For the last two nights I’ve been spending my evenings at my daughter’s dance recital. For most dads, this is brutal – enduring hours of 4-year-olds in tutus, hundreds of twirls, jumps and gyrations. In my case I was particularly apprehensive because given today’s hip-hop society, I would have to endure hours of noise accented with either profane language or bleeps were profane language used to be.
The recitals were a showcase in good music, with kids dancing to the Go-Go’s, the Bangles, Dexys Midnight Runners, Wham! and the Beatles. There were throwbacks to the 70s, with Earth, Wind, and Fire, the Allman Brothers and Donna Summer.
They even dipped into the obscure, with two songs by Regina Spektor and other songs by Ani DiFranco and the White Stripes (obscure to 75 percent of the population, at least). I heard a few hip-hop songs – including one that I’ve got to track down, because it may rival “My Humps” as the worst song ever written – but I enjoyed almost every performance.
There were even a few artists that I had never heard of – Tina Dico, Nichole Nordeman and Missy Higgins. And how Peter Gabriel’s “The Book of Love” had eluded me all this time is embarrassing. I have some work to do.
Oh yeah. The dancing was pretty darn good. Am I officially a dance dad?
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