THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 15, 1996 TAG: 9609130480
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 40 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Editorial
SOURCE: Ronald L. Speer
LENGTH: 65 lines
When it comes to culture, everybody always seems to be a generation or two ahead of me. When my pals started listening to rock 'n' roll from cassettes on tiny tape players, I was still enjoying the Sons of the Pioneers on plate-sized records.
The records were known as 78s and turned inside a coffin-sized stereo made of solid walnut. The set cost me more than $400 in the days when I was making $105 a week.
I was terribly proud of that stereo, and got caught up in what I considered classical music. I bought records by the dozens. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, I discovered, starts with a bang: Booom-buh-buh-booom. But my interest waned, and never again have I splurged like that on culture.
The treasured old stereo disappeared somewhere along the way. Eventually I got a cassette player for probably $50 when a reporter's salary would have paid for a dozen every week, bought some tapes and proudly told my pals about my purchases. They looked at me weirdly and said something about how much better CDs were.
I eventually found out they were talking about compact discs. But so far I haven't seen a reason to change my equipment. ``String of Pearls'' and ``Tuxedo Junction'' and ``Chattanooga Choo-Choo'' sound just fine on tape.
I concede that I'm definitely underprivileged, culturally. My dad told me Frank Sinatra was a threat to humanity, and I agreed when I was barely walking. Elvis was of my time, but as a crew-cut jock I wasn't about to salute a guy with greasy long hair. I fully supported the ruling that when Elvis sang on Ed Sullivan's show, he couldn't be televised below the waist.
The Beatles were interesting guys. But a Nebraska Sand Hiller didn't really dig that kind of music or those kinds of haircuts. I spent months covering the campus revolts during the Vietnam War without really listening to the lyrics of the drug-era songwriters. For years, though, I have enjoyed Simon and Garfunkel, and drive my colleagues crazy singing . . . ``Spare the life of my child, cried the desperate mother . . . ''
Rock 'n' roll and rap passed me by without much notice, although I was upset when attempts were made to mute the sounds by older critics who probably were bemoaning not the music but the loss of their youth.
But I didn't really protest the protests because I realized long ago that when it came to music I've always been over my ears.
But last week the censors went too far, even for the culturally deprived.
Educators in Raleigh ruled that the Macarena dance could not be performed in Wake County schools.
One parent called the dance too provocative - and out it went.
Admittedly, I had never heard of the Macarena until a couple of weeks ago. But it doesn't take a Mick Jagger to wonder what in the world is the world coming to when learned scholars decide that one of the threats to our children is the Macarena.
Kids do it. Daddies and mommies do it. Grandpas and grandmas do it.
A Latino line dance, some call it. I think it's as charming - and as harmless - as the Hokey-Pokey. About everybody was doing it on the beach over Labor Day at the Edenton gang's 50th annual get-together, and I saw no signs that the dancers were any worse for it.
I'm ready to lead the fight to save the Macarena. I've always regretted not standing up for Elvis and the Beatles and rock 'n' rollers when the censors tried to quiet them.
But they've gone too far when they want to stamp out the Macarena.
And if anybody questions my credentials to carry the flag in a fight about music, tell them this: I've never liked the bubbly broth produced by Lawrence Welk. by CNB