Songs My Father Played For Me

 It never occurred to me that I should be afraid of The Beatles. Even as I harbored all kinds of fear for The Rolling Stones. And The Who. And especially Led Zeppelin. Those were the guys who were devil-worshiping drug-taking hippies whose music would most certainly cause me to fall into either or both of those traps. I might have been scared off by their appearance, since I was introduced to the Fab Four when they were still relatively clean cut. I would politely suggest that even the straightest hairstyle and a snappy suit would make Keith Richards look clean cut. Or Keith Moon. Or Jimmy Page. Mostly Keith Moon. 

Part of this essential favoritism was probably formed out of the way John, Paul, George and Ringo entered my life. Besides hearing their delicately crated pop songs on my older brother's stereo from an age that I cannot precisely remember, they were also stars of their own cartoon on TV. This comfort was expanded by having John and George voiced by the same actor who brought Boris Badenov, Paul Frees. During this time, The Who was making a "rock opera" about the torment of a deaf, dumb and blind boy. The Stones were at their Satanic Majesties Request. And Led Zeppelin was making records in a dazed and confused state, probably in a mansion once owned by Aleister Crowley. 

It wasn't until I sat down with the White Album and its attendant enclosed photos of the band that I began to reassess my feelings for the lads from Liverpool. These were no longer the identically clad and shorn young men to whom I had become accustomed. They had become, well, hippies. And that "song" on side four? All that noise and mumbling and goings on for more than eight minutes? I was used to being able to sing along with these guys. What had happened?

Fast forward to 2007, when I took my son to Best Buy to purchase our first version of Guitar Hero: Legends of Rock. My son's enthusiasm was dampened initially by the appearance of Guns and Roses' guitarist Slash on the cover. He gave me a worried look and asked, "Do we like him?" I assured my son that everything would be alright. In time. First he would have to experience "Welcome to the Jungle," and defeat that scary guy in a guitar battle for the ages. 

He got over his fear. And he didn't even think to ask about "Paint It Black." It was all just part of the soundtrack of his youth. Then it was time for us both to get over our nervous feelings about Black Sabbath.