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"Much of what I know about jazz, I learned from Bugs Bunny. But don&amp;#039;t tell my father.  When my dad was a kid in the 1940&amp;#039;s, he loved jazz so much that he occasionally skipped school to hear the big jazz bands play in matinees at local theaters. So, he wouldn&amp;#039;t want to know that I learned about jazz almost by accident \u2013 while sprawled out on our couch, eating Lucky Charms from the box, watching old cartoons that used his favorite songs as background music. But recently, I learned about jazz in a way that Looney Tunes could never have taught me. And while I had expected to understand Dizzy Gillespie a little better, I never anticipated learning something about my father as well. As a kid, I knew enough not to talk about music with Dad. As much as he loves jazz, he disdains rock n&amp;#039; roll \u2013 my music. To Dad, discussing, say, the Psychedelic Furs, would be like hanging pictures of scribble at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He&amp;#039;d sooner attend a concert of kindergarteners with kazoos than accompany me to see Bruce Springsteen on stage. So Dad listened to his music, and I listened to mine.  Last year, though, I heard angry young men torture their guitars while they screamed about I-don&amp;#039;t-know-what over the loud speaker at my gym. I stumbled out of the weight room \u2013 and stumbled upon the soothing sounds of Ella Fitzgerald on my car radio. Right away, I called my dad. I was finally ready for an education in jazz. And boy, did I have a lot to learn.  The Benny Goodman CDs my dad lent me made me think of Bugs Bunny flying a World War II bomber. I recognized just one Count Basie tune \u2013 from the movie, &amp;quot;Blazing Saddles.&amp;quot; And Duke Ellington&amp;#039;s &amp;quot;Satin Doll&amp;quot; reminded me of the moment in every wedding reception when the salad is served.  I didn&amp;#039;t dare tell my dad. I did a little better with his piano jazz CDs. Soon I was tapping my steering wheel to Nat King Cole&amp;#039;s music. The kid who used to jam out to &amp;quot;Paradise by the Dashboard Light&amp;quot; was getting her kicks from &amp;quot;Route 66.&amp;quot;  When he stuck Post-It notes on his modern jazz CDs with tips on what to listen for, I was confused. I had never listened for anything in particular in a rock song, except to hear if the Beatles really do say &amp;quot;Paul is dead&amp;quot; at the end of &amp;quot;I Am the Walrus.&amp;quot; Listening to Dad&amp;#039;s music was beginning to make me hear all kinds of music \u2013 even mine \u2013 differently. Suddenly, I heard Billy Idol in a whole new way. And I&amp;#039;m not sure I liked it. To me, it seems that listening to jazz is like watching a basketball game; you have to pay attention to everything that&amp;#039;s going on to truly appreciate it. But listening to the average rock song is more like watching a stock car race; you pretty much know where it&amp;#039;s headed. Oh God. I&amp;#039;m turning into my father.  I used to roll my eyes when Dad pointed out that perhaps Bananarama didn&amp;#039;t produce the most sophisticated music. (Of course, he didn&amp;#039;t say it that way. I believe there was a comparison to the cat&amp;#039;s litter box). But now, at least I understand. After hearing Dad&amp;#039;s CDs, I started tuning out some of the songs I had grown up listening to in favor of jazz. More importantly, I began to see how frustrating it must have been for my father when rock n&amp;#039; roll started pushing his beloved jazz out of theaters. Or when the electric guitar took the place of the horn section on popular radio.  Today, there&amp;#039;s maybe a dozen radio stations nationwide playing jazz full-time, and yet potentially hundreds with &amp;quot;Love Shack&amp;quot; on their play lists. Now I understand why that annoys him. At last, it annoys me, too. Now I can talk to my father about music \u2013 his music, which is quickly becoming mine, too. And it&amp;#039;s even becoming my son&amp;#039;s music. After listening to his grandfather&amp;#039;s CDs with me, my son demanded, &amp;quot;Put on Billie Holliday, Mom!&amp;quot; He&amp;#039;s getting his jazz lessons early. My father still has some 250 jazz CDs for me to listen to. In the meantime, I&amp;#039;m going to buy some Count Basie, Dave Brubeck and Nat King Cole for my own CD collection. Oh, yeah, and Bruce Springsteen&amp;#039;s new &amp;quot;Magic&amp;quot; CD, too. But don&amp;#039;t tell my father. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a2136/good-grief-101807/>