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I haven’t written about music in a while. What’s up with that?

Is this part of the rebellion?

What rebellion?

Hell if I know. I just thought it sounded cool. You know, one of those things that lingers in your head, waiting for the perfect moment to escape. I usually miss those moments. In fact, I’ve been waiting years for an opportunity to use the word argot in a conversation.

Still waiting.

Anyway, music.

Sooo, what are we going to talk about today?

Hmm. I think I’ll put a little cheese on it.

Nope, nope, nah. Not too much.

Just a dash. A sprinkle. A smidgeon.

There. Perfect.

Today, November 8th, marks the anniversary of an album that gave us one of the most overplayed songs in rock history.

On this day in 1971, Led Zeppelin released their untitled fourth studio album, commonly called Led Zeppelin IV, or The Runes album, because apparently giving an album a proper name was just too damn conventional.

And somewhere on that record, nestled among some genuinely magnificent rock and roll, sits the infamous “Stairway to Heaven.”

Okay, I see you nodding your head.

“Yep. Yep.”

Now, don’t misunderstand me. It’s a jam. Always has been. But did we really need to hear it on practically every classic rock station in America for the next forty years?

Forty years!

Countries have risen and fallen in less time. Yet somewhere, a classic rock DJ is probably preparing to play “Stairway to Heaven” like he’s just discovered the damn thing.

And don’t get me started on Pink Floyd.

“Money,” from The Dark Side of the Moon. Brilliant track. That opening cash-register rhythm? Immediately recognizable. But after several decades of relentless airplay, even the cash registers must be exhausted.

Then there’s “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2.”

An anthem for generations of rebellious schoolchildren, many of whom probably didn’t realize they were singing along with a song criticizing rigid, authoritarian education rather than learning itself.

But who cares? We were young, rebellious, and somebody had finally put our feelings about homework to music.

Different band. Same shit.

And before somebody starts sharpening their pitchforks, I’m not questioning the greatness of these songs. I’m questioning the apparent inability of classic rock radio to acknowledge that these bands recorded anything else.

Led Zeppelin recorded eight studio albums. Pink Floyd gave us fifteen. Yet listening to certain radio stations, you’d think both bands wandered into a recording studio, knocked out three songs, and retired to the countryside.

There’s an entire musical universe out there, folks.

Perhaps we should visit it occasionally.

And Then There’s Queen

Do we even need to say anything else?

Freddie Mercury.

That man was something else. In a world determined to put everybody into neat little boxes, Freddie seemed to take one look at the available selections and decide he’d rather build his own damn house.

And what a house it was.

He was flamboyant, theatrical, unapologetically different, and possessed a voice that could make you wonder whether the rest of us had received defective equipment at birth. He helped teach generations that being different wasn’t necessarily something to hide. Sometimes it was precisely what made you extraordinary.

Of course, being extraordinary doesn’t exempt anyone from the demons that accompany being human. Freddie had his share, as we all do. Behind the spectacle was a complicated man navigating a complicated world.

On November 8, 1974, Queen released Sheer Heart Attack, an album that included one of my favorite tracks from their extensive catalog: “Killer Queen.”

Now, here’s where things get interesting.

“Killer Queen” received a considerable amount of radio airplay. Yet, unlike “Stairway to Heaven,” I never developed the overwhelming desire to throw my radio out the nearest window whenever it came on.

Why?

Perhaps because Queen’s other music received a healthy dose of attention as well.

Think about it. “Somebody to Love,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “We Will Rock You,” “Under Pressure,” “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and “Another One Bites the Dust.”

And that’s barely scratching the surface.

Different arrangements, different moods, different musical personalities. Queen could take you from an operatic spectacle to a stadium anthem, wander into funk, and then turn around and deliver something surprisingly intimate.

They weren’t afraid to experiment. More importantly, they weren’t afraid to sound like themselves while doing it.

“Killer Queen” has a certain sophistication about it. That wonderfully peculiar arrangement, Freddie’s playful delivery, Brian May’s guitar work, and the sense that everybody involved was having a grand time doing something they probably shouldn’t have been able to get away with.

It’s clever without becoming pretentious. Theatrical without collapsing beneath its own weight.

A little cheese, perhaps.

But the good stuff.

What You Know About Minnie Riperton?

Now, we’re going to leave rock and roll behind for a moment and wander into another musical neighborhood. One that was every bit as powerful as the aforementioned tracks, although considerably gentler on the eardrums.

Minnie Riperton.

Oh, now we’re talking.

Born on November 8, 1947, Minnie possessed one of those voices that made you wonder whether the good Lord had been experimenting with the available settings. Her extraordinary vocal range was something to behold, but it wasn’t merely how high she could sing. It was what she could make you feel while doing it.

And then there was “Lovin’ You.”

Lord have mercy.

That song crossed cultural lines without asking anybody’s permission. It didn’t need thunderous drums, screaming guitars, or somebody running around a stage wearing trousers that probably violated several municipal ordinances.

It simply needed Minnie.

Even today, I can watch people close their eyes and sway ever so gently when that melody begins. There’s something almost instinctive about it. The shoulders relax, the expression softens, and for a few minutes, whatever nonsense the world has been throwing at them seems a little less important.

I remember the first time I heard it.

I didn’t know who was singing. Didn’t know the name of the song. I just knew there was something about that melody that refused to leave me alone. So, naturally, I walked around the house singing it.

Or at least attempting to.

Let’s not confuse enthusiasm with ability.

My mother heard me one day and asked, “What you know about Minnie Riperton?”

I can still hear her saying it.

Funny how certain things stay with you. Not the grand occasions or carefully orchestrated moments, but something your mother said in passing while you were wandering around the house, minding your own business and committing questionable acts of musical interpretation.

I carried that phrase with me for decades, repeating it affectionately whenever the opportunity presented itself. Sometimes when I heard the song. Sometimes when somebody mentioned Minnie. Sometimes simply because the memory made me smile.

And that’s the peculiar thing about music.

We began this little adventure complaining about songs that received entirely too much airplay. Yet here’s another song that has been played countless times, and I don’t seem to mind hearing it again.

Perhaps because I’m not merely listening to Minnie Riperton.

I’m remembering a little boy walking around his mother’s house, singing a melody he didn’t understand but somehow already loved.

And I’m hearing my mother’s voice.

Some songs become classics because of their musical accomplishments. Others become part of our lives because of the memories we attach to them.

Every now and then, a song manages to become both.

“Lovin’ You” is one of those songs.

And as for what I know about Minnie Riperton?

Well, Mom, I know a little more now than I did back then.

But I still love the way you asked.

The Music We Inherit

Now, before somebody gets the wrong idea, let me make something perfectly clear.

I’m a huge Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and Queen fan. Always have been. In fact, Pink Floyd’s Animals was the first album I ever purchased with my own money. I suppose that tells you a little something about where my musical interests were headed.

Or perhaps it raises a few questions about my childhood.

Either way, I’ve made peace with it.

But like so many artists and musical genres I’ve come to appreciate over the years, the foundation was laid by my mother.

She introduced me to a world of music long before I understood what I was hearing. Different voices, different rhythms, different stories. Some of those songs I loved immediately. Others took a little longer to find their way into my stubborn little head.

What a legacy she left me.

Not something you can put in a box, hang on a wall, or divide among relatives when the time comes. It’s something I carry with me every day. Something that continues to grow whenever I discover another artist, revisit an old album, or hear a familiar melody that takes me somewhere I haven’t been in years.

So, yes, November 8 is a pretty cool day in music history.

And apparently, it was a pretty good day for birthdays, too.

Minnie Riperton was born on this day in 1947. Bonnie Raitt came along in 1949, bringing her remarkable blend of blues, rock, and Americana into the world. Rickie Lee Jones arrived in 1954, eventually giving us that wonderfully distinctive voice and songwriting style. Patti Page, born in 1927, belonged to an earlier musical generation, while Tech N9ne, born in 1971, and SZA, born in 1989, remind us that musical creativity didn’t pack its bags and disappear when the seventies ended.

I know. Shocking, isn’t it?

Somewhere, a classic rock purist just dropped his coffee.

But that’s the thing. Music doesn’t belong to one generation, one genre, or one particular collection of people who insist everything went downhill after their senior prom.

It belongs to all of us.

The Rebellion, After All

You know, I’ve always been taught that music is colorblind.

That’s something my mother passed along to me, something I taught my children, and something that has continued down through the generations of our family.

Simple enough, right?

Apparently not.

For a long time, the world seemed determined to convince us that music should be divided according to the color of our skin. If you looked a certain way, you were supposed to listen to certain things. Stay in your lane. Stick to your own kind of music.

Whatever the hell that means.

Never mind that musical traditions have been borrowing from, influencing, and inspiring one another for generations. Never mind that some of the greatest musical innovations came from people crossing those imaginary boundaries.

Nope.

Somebody, somewhere, decided we needed rules.

And you know how I feel about unnecessary rules.

I grew up listening to whatever moved me. Rock, blues, jazz, soul, classical, country, and whatever else happened to catch my attention. If the music spoke to me, I listened. I didn’t need permission, and I certainly didn’t need somebody explaining whether it was appropriate for a person who looked like me.

My mother had already settled that question.

And when I became a father, I passed that lesson along. Not as some grand philosophical declaration, but as something perfectly ordinary.

Listen to the music.

Discover what you love.

And don’t let anybody tell you that a particular song doesn’t belong to you.

That’s a legacy worth passing down.

So, perhaps we should return to that question I asked at the beginning.

What rebellion?

Well, I suppose I’ve been participating in one all along.

Nothing particularly dramatic. No barricades, protest signs, or declarations of independence. Just a fellow sitting around enjoying Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Queen, Minnie Riperton, and whatever else strikes his fancy.

And I’ve finally found a use for that word I’ve been carrying around.

Argot: Good music has no expiration date.

Okay, perhaps that’s not what the word means, but I’ve waited long enough to use the damn thing.

And if somebody has a problem with that?

Well, they can take it up with my mother.

I’m just carrying on the family tradition.