like Fall Out Boy and (ugh) Justin Timberlake.

What I didn’t foresee was the potential for damage.

When I first started hearing the familiar strains of “Open Arms” and “Wheel in the Sky” I welcomed the rush of nostalgia. I was transported! Inside I was again reliving the feeling of über coolness I enjoyed in my ignorant youth.

And I continued to enjoy that pleasant sensation – the first dozen or so times I heard the songs played.

In the same day.

Folks, after that – there’s a point of diminishing returns.

And after that – the brink of madness.

If I’ve heard that “Greatest Hits” CD once, I’ve heard it a thousand times. I never thought it would happen, but I’m beginning to get nauseated at the opening thumps of “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’” My Journey code is being overwritten. It no longer evokes the same yearning passion in my breast. It has become, for me, passé.

Sigh.

Oh, what can I say? My daughter and her friends love the band. I like for my daughter and her friends to hang around our house. Therefore, I shall gladly endure the loss of my taste for a band that helped write the score of my youth.

All things, it seems, must eventually go the way of the dinosaur.