It occurred to me the other day as I was jammin’ out to some funk music (p-funk, g-funk, disco-inspired, 80s stripped, whatever I can’t get enough) in my grocery getter that I am subjecting my kids to music that is akin to what my grandparents made me listen to as a child. Back then, in the 80s with all its big hair and synthesizers spinning like a record right around the Top 40 dial, they would sit back in the cushy boat-sized beige car and play Big Band sounds. Ah, the 1940s.
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My love of funk (OK, funk is even older by origin so geez) and its 70s sister music disco and even very early rap are now um, entering into their fortieth decade of existence. This my friends, is frightening. Even my iPod is engraved with the phrase, “Don’t fake the funk.”
I am getting old.
