George Harrison, John Lennon, Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Johnny Cash, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon, Graham Nash, Bob Marley ... it's a big list.
Driving home after retrieving Maddie, the 14 year old who knows everything, we listen to "her" music ... mostly "Spoken Word" recorded over a monotonous computer generated drum beat and an occasional other instrument.
She dances and gyrates in her seat just like I did all those years ago, singing along, knowing every, mostly profane word.
"Is every song about fu#king?" I ask her.
"Yeah," she replies rolling her eyes.
"Hmmm," I shrug because, God knows, I've got nothing against sex, drugs and Rock-n-Roll.
"WHY IS IT SO LOUD?" Maddie screams.
I cannot understand the child as I pick her up from school blasting Derick & the Dominos "Why does love got to be so sad?" from the Bose speakers through the open sun roof and rolled down windows.
My music's loud.
Hers is repetitious, rhyming raps about ramming and relieving one's self in a raspberry tart.
I struggle to remain open minded.
I like sex as much as anybody!
It's especially good with music.
I wish Maddie's had some.
But her generation finds value in it in ways I can't appreciate though I try reminding me of my Dad trying really hard to find common ground with me as I blasted "Why Don't We Do It In the Road" on the radio in the 69 Impala as he drove me to School.
