While driving to the country with the Saturday afternoon PBS groovy funk session blaring on the radio, the two year-old announced, clear as day, 'I don't like this kind of music.' 'Whaaaat!?!' I shrieked, shocked not only because the kid's just learning to talk, so I was kind of impressed by the clarity of speech and complexity of his sentence structure, but how is it possible for a mere pipsqueak of a lad whose favourite tunes include 'Twinkle Twinkle' and one line from The Sound of Music sung over an over again have an opinion on musical styles? And more importantly, how can one not feel their soul groove and spirit uplifted by the feel-good fandango that is funk music?
I make no claims of being a music aficionado. My musical taste has been described as 'appalling' at worst, 'eclectic' at best and I certainly do not know my Lady Goo Goo from my Justin Beaver. I abhor commercial radio stations (with the exception of the one that plays the classic hits of the 60's, 70's and 80's). Pop is so plastic, techno gives me heart palpitations, while anything much heavier than Kenny G makes my ears bleed. Mr D favours a selection of late-seventies/early-eighties British music which is all sung by poorly-nourished angry-looking toothless creatures who shout a lot. Nope, for me it's the groovy melodies of funk, soul and jazz that really make my heart sing. That and show tunes.
I have harboured a long time not-so-secret desire to be in a musical and have been privately rehearsing the role of 'Chris' Wife' in Miss Saigon for approximately 23 years. Hair. Les Mis. Annie. Starlight Express. JC Superstar. I love them all. My children are subjected to regular performances of show-tune medleys which, in my opinion, are Broadway-worthy brilliant. However, the mini-critic's reviews left me feeling, well, rather les miserables when one of the boy's first proper sentences was 'stop singing Mum!'
In these heady days of small children, it is rare for me to be in control of anything (especially my bladder). My life is dictated by a pair of cuddly little Hitlers whose preferred musical choice is a quartet of grown men wearing coloured skivvies. What's playing on the car radio is my final frontier of free-choice and I will tirelessly fight for and defend this right to my freedom, Braveheart-style, until death. Or at least until Mr D gets in the car and switches it straight to the cricket.