I feel bad for the kids today. They have no soul. I tell you
they have no earth to them, no depth—and they’re mad about this. They’re mad
because they never went outside to like, say, build a clubhouse or play hide
and go seek.
They don’t even have real cartoons these days. The kids today have no idea what it’s like to wake up early on a Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny, or Woody, or even Heckle and Jeckle, Magilla Gorilla. I mean, my God, some of the kids I’ve spoken with don’t even know about The Flintstone’s for Christ’s sake.
I think, more and more, we change from generation to generation. I think the kids today look at us the same as we looked at our parents. We swore they had no idea what it was like to live.
My cousin Rosalie and I were just discussing this the other day. These kids today are in for a rude awakening. But hey, I’m sure they think they know better the same as we did.
With all of their advancements, the kids today do not have what we had. We had movies that spoke with, to, and for our generation.
Even until this day, I can watch some of the old films from my youth and re-think, re-feel, and re-live the moments I was living, exactly as it was when the film first entered the movie theaters.
No one goes outside anymore. I notice the parks are empty. And God, I swear, to me (or to us) not going outside and having to stay in was like jail—no, wait—staying inside and staying home or being kept in someone’s house was worse than jail.
I hated staying in because if I stayed in this meant I might have missed something. And this was the worst because camaraderie is everything to a kid.
If I missed something, the worst thing would be when Monday came or the next day at school came and something happened, I missed it, and everyone would talk about the event like it was this huge, great thing.
Even if the event was tragic or sad or troublesome, to miss this was like missing everything—and to miss anything when you’re a kid left me susceptible to feeling left out or “Uncool.”
To a kid, there can’t be anything worse than being uncool or uninvited. To be left out or unwanted—to be that faceless kid that sits in the middle of the lunchroom, or to be unnoticed, to not be good looking or bad, but worse, undetectable; this was the worst fear of mine—to not be anything, to not have a status, to not feel wanted, to not be around, to miss out, to be left out, or to be this invisible vapor or socially non-existent was the worst fate I could think of.I just wanted to be real and in the flesh and wanted; just like everyone else.
I didn’t have much to speak for me. I didn’t have the words to explain myself. But at least I had music. This was my voice. I had different bands that played different types of sound. And I remember them well.
The songs I chose to listen to were like my anthems, which spoke with words that I never knew how to say.
The music was everything to me. This was my fight. This was my rebellion. This was my antivenin. Even more so, this was my sedative and my stimulant. The music was my antidepressant it was my mood stabilizer and my answer.
Perhaps I’ve told you. Maybe I’ve told you about a sunset I watched in a place called the Double Sumps, which was a place in the heart of my little suburban town
There was a block that ran between two sumps, which accepted the overflow of rainwater during heavy storms. In one side of the sumps, there was a cement grid. This was a platform. Beneath the platform was a shaft that led down to an equalizing tunnel that ran between the ground and connected the two sumps.
I sat on this platform during a sunset in my youth. I had what we called a “Walkman” with a “Cassette” tape, which is another thing this generation has no clue about.
I listened to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon, but more specifically, I was watching the golden, orange sky while listening to the song The Great Gig in the Sky. I sweat it was perfect. I was hidden away but not hiding at all. I was me and free. Like I said; it was perfect.
I had other moments like this. I say this because at least I had moments like this. At least I had something. At least I had something to speak for me. At least I had something to explain my aggression and my tension.
I had Jimi, as in Hendrix. I Morrison, as in The Doors. I had Zeppelin, of course. I had the current music too. I had my aggressive music. I had the bands that made me want to scream and rage and bang my head.
I let my hair grow long because this was a sign of my rebellion. This was a symbol. This was my status—and whether I was good looking or bad, noticed or not, at least I could shut off the world and put the volume as loud as could be; to feel the intro, to hear the sound of my songs, and to find myself a moment of redemption
I don’t think the kids have it this way anymore. I remember watching a film called Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—and there was this scene when they were in a museum. The background was a sing called, Please, please, please let me get what I want, which, in the film was left as an instrumental, but to me, the sound and the scene was something I always wanted to feel.
I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to see things and do things. I wanted the feel of life. I wanted to experience art, which is art because the fact that I felt something and wanted something from the sound or a scene meant the art of film and music was effective.
I think these kids need more of it. I know I still do. And to be honest, there are days like now when the summer is beginning to let go of its heat and the autumn months are in approach—the wind is a little cooler and soon enough the leaves will change—I think of a car ride and the open road and the songs I need to hear as loud as my stereo can play them. And my God, if I play the old songs loud enough, I swear, it’s like I’m young again
To you, kid, I tell you this.
Find you music and let this take you places you’ve never dreamed of.
Trust me, it will all pay off in the end
PS: I left two links here. Listen to them. You might like what you hear