Hands covering his ears, Charlie flings open his 16-year-old daughter Lucy’s door. She’s sprawled out on the floor, her head rocking back and forth, her swooning eyes glued to the transistor radio.
“What in blazes is that confounded racket?”
She turns and smiles. “It’s the Beatles, Daddy. Don’t they sound keen-o?”
“Keen-o? If you ask me, they sound like some poor animal caught in a trap...”
“MTV,” he shouts, head still swaying.
“Yeah, I know that. But what is that, uh, noise?”
“Nirvana. They’re so bitc...uh, awesome. And they’re playing here in Honolulu next month. Pink’s Garage. I so have to go, Mom. I just have to.”
“Pink’s what? Oh, Nevermind. Will they provide ear plugs?” She cringes as she says it, both her age and inner Mom showing. “We’ll see...”
“Hey, third and final call. Time for dinner.” Mark shakes his head. Cameron, his 15-year-old son, lays sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to his iPhone, head bobbing to his Air Buds, not having heard a word. He steps to the teen’s side and taps him on the shoulder. “What’cha listening to?”
Cameron pulls the right side Bud from his ear. “Huh?”
“What are you listening to?”
“And what exactly is Tonal Tonic?”
“They’re a Hip-Hop/Rap/Electronic fusion. They’re pretty rad.”
“Yeah, fusion, Dad. You do know there is other music out there besides The Doors and Led Zeppelin, right?”
“I probably do, but choose to ignore.” Smiling, he tousles Cameron’s hair, then gestures toward the door. “Come on...let’s fusion with Mom at the dinner table.”
Like Ulysses’ sirens, the call of unfamiliar, yet mystical music drifting down the hall grabs ahold of Cameron, and he finds himself standing outside his daughter Heather’s room. He gives the door a light tap, then pops in. The 15-year-old sits on her bed gently swaying to a haunting melody about some horse with no name.
“Remember Great-Grams Lucy left me those boxes?”
“Yeah, I guess...”
“They were stuffed with these, uh, records. And a stereo and speakers and this...” She stops for a moment, as if off in thought, then jumps up, moving to her dresser. There she stares at a device, its arm laying on a black plastic pancake that spins atop. “Turntable. It’s a turntable.”
Cameron nods, then meanders across to the line of boxes. “Great-Grams' old vinyl collection! I wondered what happened to those. Looks like she’s passed the torch to you.”
“Yeah. I’ve been listening to them, one after the other.” She reaches into the closest box, smiling as she grabs the top album – “Meet the Beatles.” “She called this one, ‘keen-o’.”