Yes, I know that showing up to your son’s school with Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” playing might not be the right vibe for other parents or teachers. Yes, dreams of war, dreams of liars/dreams of dragon fire are just nightmare fuel. And yes, this is not a high school, but an elementary school descent line where I’m lazy. But this is Metallica we’re talking about here — and it’s the title track/lead single from 1991’s now-legendary self-titled album, more commonly referred to as The Black Album.
Today it’s “Enter Sandman”. Because he and I were talking about MLB walk-up songs. I explain to my 7-year-old son, who is sitting in the booster seat, that Yankee Stadium used to explode with excitement when a song was played announcing that closing pitcher Mariano Rivera was ready to pitch. But my son’s brain is elsewhere. “Dad? Can you really sleep with one eye open?” he shouts over Kirk Hammett’s guitar.
“I don’t think so?” I yell back. Then: we leave for Never Neverland!
I wish I could tell you that at that moment, I pulled out of the parking lot with tires squealing and yelling, “Throw rocks!” I sign out the window, but instead I turn inward. Parenting often plays a strange trick on me, where whenever I think of my son at my age, I revert back to who I was at that age.
Where I grew up in Miami, with friends and family and a jukebox. I’m Cuban-American and grew up speaking English and Spanish, but music always felt like a completely different language. rock. reggae. hip hop. salsa. Whenever I found a jukebox in a diner, pizzeria, or arcade, I would beg someone for a quarter and make a beeline for the shiny 45 treasure chest.
One summer, my friend’s father also bought a jukebox. I still remember walking into their garage and seeing it in the corner, plugged in and blazing with light. There was a quarter bank in the back so we didn’t even have to pay. The jukebox was rocking with Bill Haley and the Comets swinging to “Rock Around the Clock,” Sam and Dave belting out “Soul Man,” and the Beach Boys bopping to “Barbara Ann.” It was the place where I heard it for the first time.
My father also loved music. I have very vivid memories of him and fell in love with red snapper when listening to CCR on the radio. Or a station wagon family trip to Disney World where they could barely resist a torturous rendition of “To All the Girls I Loved Before” by Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. My father would also listen to music and talk to me as a conversation starter, especially when it came to Cuban music. He talked about the artist, about his life growing up in Cuba, about his father. I think that’s partly what driving with Siri as my and my son’s morning jukebox was about.
And suddenly, whoosh, I’m back in the driver’s seat and I’m 45 years old. My son asked me, “What was your favorite song when you were in kindergarten?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. But I do know that when I was really little, I loved Rockin’ Robin,” I told him. “Hey Siri, play ‘Rockin’ Robin’ by Bobby Day.”
And therein lies the pure joy of the Tweedle Lee Dee Dee Dee at the beginning of this song. Spotify will then automatically select Elvis’ “Hound Dog.”
“Elvis’ Hound Dog,” I said. “He was the king of rock and roll.”
“Do you like it?” I ask
“What about you?” my son asks.
“I do. I think Elvis is cool,” I replied.
“Me too, Dad.”
My son doesn’t know about it now, but someday, somewhere, a song will be played and he’ll remember it. he. myself. music.
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