If you’re passionate about music, as I am, you want your kids to develop their own enthusiasms, and then are disappointed if they don’t share yours. I swore to myself that I would never fall into the “old man” trap of sneering at my children’s taste in music, even though contemporary pop mysteriously transmuted into an unlistenable noise several years ago for me, just as it has for generations of parents.
Joseph (age 9) has always connected with music on a very emotional level. A cheap CD player I bought him on a hunch a couple of years ago was played to destruction and has now been upgraded to a proper stereo system. When the world becomes too much, he retreats to his room to listen to his favorite CDs: They Might Be Giants, Donovan, or Ivor Cutler. The only problem is the constant need to yell at him to turn it down – not an issue I expected to encounter for a few years yet.
When Joseph got his stereo, Noah (12) got a mobile phone, so that he could contact us in emergencies. Of course, the phone is instead used for playing games, WeChatting with his friends, and watching Youtube videos, so whenever he might actually need to use it, both battery and credit have run out.
It’s also his portable music player. Keen to encourage his interest, I offered to load it up with MP3s of whatever he liked, but he is quite happy to stream. This lack of concern about actually “owning” your music is something utterly alien to me. Although my collection of vinyl records is in storage in the UK, I have just replaced it with a meticulously assembled and organized selection of files. The idea that losing connection to the internet might deprive me of music is one I find unthinkable.
Noah has recently discovered hip-hop. This meant either screening everything he listens to for swearing, sex, and drug references, or sitting down with him and having long conversations. Since censorship doesn’t sit easily with me, we went for the conversations, and it’s actually been a good way of having wide-ranging discussions with him about sensitive issues, without having to say, “Son, we need to talk…” We’ve even chatted about the “Parental Advisory” sticker, and how it ended up being a badge of pride for rappers; a good metaphor for the futility of censorship.
Their eclectic, if not eccentric, tastes in music may have something to do with our having taken them to rock festivals from a young age. Our favorite was held about ten miles from our house, which meant we could camp there but still pop home for food or a shower. Everyone from our neighborhood went too, so the kids would wander around all day in a huge gang, exploring, falling into nettles, and generally experiencing the freedom of a 1950s childhood, while the adults chilled out with a beer and watched bands. It was utterly blissful for all concerned.
At one of these festivals, Noah saw Chuck Berry. And though he doesn’t actually remember it, I tell him about it constantly. Because when he’s 100 years old it will seem a connection from an impossibly distant past, like someone today claiming to have heard Scott Joplin play.
Sadly their love for music has not yet translated into any ability at playing instruments, their violins gathering dust unloved in a corner. However, Noah has recently taken up the bass, and I harbor fantasies of them one day forming a killer rhythm section.
We do though have a lot of fun DJing at home, taking it in turns to pick the next track and dancing around the kitchen. In one memorable recent set, Joseph played “Pavilions of Sun” by Tyrannosaurus Rex, “Hide from the Sun” by Goat, and “Sunshine Superman”, then followed up with the International (Noise) Conspiracy’s brilliant “Communist Moon”.
“Next,” he told me, “I’m going to play ‘I’m Living on a Chinese Rock.’ Do you get it, Dad?”
Yes, I get it, son. And more importantly, you do too.
This will be my last column as Beijing Baba. Though I will remain a Baba, we are leaving Beijing for new adventures. This was my first job for beijingkids, as a freelancer, and it’s always been my favorite to write. Working for this magazine has been a joy and an honor, and I’d like to express my gratitude to colleagues past and present, and to you, the readers. Man zou.
About the Writer
Andrew Killeen is a novelist and creative writing teacher. Originally from Birmingham, England, he studied at Cambridge University and now lives in Beijing with his wife and two crazy boys, Noah (age 12) and Joseph (age 9). In between, he was at various times a DJ, festival director, positive parenting practitioner, and homeless support worker. His critically acclaimed historical novels are available from Dedalus Books.
This article appeared on p47 of beijingkids June 2018 issue
Photo: Martin Cathrae via Flickr
