Don't turn your child into a Musical Retard!

I place the blame for my bad taste in music squarely on the shoulders of my parents.

On the long, seven hour road trips to our grandparents’ farm in Beaufort West, my mom and dad would play only two tapes. This was before the Walkman was invented – showing my age, but there you go.

One of these was a mix of their favourite Abba tunes. At such a young age you don’t know any better, and Greg and I would sing along happily from Cape Town to Worcester – Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, Super Trooper, we knew them all.

It’s a wonder the pair of us grew up liking girls. I’m sure that in more progressive countries at the time, inflicting Abba upon such tender and innocent ears would have been considered child abuse.

The other tape was the greatest hits of Julio Iglesius.

For those that don’t know, that was Enrique’s curly-haired dad – a great womaniser in his day, who I’m sure was actually Ron Jeremy in disguise.

It is this reason that on my CV I list Spanish as one of the languages I know. If there’s any doubt, I just sing the chorus of ‘one-tunna-mera’.

One would think that after the Walkman came out things would’ve changed, but the damage had already been done. After that we consciously chose to fill our ears with Cyndi Lauper, Yazoo, and – I’m man enough to admit – Rick Astley.

In the Nineties, when I hit puberty, things changed a bit. We rebelled by listening to AC-DC, Motorhead, and Ozzy. My bedroom wall was plastered with posters of Iron Maiden’s Eddie murdering Margaret Thatcher and attacking the Devil with an axe.

But I still secretly had an appreciation for MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and 2 Unlimited. The bad taste from those formative years had been imbedded in my genetic code.

Today I’m conscious of this ingrained flaw and try and steer clear of anything too poppy or commercial. But every now and again I get a Beyonce track looping in my head… and in a perverse, masochistic way I kind of like it.

So I’ve vowed not to put my kids through the same pain and embarrassment. These are my rules for a child’s musical upbringing:

1) Only expose them to music played with actual instruments.

Drums and guitars are the nuts and bolts of good music. I don’t care how cool you think DJ Duvet is – he is not a musician. Your children need to appreciate this fact.

2) Make sure they know the pioneers.

Your record collection should resemble a mini-Louvre – Rolling Stones, U2, Bob Dylan, Dire Straits, Public Enemy, etc. You wouldn’t expect them to tackle quantum physics if they hadn’t studied Newton and Einstein, don’t let them make musical choices before they’ve appreciated the trailblazers.

3) Only very rarely is a cover-version okay, and remixes are out of the question. No despicable Madonna version of ‘American Pie’ or remixed Bryan Adams riddled with rap.

Respect the originals and accept no substitutes.

4) Remember how you were beaten up by the metalheads at school when you wore that Roxette t-shirt on civvies day? I sure do.

Don’t let your kids wear any dorky music-related clothing – pretty much anything that doesn’t have skulls, Satan, or sacrificial virgins emblazoned across the chest. Vintage clothing of the greats is also acceptable, but current-day bad boy rappers are a big no-no as they are almost always lame in future retrospect.

5) And most importantly, make sure they know that any artistic pursuit is a labour of love; the work should be its own reward.

They should regard bands punting Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sprite as the money-grubbing, attention-seeking, ungodly sell-outs that they are, and with the contempt they deserve.


So hopefully by following these simple rules and with a bit of luck I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing my little dear won’t be keeping me awake with the next Spice Girls or Locnville ear-bleeder.

Of course, she could be influenced by unenlightened schoolmates into boyband worship; or possibly, in those rebellious teen years, play polka or (God forbid) techno full-blast in her bedroom – but I’ll just have to turn the hearing-aid down or buy her an iPod.

As for me, I’ll just have to struggle along, worrying that one day my mom and dad will be standing in front of the God of Rock and will have to answer for their sins.