The Non-hipster rule

My parents weren't hip. Still aren't really. I don't think they ever really tried. And they were that awkward generation- caught between the wonders of the 50's and the revolution that was the late 60's. By the time the really good stuff started, they were parents with careers.

I grew up on a steady stream of Herp Alpert, Burt Bacharach, The Kingston Trio, and The Beach Boys. There were none of the following in our house: The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, et. al.

They belonged to what I refer to as the cocktail class. It was cool to drop a stack of LP's on the turntable, pull out the bottles and start mixing the drinks. Funny, my grandparents listened to the same music. Music didn't start the revolution in our house until I found AC/DC in high school. And then it was in very small, angry doses. Modulated by Duran Duran and Devo.

My younger aunt and uncles seemed to inhabit the spirit of the 60's much more fully in the cultural sense. But still, there was a penchant for The Carpenters that really belies the rebellion. One uncle ran off to Haight/Ashbury and stayed. He's still in the city, in an amazing apartment, fully loaded with stories of the counter-culture and revolution. He's still part of that- his stories are wonderful and scary at the same time.

One uncle died at a very young age after years of excess and lack of success. He's the one whose music I had the most exposure to when I was little. He was the closest to me in age. He was the model I had to definitavely reject when I came of age- knowing full well that he was the evolutionary dead end of the family. He was the one I loved most of all- and probably always will. Despite knowing that I lack clarity in determining the content of his character- the scrim of early childhood obscures plenty.

But the music...none of my little friends had parents who were any cooler than mine. In fact, most were even worse. At Nan's house, we would treat ourselves by listening to The Sound of Music, with Mary Martin and singing along- doing special dance performances in the living room next to the piano. We would choreograph elaborate routines with our batons to The Pink Panther. Mancini was a real hit in MT- many of the record collections I examined contained the soundtrack. Not to mention Hatari. Just hit a thrift store in the state, and you'll find dozens of vintage examples in evidence.

Dad grew sideburns. Mom wore paisley. That's about it. They were responsible. They were dedicated to the dream. It might've fell apart later, but when they were young, it was fresh, new, and invigorating. I like to think that they could've succeeded...given more luck...and more hope...