The quiet was shattered when a bald tattoo in a low-riding Toyota pulled alongside to give me a few “vibrations” from his coffin-sized car stereo.
The thumping bass was so loud that I thought someone was kicking my quarter panels. The tattoo looked my way and sneered, making his nose ring flare outwards as he reached over to turn it up a little louder. The raging fury that spewed out the windows could best be described as two fools screaming at one another in a phone booth beside a slaughterhouse. The light changed, and we exchanged vital messages with parting glances. His look said “wimp” and my stare said “punk.” For the first time in my life I found myself wanting just one stick of dynamite … just one! And then it hit me – how I used to love to pull up beside some “square” and give them a taste of moderate metal. I remembered my dad pledging to never ride in my van again after I had tested his decibel tolerance and found it wanting. When I glared at the Toyota, I was glaring at myself.
Every generation struggles with the tastes and changes of the next. There are deeper matters than style and volume. We need to look hard at this fallen culture.
Rome is burning, and we concern ourselves with the faulty tuning of Nero’s violin!