I celebrated my 34th birthay last week. It has nothing to do with anything I'm about to write, but it puts things in context. I am the eternal "emo" kid. The punk-a-doo who refused to let her child listen to children's music of any kind. The mom who was going to feed her little music monster in the making, a strict diet of The White Stripes, Randy, Elvis Costello and Death Cab for Cutie...or, anything with Ben Gibbard's name attached. It was going so well. Ev was requesting to hear The Clash at breakfast and singing along to Vampire Weekend in the car. That was before Disney Channel overtook Ev's interest and he was introduced to a little band called "The Imagination Movers". For those of you who aren't aware, they are four gentlemen, in matching jumpsuits who sing, bungle through some over-choreographed dance numbers and solve problems by using their...imaginations, riiiiight. I was intent on hating them. I was going to revolt with every fiber in my being, until I found every fiber in my being pat-a-pattin' in time to the G-rated grooves. Their lyrics are only significant to those unaware that lack of dental hygiene, leads to tooth decay. Yet,I'm enjoying the harmless saccharine of thier music in a way that frightens and confuses me. On my drive to work, though I had a choice of The Raconteurs, The Fugees and Elliot Smith, ready to go in the 6 disc, I listened to my son's "In A Big Warehouse" cd and rocked out. I was mortified and yet helpless to stop myself. (The Warehouse, by the way, is where the Imagination Movers solve all their big problems...just in case you were curious.) So, where does my birthday come into this? I've spent the better part of 20 years cultivating my musical personality. The artists and albums in my collection represent hundreds of hours of memorization and scrutiny and each is a marker of signifigance in my personal history. Tonight, that single choice flushed all that wonderful work down the toliet. I'm now a "mover" mom. I'm not fully accepting of it. There's still one brain cell, weilding a guitar like a pickax, trying desperately to remove these dudes from my mind. I remember watching my dad go from playing air guitar with the Beatles, to passionately tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, to Jimmy Buffet and thinking, "What has happened to the man who helped me find my musical voice." Now I know. And I'm scared. Keep hacking away little brain cell. (On a sidenote: I have tickets to "The Imagination Movers" in concert and I'm pretty sure my excitement is something I should be more closely examining.)
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