Oh, Grow Up

Longtime reader(s) of this humble “weblog” recognize that we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” despise so-called popular music. Not, we dare say, of the Tin Pan Alley days. Nope: We mean the aural detritus commonly known as rock-‘n-roll. If you ask us, the stuff should be called children’s music.

Now, don’t get us wrong: We enjoy a bit of musical slumming now and again, and thus have been known to tune in to a bit of pop garbage. But we fully recognize it’s worthless tripe, far from the level of, say, Bach, Beethoven, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, et al. Not to put too fine a point on it, it is, in a word, crap.

For some reason, our opinion on rock music is perhaps the most controversial stance we’ve taken on Al Gore’s World-Wide Web. We can natter on about the horrors of a particular political candidate; we can ramble on about the evils of mulitculturalism; we can laugh at the inanities of political correctness—and few readers trouble us with angry e-mails. But rip on Phil Collins and all heck breaks loose.

Although we haven’t devoted much thought to this issue, we have the sneaking suspicion that the vehement views on rock music pertain to peoples’ irritation at being labeled aesthetic Neanderthals. By ridiculing pop music, we’re essentially ripping on peoples’ taste, and that deeply troubles lots of folks.

But maybe the matter relates to matters of age as well. We say this, dear reader, in part because of a recent run-in that one of our junior editors—let’s just call him “Chip”—just experienced. After a long day at the Hatemonger’s Quarterly Headquarters, “Chip” headed out to meet a friend at a local watering hole.

This friend happened to show up at said local watering hole with a few acquaintances in tow. Among the acquaintances was a female co-worker of 40—well older than young “Chip,” of course. Even so, this lady struck “Chip” as rather sophomoric.

Clad in an all-black getup, the lass sported a backpack with what looked like a hastily scrawled cartoon. The scribbles featured a little kid repeatedly shouting the word “f***” (with the letters standing in for asterisks, naturally). So here was a 40-year-old white-collar worker who dresses like an alienated high school student. Seeing her, “Chip” thought to himself, “Oh, grow up.”

But, naturally, such people don’t want to grow up. They pine to be identified as young and hip forever. Maybe that’s why they resolutely refuse to allow their tastes—musical and otherwise—to grow?

Well, there’s our two cents. Now we’ll just sit back and watch the hate mail roll in.