"The back of my neck is getting dirty and gritty! What kind of song is that? That's a stupid song. Who sings about their neck getting dirty?"
I still remember my mom saying that when I was sixteen years old. I remember I was down in our recreation room, Mom was ironing, and I had the radio on in my bedroom. Before that moment, I did not realize that Mom could actually understand the songs I was listening to. I imagined that it was a foreign language to her. After all, years before she had told me it was just noise.
"Turn that damn noise off. I can't believe people listen to that." It was Elvis on the radio. Mom let me know that day that she did not like Elvis Presley. Funny thing is, neither did I. Elvis was too old fashioned for me. I liked The Rolling Stones. I guess every few years the new up and coming generation has their own music. It's not intended for the folks who came before them.
Mark and I are going to see Hamilton tonight. So I called Mark into my office and had him listen to something that was on the radio.
"Is that hip-hop music? I'm not exactly sure what hip-hop is. Is that it?"
"I don't know. I guess it could be. Why would you think I would know what hip-hop is?"
"I don't like hip-hop. I don't like rap music. Do you ever hear me listening to that stuff?" Mark huffed.
So no, I have never heard Mark listening to that stuff. The fact is, I listen to a lot of Black music. But not rap. I hate rap. It's not music to me. It's just somebody talking real fast, in rhyme, with a crappy beat behind it. I'm told that the music in Hamilton is hip-hop. So I don't know if I'll like Hamilton. I hope I do, because it is two hours and forty five minutes long.