My parents knew exactly what type of music I listened to. This is because I played records on a portable turntable. You probably remember the kind, where the speakers opened up like doors and the turntable pulled down.
I turned up the volume when I played music in my bedroom and was not inhibited about singing along. Looking back, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, watching my parents’ reaction to the noise coming out of my room.
I don’t usually hear what my kids are listening to because they listen on their iPods with their headphones or ear buds or whatever you call those little things. C likes head-banging, screaming, angry hard rock that I can hear — as long as we’re in the same room — even when it’s playing right into his ears. G gravitates toward what we now call “classic rock” — there’s a reason I like riding in the car with him! And K, a “Glee” fan, loves Taylor Swift, among others.
So imagine my surprise when the sounds of Eminem came floating down from the upstairs bathroom. K turns on a radio while she showers and I was pretty sure that’s what I heard. She confirmed it, saying she likes Eminem. That his lyrics aren’t demeaning toward women like most of the rap that’s out there, although she does admit he uses foul language. But, she reminds me, the bad words are omitted on the radio, so she doesn’t hear them. I’m not sure I buy all of that. Think I’ll need to do a web search on his lyrics.
At least she’s not singing along! That would freak me out.