But that's the curse all of us survivors bear. We have outlived the point at which we were the epicentre of all the action, and most of the culture.
My kid has been told who Ravi Shankar was, and he's seen Monterey Pop, but will he remember? Then again I doubt that any of us could be quizzed on our offspring's choice of music and come out of the experience looking anything but baffled, and that is particularly true if your kid likes Indie (meaning good) Music as opposed to Lady Gaga and the post-Whitney post-Mariah crowd of caterwaulers who regardless of colour think that singing=melisma and that lyrics=vapid. My wife likes Lady Gaga for heaven's sake, than which there is no greater indication of her short-lived contribution to the mess that is Top 40. Nancy is almost tone deaf, and that's not a shot at her, it's just true. When we were down in Cuba, the trumpeter was warming up playing quick scales in varying keys. Nancy said "Why does he play the same note over and over again?" I thought she was joking until I asked a bunch of questions and discovered that she couldn't tell one note from another. "Why did a musician end up with a woman who is tone deaf?" I hear a strangled cry. Love is blind, and apparently deaf, too.
My son is an Indie Junkie, and I like his taste. But I like finding my own music best.