5 Five
Pop stars…the unsung multitaskers
Whenever I get into a car, my plan is always the same. I turn up the radio and attempt to blissfully lose myself in thought while the kids jibber-jabber amongst themselves, or better yet, fall unconscious, in the backseat. Sadly, this usually never happens. It’s not because they’re fighting or asking me how much longer till we reach our destination.
Quite simply, my kids think I’m a Casey Kasem.
They shout their song requests at me from the backseat, unable to accept that I can’t make them magically appear. At the onset of every song, they want its name and artist, along with my own personal song analysis.
I usually have no idea what I’m talking about. But they take my every word as gospel.
“What this one called?” Eva inquired as soon as I turned the key in the ignition, her head popping up in my rearview mirror.
I did what I always do—I repeated the first string of lyrics I could make out.
“It’s called, ‘I’m Just a Girl,’” I reported.
“And who sings it?”
“Gwen Stafani,” I answered, happy that I didn’t have to make anything up. “She sings for a band called ‘No Doubt.’”
She listened for a moment, and then came the inevitable string of questions.
“Why does she keep saying, ‘I’ve had it up to here’?”
“Maybe she’s stuck in a tree,” Tyler offered. (My boy is the epitome of literal.)
My mind quickly formulated a kindergarten-friendly translation of a lashing out at female stereotypes.
“It’s about a girl who doesn’t like girl things,” I began. “She likes to play with dirt and bugs and Legos and trucks. But the rest of the world thinks she should play with dolls and nail polish and tea cups.”
The same thing happens every time I deliver my synopsis. A quiet fills the car for the duration of the song as they apply their newly acquired interpretation to the lyrics. With any luck, it lasts all the way until the next one.
This time, they couldn’t hold out that long.
“Listen,” Tyler pointed out. “She’s playing the guitar. Boys play the guitar!”
“Yeah!” Eva chimed in. “Just like Eddie Van Halen! Someone should tell the lady she CAN do boy things!”
Another moment passed.
“And listen to that!” continued Tyler. “She’s also playing the drums!”
A universal gasp swept across the backseat.
Next came the keyboards. And then the special effects. Then a burst of synchronized harmonizing vocals at the end.
When the song was over, the children sat in quiet reverence.
“Wow,” Eva whispered. “She just sang two different parts all at once!”
I’m not letting my kids listen to the radio anymore. It’s going to raise serious questions as to why their mom can’t talk and tie their shoelaces at the same time.
Yeah, that just about sums it up.
Eva’s latest assessment: “Mama, some of my friends’ moms and dads are serious. But you and Daddy are a big joke!”
I love you so much I could scream.
With the 50th anniversary of The Beatles’ American invasion, it seemed every radio station on the air was frozen on the set of that first performance from The Ed Sullivan Show. From the backseat of our car, all three children listened intently to a string of hits, including “She Loves You,” “All My Loving” and “I Saw Her Standing There.”
What I love about the Beatles is that every note is feel-good music defined. I was in a particularly venomous mood, starting this morning when Doug used up all the hot water shaving his head while I filled our bathtub with seventy gallons of Arctic Ocean. There’s just something about every Beatles song ever recorded (with the possible exception of “Eleanor Rigby” and anything inspired by Yoko Ono) that puts you in a better mood than you were in when it started. To me, that is one of the greatest legacies a group of musicians can leave behind.
At the culmination of “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” there was a thoughtful silence in the backseat.
Eva was the first to break the silence.
“Why were they screaming?” she asked.
I laughed and flicked off the radio. “Those are the girls in the audience,” I explained. “They’re not girls anymore—now they’re Grandma’s age. But they were screaming because they loved the Beatles so much.”
“Why were they screaming if they loved them?” she probed.
“Well, someday you’ll meet a boy that you will love so much, you’ll understand.”
(Well, technically she may never meet Knox Pitt or whichever heartthrob of the 2020s will leave her deprived of all sleep, food and oxygen. But it’s too early in the game to explain the difference between love and infatuation.)
“Oh,” she finally deduced, one eye squinted as she does when she’s being analytical. “Is that why you were screaming at Daddy this morning?”
One of life’s unjustifiably crappy little twists: from now on, every time their father pisses me off, he will transform into a rock star and I, his love-crazed fan, before our children’s very eyes.
With every domestic dispute, he might as well flick on the stage smoke, sign my boobs and call it a day.