When I was a kid, the plum position in any automobile was sitting up front.
There was none of this calling ‘shotgun’ crap – if you were the oldest then you earned the right, not by being firstborn but by threatening to inflict injury on your siblings if they didn’t move their butts out of ‘your’ seat.
Because being up front was where all the cool stuff was. The glove box with the travel mints and ubiquitous toilet roll, the blower vents and the push-button cigarette lighter.
But, most importantly, it gave you control of the radio. There was always a selection of preset buttons but living in small town New Zealand meant there was only ever a couple of AM stations within range.
When these succumbed to static, you were then in charge of choosing a cassette to insert in the slot. We had everything – Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow, the Hamilton County Bluegrass Band. All the big stars.
And being in control meant you were in charge of the volume, speaker balance, and fast forward – all fiendish devices designed to aggravate everyone else in the car.
As I moved into adulthood I was able to establish my own musical tastes but with significantly better gear.
The airwaves were awash with FM stations catering for every niche, plus I had a five-stack CD player to fill in the gaps. It was bliss (i.e. a state of euphoria, not a sly reference to the hit by Th’ Dudes).
When my own kids came along, I had to temporarily shelve my love affair with Pink Floyd and Supertramp, and replace them with The Wiggles and Suzy Cato.
But I still had control over the rewind button (“Again, again!”) and could revert to some Adult-Oriented Rock when the little cherubs fell asleep in their kiddy seats.
It helped to reinforce the ongoing dictum – I am the sole arbiter of what music is played in my car. Unfortunately, no-one appears to have informed Generation Z of this rule.
The first time my son’s teenage mates piled into the back seat, they broke out a veritable arsenal of portable speakers. I thought they were trendy drink bottles, so couldn’t believe my ears when the whole car started throbbing.
“Guys!” I hollered. “How about some etiquette? Was anyone going to ask permission first?”
“Sorry, Rob – we didn’t think you’d mind.”
I was still wondering if being called ‘Rob’ rather than ‘Mister Scott’ qualified me as being a Cool Dad when the cacophony recommenced.
Now teenage boys are still very much an exploratory phase, as they experiment with different sports, foodstuffs and acne treatments.
This is especially so with music, as each kid is trying to work out what ticks their boxes yet doesn’t make it look like they’re following the pack.
Each of the lads had created their own VERY eclectic Spotify lists, and felt the need to educate all their mates…at the same time.
I had one youngster blasting out a gentleman apparently called Lil Nas X (what were his parents thinking – Mr and Mrs X?) while on the other side of the car The Troggs were still making everything groovy.
My son wasn’t helping matters either. I thought he was intent on his tablet but was instead trying to sync his death metal playlist with the car radio via Bluetooth.
I wasn’t impressed with their attention spans, either. Songs would be cut after a few bars or drowned out by adolescent voices with only a fleeting grasp of the lyrics.
They were in turn dismayed when I added my fine baritone to some of their latest hits. “Half these songs are just remakes, guys, with a dance track added.
In the end the competing music streams proved too much and I had to lay down the law.
“Righto – one song at a time. Songs will be played to completion. No singing unless you know all the words. Everyone gets to play one song then the next bloke takes his turn. Agreed?”
They all nodded.
“OK – the driver gets first pick. Let me introduce you to Mike Oldfield and Tubular Bells…”
This story first appeared in the May 2024 issue of NZ Autocar magazine.
