Generational Noises

On family road trips my father played Glen Miller and Benny Goodman,

big band sounds for hours on our car cassette deck.

When it was my turn, I’d play the Eagles, Hotel California, 

singing in the backseat about being a new kid in town.

I could only play it through once because,

as my father said, That’s not music, it’s just noise.

My son loves a genre called Riddim. Hours a day composing –

samples, builds, drops – he gets lost in it, hands move like pulling taffy,

expression morphs into what he calls base face. I try to find

something familiar in it – a rhythm to follow, a hook to hang onto.

Isn’t this sick? he asks.

I think it’s what I’d use to torture someone.