“Oh, Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?”
My then-12-year-old son, sister and mom belted out the familiar words to the Janis Joplin tune on the way to my niece’s wedding rehearsal dinner in St. Louis, recalling how it’d once been one of my dad’s favorite songs.
My dad had died the year before, just after Thanksgiving, following a long, lingering bout with cancer. He finally said, “No more.”
No more surgeries. No more hospitals. No more being cared for like a helpless infant. No more pain. He was ready to die.
It was a hard decision for him. He knew my mom didn’t want to let go. She needed him around and she wanted him to fight. But all the fight had been taken out of him. He was tired and I believe he was eager to be with my brother who had died at the age of 14 of complications related to lupus.
Although he’d been raised Catholic, my dad wasn’t a religious man in later life. But he was a good man, a loving man, a man who cared about people. And I’m sure, though he didn’t speak of it, that his belief was strong. I’ve no doubt he earned his place in heaven for his good works and repentance.
So, nearly a year after his death, we piled into the Caddy he once owned to attend the rehearsal dinner. Although she’d given away Dad’s clothes, Mom didn’t have the heart to get rid of Dad’s beloved Cadillac so she’d been driving both her own car and his to keep the engine in working order.
The radio came on when she turned the ignition key and a Rolling Stones tune blasted from the Cadillac’s superior surround-sound speaker system.
“What are you doing listening to the Rolling Stones?” I asked my mom over Mick Jagger’s lyrics to “Beast of Burden.”
“Oh, this is your father’s radio station,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I just never bothered to change it.”
“Dad listened to rock music?” I asked.
“Sure,” replied my mom. “He loved rock music. “Especially that Sting guy.”
I was momentarily taken aback, remembering the man who had ordered us to turn down our “confounded stereo” when we were playing Led Zepplin or Jethro Tull too loud back in the ‘70s. His car was tuned into a station where Led Zepplin tunes were considered tame.
My sister reminded me that Dad wasn’t entirely “un-hip” when we were growing up. After all, he did like to sing Janis Joplin’s Mercedes Benz song.
That led to the impromptu serenade by three generations. My son was familiar with it because it was a song I’d used as a lullaby to lull him to sleep when he was a baby.
Now that son not only knows all the words to the song but can play it on the guitar.
As I was listening to him play the familiar tune as well as others that I grew up with, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way music has bridged the generations.
It’s hard to believe there was a time when the world feared the rock revolution would tear the generations apart, that the Beatles would cause some kind of permanent rift between father and son.
Now “Hey, Jude” and “Eleanor Rigby” are mainstream music in elevators.
What other social changes do we needlessly fear?
