Growing up, my parents definitely didn’t understand me.
They thought I was too far out—too wild, too crazy. The problem? They said I listened to the devil’s music.
Looking back, what exactly was so devilish about it? Kenny G? Michael Bolton? John Tesh? I mean, I get it—this wasn’t their music. My parents were all about Iron Maiden, AC/DC, Metallica. You know, wholesome, family-friendly tunes about war and death. But The Rippingtons? That was apparently a step too far.
They said it was music for Satan. They said this was the soundtrack of hell itself.
And I have to ask—what’s so dark and unholy about the soothing strains of a tenor saxophone? What’s so evil about just wanting to *chill*?
Was I edgy? Maybe. Maybe part of it was rebellion. In hindsight, if I had just listened to it alone in my room like some kind of saxophone cryptid, maybe they wouldn’t have had a problem. Maybe I was a bit of a snot-nosed kid, throwing my little forbidden jazz parties, inviting all my friends over just to put on some Dave Koz and Spyro Gyra.
But do I regret it? Not a chance. Those parties were *off the hook*. Man, the good times I had… I will never forget the time I was at the pool, this sweet young honey looked into my eyes and said:
“Chris, can you play me a little bit of that clarinet?”
And just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in fiery shades of orange, pink, and purple, I looked into her eyes—and I let it *swing*.
That should have been my moment. That should have been the highlight of my high school years.
But just as I was about to transcend, to ascend into the smooth, my dad came storming up to the poolside—nose ring flaring, a vein literally pulsing out of his skull. That leather jacket, baking in the 30-degree Celsius heat, had pushed him to the brink of madness.
And he roared, spit flying from his mouth like a rabid beast:
**“SON, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! WE’RE NOT GONNA HAVE THAT DEVIL MUSIC IN OUR HOUSE!”**
And just like that—he killed the vibe. He killed the mood.
And he killed my one chance.
That’s right—my one shot at making it with the smooth kids.
I will never forgive him for that moment.
Devil’s music? Ha! I’m sorry, Pops. I guess I really was just too edgy for you.
Chris Trottier
npub1e9…xmsz2
2025-02-05 02:32:34 UTC
Author Public Key
npub1e9xty8eww57a3npv2vfl5cel567cd0k4stqu89aa6l0undk0pr8shxmsz2Published at
2025-02-05 02:32:34 UTCEvent JSON
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"content": "Growing up, my parents definitely didn’t understand me. \n\nThey thought I was too far out—too wild, too crazy. The problem? They said I listened to the devil’s music.\n\nLooking back, what exactly was so devilish about it? Kenny G? Michael Bolton? John Tesh? I mean, I get it—this wasn’t their music. My parents were all about Iron Maiden, AC/DC, Metallica. You know, wholesome, family-friendly tunes about war and death. But The Rippingtons? That was apparently a step too far.\n\nThey said it was music for Satan. They said this was the soundtrack of hell itself.\n\nAnd I have to ask—what’s so dark and unholy about the soothing strains of a tenor saxophone? What’s so evil about just wanting to *chill*?\n\nWas I edgy? Maybe. Maybe part of it was rebellion. In hindsight, if I had just listened to it alone in my room like some kind of saxophone cryptid, maybe they wouldn’t have had a problem. Maybe I was a bit of a snot-nosed kid, throwing my little forbidden jazz parties, inviting all my friends over just to put on some Dave Koz and Spyro Gyra.\n\nBut do I regret it? Not a chance. Those parties were *off the hook*. Man, the good times I had… I will never forget the time I was at the pool, this sweet young honey looked into my eyes and said:\n\n“Chris, can you play me a little bit of that clarinet?”\n\nAnd just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in fiery shades of orange, pink, and purple, I looked into her eyes—and I let it *swing*.\n\nThat should have been my moment. That should have been the highlight of my high school years.\n\nBut just as I was about to transcend, to ascend into the smooth, my dad came storming up to the poolside—nose ring flaring, a vein literally pulsing out of his skull. That leather jacket, baking in the 30-degree Celsius heat, had pushed him to the brink of madness.\n\nAnd he roared, spit flying from his mouth like a rabid beast:\n\n**“SON, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! WE’RE NOT GONNA HAVE THAT DEVIL MUSIC IN OUR HOUSE!”**\n\nAnd just like that—he killed the vibe. He killed the mood.\n\nAnd he killed my one chance.\n\nThat’s right—my one shot at making it with the smooth kids.\n\nI will never forgive him for that moment.\n\nDevil’s music? Ha! I’m sorry, Pops. I guess I really was just too edgy for you.",
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