Out of It

February 29, 2016

I never had the corner on cool, and I certainly came late to whatever minor allotment of it I ever managed to muster. Still, there was a time in the eighties when I dressed cool (vintage), listened to cool music (REM, Talking Heads, Psychedelic Furs, etc.), and could command attention as a style-leader cool-chick.

Granted, a very brief period, but still…

Naturally, as I matured cool ceased to be on my radar. After your early twenties, I felt there was something unseemly about caring about being cool. Still, as my daughter grew up, I thought I could fairly consider myself among the “cool” parents, not in the sense that my daughter’s friends are welcome to party at my house, um… no!!! Not cool at all! But cool in the sense that I appreciate their sensibility, their worries, their style, and their music.

My daughter loves to show me the latest music that she’s into, and I generally appreciate it because after a brief turn as a Directioner and Taylor Swift fan, she’s now into more alternative music, and it’s really pretty good. Did I mention that most of it could have easily been made in the eighties? Oh well, that’s another matter!

The problem is, I can’t seem to keep the names of the bands straight. It started a few years back when she showed me a band she loved, and I, sounding senile, kept asking, “What’s the name of that band? The Freelance Elephants?” Turns out it’s the Freelance Whales. But really, two large mammals; it’s understandable, right?

Then one day she tells me about another band she loves named Best Deal, which the next day I couldn’t remember. “What was that band’s name? Best Buy? That’s a strange name for a band.” We were doubled over with laughter when it turned out that the band’s name wasn’t Best Buy or even Best Deal: it’s Bastille. Gulp. Oops! Cool cred is definitely plummeting at this point… Is it hearing aid time?

But I think my middle-age mom uncool reached its peak with Macklemore. Don’t ask me why it was absolutely impossible for me to remember his name once my daughter brought him to my attention. It was one summer in Spain, driving up to the Costa Brava, listening to the radio, when “Thrift Shop” came on. I loved it! So of course I had to exclaim the next day: “I really loved that Marplethorple song!”

My daughter almost choked. “WHAT?????”

“The Marplethorple song. Wait, Marplepurple. No, Mapplemurple. Or Maplemarple?” I knew I was getting colder but I just couldn’t find it. “Thurplemarple? Marbleburble? Oh crap, what’s his name?”

“MACKLEMORE!”

“Ah, that’s right!!”

“Mama, are you okay?”

Oh, dear. It’s not good when your teen daughter wonders about your mental stability. The good thing is I can now remember Macklemore, but every time he comes up she and I begin a litany of possibilities that only get more absurd:

            Marplepurplemacklethorple

            Mooplepicklepurplebbarple

            Etc.

I figured I had to pull myself together and etched Macklemore, Bastille, and Freelance Whales in my memory so I could hide my increasing befuddled middle-agedness. But then she recently started talking about a band’s name that really offended my feminist sensibility, Taming Paula. Really, taming a girl? Is that a good band name? I bet it’s all men. What kind of message is that sending?

Finally, after a bit of attitude in which I asked her where they got such a stupid name, she simply called up a song on her iPhone and showed it to me, nary a word spoken. It was by Tame Impala. Oh.

Still, I mean, what kind of band name is that? Young whippernsipples, snipperwhackles… I mean whippersnappers!