When I was a little boy, I thought my father was a strange man. Most of the time, his car stereo would be set to either the English service of Radio South Africa (the mother who gave birth to SAfm) or Abasiki Bebunda, the current-affairs talk show on Radio Zulu (Ukhozi FM's mum).
He was so invested in talk radio that he would arrive home, park in the garage and sit there for however long it took the programme to end, even if that took another hour. I’d often have to bring him his cup of Joko and Marie biscuits in the car.
Fast forward thirty-odd years and I have become my father. I hardly ever listen to music in the car any more. I’m particularly averse to music radio because no-one plays music that I enjoy. When they write current popular music, they absolutely don’t take into consideration my tastes. And that’s OK. The end is nearer than the beginning for folks my age and we should give way to new ideas and art forms.
Still, no-one makes anything for us 50-something-year-old children any more. Most new car models look like they were manufactured for individuals who wear peach leather pants, purple shades and red platform shoes. Which is fitting because they don’t make jeans, pants or sweatpants for the 52-year-old male figure either.
Yes, I called the abomination below my neck and above my knees “a figure” because even the pear has a shape, namsayin’? I’m embarrassed to say that I own a pair of skinny jeans that make me look like a Colombian pimp on the streets of San Francisco.
For the past 15 years or so, I have been a talk-radio consumer almost exclusively. That said, the last time I was a regular listener, Eusebius McKaiser ruled the midmorning landscape in Gauteng. This is not an indictment on the calibre of talk radio in the past four years; this is merely an expression of preference.
I happen to prefer my talk-radio irreverent, thoughtful, opinionated and unapologetically provocative. This would explain why I enjoyed John Robbie so much, even though I’d listen with plenty of anxiety. Some of his on-air tirades sounded like he was halfway to imminent cardiac arrest or bursting all the blood vessels on his forehead. Like I said, that brand of radio appealed to me much more than “gentle, polite and pleasant” talk radio. Again, there’s nothing wrong with that type of radio. It’s not them, it’s me.
I've also become intensely intolerant of hearing other people’s thoughts. I always know it’s time to stop listening to the radio when I catch myself yelling at the stereo at the top of my voice, “Ag, shut up man, you’re talking kak! Have you read a book this millennium? Any book?” That's why these days I default to podcasts because of the control I have on who gets to contaminate my brain. I’d much rather listen to a podcast about how the Mayans sacrificed menstrual virgins on pyramids to influence rainfall.
The only time I play music in the car is when I’m ferrying the 16-year-old last-born around. The other day I was explaining to him that I’m a member of Gen X with our wanna-be-cool parenting style, so I play music in the car for him because I do not want to torture him with my podcasts about how the female preying mantis bites off the head of her mate.
I went further and explained why 90% of my Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube playlists are 1980s and 1990s music. I heard on a podcast that research has shown that the majority of middle-aged folks’ musical tastes are stuck at whatever they listened to between the ages of 13 and 25. When I sniffed at this “scientific” assertion, it smelled true, based on my own preferences.
Research has shown that the majority of middle-aged folks’ musical tastes are stuck at whatever they listened to between the ages of 13 and 25. When I sniffed at this “scientific” assertion, it smelled true, based on my own preferences.
Whenever I drive my 80-year-old mother around, I play her exclusively 1950s and 1960s music — Billie Holiday, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Miriam Makeba, Johnny Hodges, Bill Miller, Ella Fitzgerald and Cliff Richard. Almost without fail, this retro cocoon I create in the car leads to lengthy conversations about movie stars from that era — Omar Sharif, Jimmy Stewart, Katherine Hepburn, Sydney Poitier.
The 1980s were not the most inspired decade stylistically. The couture may even have been just plain embarrassing. But the music was pretty amazing.
You can accuse our children, the Gen Zs, of many crimes. But you can’t fault their commitment to thoughtful observation, whatever your feelings about their conclusions. My 16-year-old asked if I was aware just what a profound effect I’d had on his musical tastes. How so? “Some of my favourite current music is heavily influenced by 1980s music. My ear is attuned to that sound,” he said.
He’s spot on. After all, what would the careers of some of his favourites be without the '80s influence? From Bruno Mars to Pharrell Williams, from Anderson .Paak to Kanye West. And his 19-year-old brother is currently wading deep in K-Pop, also heavily reliant on 1980s influences. He recently insisted that I listen to a Korean neo-soul artist Jaehyun. It felt like a walk down Pop Shop and Capital Radio 604 memory lane, with a jerry curl, stonewashed denim jeans and jacket with mismatched neon coloured socks.
It’s worth noting that the 16-year-old and I were busy having this conversation with a 1980s playlist in the background. At some point, Nile Rodgers's Soup for One came on. He paused to make a point. “For instance, this song playing right now? I know it as Lady by Modjo.” Point made.
This is all to say that, like my mother who is stuck in the 1950s/'60s, I am stuck in the 1980s/'90s. And I am OK with that. You, too, should embrace whatever era you’re stuck in. Just don’t give me and my peers — such as Metro FM’s Wilson B Nkosi — flak for being stuck in the 1980s with our baggy sweatpants, hoodies and Adidas flops with white socks.
Oh wait, that look has made a comeback with our Gen Z children. Look, as long as the perm and Victoria Principal sized shoulder pads don’t make a comeback, we should all be fine.
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