The 2020 Grammy’s are in the books, but my deadline preceded the winning announcements. Not that I claim to be a musical aficionado. My airwave expertise lives with talk radio. I can name the host of most discussion-based broadcasts, but the musical side of the business is lost on me. I am aware that albums became eight track tapes then cassette tapes then compact discs then ipod downloads then earbud annoyances all wrapped around web-based broadcasts only to become albums again.
I can name the classic hits: Achy Breaky Heart; Just the Way You Are; All My Exes Live in Texas; Mambo No 5; Livin’ la Vida Loca; Old Town Road. I can recognize the names of successful performers: Goo Goo Dolls, Mariah Carey; Kenny Chesney; Celine Dion; Santana. Based on the previous list, serious music folks have quit reading and are screaming their way to their multi-decade playlist to confirm in their brain what constitutes legitimate music. To my credit, my attempt to be musically informed was genuine, but my ability to grasp modern music is an epic fail.
The recent publication of The Best of 2019 Music by The Washington Post caught me off guard. Not that I was surprised at the review, (or that I should reference Rolling Stone for music information), but I had no point of reference for nine of the ten listed in the article. I am still not clear what a Billie Ellish is but I have seen her on Saturday Night Live and my niece likes her style. “Xanny” is her song and I am not even sure that is a dictionary word. If you recognize anyone on this top five list, please contact me and update my playlist: Lana Del Rey, “Norman *#%@ Rockwell”; Angel Bat Dawid, “The Oracle”; Bill Callahan, “Shepherd in a Sheepskin Vest”; Kelela, “Aquaphoria”; Jessica Pratt, “Quiet Signs”. These are individuals or groups with song titles that are lost in translation. I am just lost in the beats of it all.
The 50 Best Albums of the Decade list offered me a bit more piece of rational mind. I could pop-reference about half that list, but only eight of the album titles even dinged a bell in my memory bank. Beyonce, Lorde, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, Metallica, David Bowie (may he rest in peace), Eric Church are entertainers I recognize. Chvrches, Car Seat Headrest, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Cowboy Junkies, Haim are not common references on my car radio. Most of the album titles are flashbacks to the early 1970’s and the who’s who of drug rehab facilities: “Prue Heroine”; “Born to Die”; “Hard-wired to Self-Destruct”; “Pharmacy of Love”; “To Pimp a Butterfly”. You can’t make this stuff up and for the record, I did not. You music know-it-alls know these are part of the Best of the Last Decade.
The Grammy’s were the last Sunday in January and chances are pretty good I only watched for the “Who are you wearing?” portion of the show. My initial question would be “Who are You?” but that is an actual reference to The Who who I actually listened to back in the day. They were wearing 501’s and Hanes tee-shirts, but I digress. The Billie Eilish and a Lizzo were there; Post Malone with a camouflaged face was seen and unseen; The pronoun H.E.R. took the place of Lil Nas X who was away on a Vampire Weekend. I am sure I saw the latest and greatest of fashion at its most cutting edge, but I regret I had no clue at what I was seeing.
Once upon a time I watched the Grammy’s and the person receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award was someone for whom I had little reference, but my Dad could sing song after relatable song. Now the person receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award is a few years younger than me and I can quote their lyrics. My younger relatives have no clue what I am referencing. For short blink of the eye, I attempted to be cool and listen to rock and rap and whining YouTube performers. I learned the names of performers and bands to be relatable in pop culture conversations. Somehow I got out-of-sync with InSync; Boyz to Men became Men to Men; The Biebs got married; Country Music got less country and more urbanized; my car no longer had a CD player for my discs and finding a radio station got too complicated in the car.
Podcasts are the it listening thing these days, but just like the names of all those musical savants, I have little clue to whom I am listening. The times they just keep changing and it does not seem to disturb the young at all. I am resigned to do my best to keep up and I can always ask, “Who Dat?”
