In the midst of all the parenting advice thrown at me over the years by well-meaning strangers, fretful family members, and bothersome busybodies, I remember hearing: “Don’t play all that Wiggles crap for your kid. Unless you want to go out of your mind, start’em off right, listening to the stuff you like. Otherwise, you’ll be driving around jamming to Baby Beluga for the next twenty years. And who needs that?”

So, my bumptious bundle was tossed about to the jolly rhythms of the Beatles and Prince and Lyle Lovett. He’s so much older now, but still at an age which is the focus of Kids Blech. Just as frightening, he’s entering the age where the next teen sensation will be marketed squarely at him- some otherworldly offspring of a Hanson and a Simpson.

I’ve done my best: watching Yellow Submarine with him; playing Sam Cooke; teaching him Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly lyrics; laughing along to They Might Be Giants; attending RPO and Eastman jazz concerts. We had our first test last weekend.

We entered the overly hallowed Rock Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Like every other museum, he looked for favorites and ignored large areas. He learned a little more about some artists who had only scratched his surface. He was desperate to ensure that his two favorites had been inducted: “I knew the Beatles would be there because everybody likes them, but I wasn’t sure about the Who.” He rested easy when he saw their signatures etched on the roll of honor. And we can both sing along to My Generation.

October, 2005