“He’s got a lot to answer for, this bloke.”
“What do you mean; He’s got a lot to answer for, this bloke. What the hell are you talking about now!”
That was the start of another argument about music that Marg and I frequently have. Let me start from the begining:
During our sometimes long drives on our way to and from our destination on our camping week-ends or annual holidays, I like to play some music. I have recorded numerous audio tapes of my favourite music as outlined in my previous story: My Music Journey.
To my regret, Marg couldn’t come to terms at all with “the blues” and she also didn’t like some of my favourite singers, so quite often our differences reached a stalemate and we would end up not listening to any music at all.
“What music do you like then?” I asked her one day.
“Rock-n-roll hits of the ’50’s and early ’60’s, or ballad songs that are easy to listen to,” was the answer.
Ah….. ballad singers, I thought. I could finally play some music that would please both of us. So the very next time we travelled I put on some Bob Dylan music, and I mean “classic Dylan”. “Blowing in the Wind”, “The Times are a Changing” and “Like a Rollin’ Stone”, songs like that you know.
“She couldn’t help but be impressed by this,” I reckoned, thinking I’d finally cracked it for a winner, but after about four or five songs she said: “Turn that shit off, I don’t like that.”
“Shit?” I exclaimed indignantly, “Go and wash your mouth. This is classic Dylan I’ll have you know.”
“Classic Shit,” was the grumpy answer.
I was flabbergasted, but not defeated. I took Bob off and replace him with a Neil Young tape, “Rust Never Sleeps”, one of my favourites. Two songs into this tape Marg says: “Misery Guts.”
“Who?” I said.
“This bloke. His songs are too morbid; he sounds like a regular misery guts.”
So Neil got the flick as well, after which time I racked my brain well and truly trying to think of what sort of music would please this woman. I searched through my box of audios and came up with Elton John’s greatest hits.
When, after about three or four songs she sat there in stony silence, I was under the mistaken impression that she was enjoying E.J. “Crocodile Rock” and all. Then out of the blue, and staring straight at the road ahead, she stated: “He’s got a lot to answer for, this bloke.”
“What do you mean; He’s got a lot to answer for, this bloke? What the hell are you talking about now?” I demanded to know.
“Playing around with children, that’s what I mean,” she replied, “Turn him off.”
“He doesn’t play around with children,” I said. “That rumour was never proven.”
“Well, I refuse to listen on principle.”
So Elton became the next casualty in a long line of rejects. After about 10 minutes of silence I finally said: ” All right then, you choose something, go on, have a pick your-self, there’s heaps of tapes to choose from. There must be something there that’s to your liking.”
So she busied herself rummaging through my music collection, obviously looking for something she had wanted to listen to all along.
After several minutes of not locating the desired “masterpiece”, she looked up at me and asked: “Do you have “Rocking Robin?”