Today, though the day is young, each of your pastors took a turn shocking the other, and in each case, the thing that caused the shock was some good music. I shocked Ben by not knowing who Waylon Jennings was (apparently, a country musician), and he shocked me by asking what “Seasons of Love” was (525,600 minutes! How do you measure a year? The great musical Rent!). Each of us was aghast that the other didn’t know the music of which we spoke, and immediately proceeded to try to instill in the other an appreciation of the music they knew nothing about and cared nothing for. Alas, in vain.
You see, we were born in different decades, and so in those formative years where music is not “just music” but is a doorway directly into one’s soul, we imprinted upon different artists. In the 90’s, even if one was a classical music geek (Bach is timeless after all), one couldn’t help having some memories made to the tunes of Alanis Morissette and Lauryn Hill. And if one were growing up in New York City at that time, one simply couldn’t help being obsessed with Rent. Even to this day, I can sing back lines from any song in the musical. Get me started with a lyric – including spoken “filler” and semi-sung lines from the soundtrack – and I’m off to the races. The entire musical has been learned by heart, without even trying, because I loved it during those teenage years when my heart was busy imprinting on music like a duckling on its mother. I’m irrational about my love for Rent. I dated a guy, once, who didn’t like it at all – who brought not unquestioning devotion but a critical eye to its plot and characters – and I knew it was doomed for us.
Last week the news came in that Bob Dylan was to receive a Nobel Prize in literature. And while the reaction from people of all generations has been mixed, I noticed a definite “meh” from my age-mates. I wonder if you had to “be there,” to be young and wild, to have your heart open and seeking, at the very moment Dylan’s latest record came out. I’ve appreciated Dylan; I’ve seen him live twice, memorized a few songs, and even impersonated him once for a singer-songwriter contest. But I’m critically curious about him, in a way that indicates some detachment. My parents love Dylan with loyalty and devotion; I admire him from more of a distance.
These days, the teenagers are madly in love with the musical Hamilton. I’m in love with it too, but less madly, since I’m now a boring grownup. I’ve lost the magic of the teen years, and due to whatever hormones or brain chemistry gets in the way, I will never get to feel about Hamilton the way these youth do. Which brings me to the point of all these generational musings. Though it may be hard to bridge the generational divide, please, don’t give up. Throwing up our hands and saying “you had to be there” is one way out – an easy way out. Teaching young’uns about the merits of our generation’s music may seem like the next thing to do, but they’ll get bored, and disagree, and tell you not to condescend to them. But tell them a personal story, and it’s a different scene entirely. Weave the words of your heart’s favorite song into a story about your life, and though someone else may never see it the same way as you do, they will remember that you love it. And so, if you ever hear something from Rent and are tempted to laugh at it or dismiss it, just remember that a teenage Talitha had front-row seats to see it on Broadway, and when the music blared to life, she felt more alive than she had ever been in her short life so far.
Every Blessing,
Talitha