When I was in my teens, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones hit the states like a hurricane. It was my baptism into “rock stars as heroes.” My parents made rude comments about the mop heads. My sisters and I danced around our bedroom to forty-fives scratching out tunes on our small record player, as we proclaimed which one of our idols we were going to marry.

I was a huge Stones fan and still am. It was early in their fame, and early in my hero worship, when my favorite, Brian Jones, died in his pool. I later learned it was a drug overdose. I survived the years when our rock heroes dropped acid, and dropped dead almost by the dozen. Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and Mama Cass, all died within a couple of years of each other. My parents worried about our idolization of these druggies and clearly didn’t understand it. Fortunately, we had more sense than that, and came out of the era with all our brain cells intact.

Then I watched my own children come into their teens. CDs played on stereo systems, so loud it shook the bedroom door. No dancing, no proclamation of marriage, only this loud thumping sound. My oldest was a KISS fan and my daughter loved Bon Jovi because he was cute. My youngest was the one to introduce Hip Hop and Rap into our lives. I worried, just like my parents did, about the caustic image these young deities were impressing upon my children. I hoped and prayed to every saint in the Catholic dictionary that my children wouldn’t be pulled into disastrous situations because of their hero worship.

My youngest son’s idols in the Rap world were killing each other off. I saw the gang signs all over their CD covers and really worried. When Ice T came out with Cop Killer, however, I heard my son tell his friend that he couldn’t bring something like that home since I was a cop. He knew the difference between rock star worship and hero worship.

         Then came the grandkids. My oldest grandson is twenty, and is an Aerosmith, U2 and Nickelback fan. I’ll let him listen to his CDs in my car. When he found out I had seen Led Zeppelin at the Cow Palace way back when, he was impressed. I felt even more important when he told a friend. I spent a half hour on the phone answering dozens of questions about my experience. The kid turned out to be a Zeppelin fan. Who would have guessed?

        My teenage grandsons are into rap. The gang image is still alive and well. The way young rappers represent violence still worries me, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed my grandsons have the sense my son did. My grandsons have the amazing ability to rhyme along with the rappers; I’ll let them as long as they’re not talking about killing cops or anyone else, and there isn’t any disrespect towards women.  My young granddaughters like The Naked Brothers Band. I watched them one afternoon and can see the attraction for a twelve year old. They are something of a Monkey’s spin-off, only younger. I don’t like the “stick on” tattoos TNBB drummer has covering his arms, however. He seems to idolize Tommy Lee and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. When I commented about it, my granddaughter crooned at me, as she rolled her large dark eyes, “He’s so cute, Nana.”

        The notion that rock stars often rise to the level of heroes in young people’s eyes isn’t new. It’s becoming as old as me and the hills. The images change along with the hair cuts, fashion and the sound of the music. Gone are the protest music of the sixties and the songs I could sing along to.

      Loving our musicians has become a part of culture, not just pop-culture.  As I write this, Nickelback sings, “Everybody’s got a drug dealer on speed dial. Hey, hey, I wanna be a rock star.” Some things never change.

QUESTION OF THE DAY: Who was or is your rock idol?