IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LIFE – LISTEN ON

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while and this week it happened. I knew that one day soon my oldest son would break away and reach for out-of-contact teenagedom and sure enough he has, although I have to admit I was a little surprised by its manifestation. I guessed it might materialise as loud music, deafening sounds that I had never heard of. I never expected it to come in the form of a Nirvana CD.

We were lulled into a false sense of security when he asked for the Red Hot Chili Peppers for Christmas. Obviously, he was just testing our water, waiting to come out in full as the required pocket money was saved for a new CD. I am such a wuss and live in fear of alienating my children any more than is absolutely necessary. I understand about boundaries but I do want them to continue to share their lives with me. I’m not ready for them to hide in their rooms with firmly locked doors. But, I ask you, Nirvana?!

If you are not familiar with the musical talents of Nirvana, they’re not that hard to describe. Although, forgive me if you’re a fan and I’m getting the terminology all wrong. It’s sort of **** you head banging with a repetitive, manic depressive edge, written ten years ago by a man who has now killed himself. Oh yippee! There’s a nice picture on the CD sleeve of a young man putting his third finger in his mouth too.

Au revoir l’innocence, as they say in Frangland, and hello locked bedroom doors. I can do the Red Hot Chili Peppers as we eat breakfast but Nirvana is a challenge.

The worst thing is that I have a half-baked parenting theory about music. I believe it to be the purest means of communication. Like eating, the family that listens together stays together is truly an ethos I adhere to. So, I’m going to try very, very hard and take comfort in the soothing sounds of Bobby and Flo’s Blue and Atomic Kitten when I can and allow Max to welly in with Nirvana when he has to. I shall make the biggest effort not to wince and reach for the volume control.

It all stems back to my youth, of course. When I was a preteen the hills were alive with the sound of opera. My mother is a Verdi and Wagner maniac and our house rocked to the Valkyries. I’m not averse to opera but psychopathic Germans throwing themselves off ghost ships or whatever was not my bag at the age of twelve. It is impossible to have a conversation when they’re going at it with their hammers and I resented the aural intrusion. A feeling remarkably similar to the one I have as my space is invaded by Nirvana. Perhaps I should send Max round to Granny with his CD for a Wagner/Nirvana compare and contrast discussion? I do believe there might be a link.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: 19 FEBRUARY 2003