Growing up, my parents definitely didn’t understand me.
They thought I was too far out—too wild, too crazy. The problem? They said I listened to the devil’s music.
Looking back, what exactly was so devilish about it? Kenny G? Michael Bolton? John Tesh? I mean, I get it—this wasn’t their music. My parents were all about Iron Maiden, AC/DC, Metallica. You know, wholesome, family-friendly tunes about war and death. But The Rippingtons? That was apparently a step too far.
They said it was music for Satan. They said this was the soundtrack of hell itself.
And I have to ask—what’s so dark and unholy about the soothing strains of a tenor saxophone? What’s so evil about just wanting to *chill*?
Was I edgy? Maybe. Maybe part of it was rebellion. In hindsight, if I had just listened to it alone in my room like some kind of saxophone cryptid, maybe they wouldn’t have had a problem. Maybe I was a bit of a snot-nosed kid, throwing my little forbidden jazz parties, inviting all my friends over just to put on some Dave Koz and Spyro Gyra.
But do I regret it? Not a chance. Those parties were *off the hook*. Man, the good times I had… I will never forget the time I was at the pool, this sweet young honey looked into my eyes and said:
“Chris, can you play me a little bit of that clarinet?”
And just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in fiery shades of orange, pink, and purple, I looked into her eyes—and I let it *swing*.
That should have been my moment. That should have been the highlight of my high school years.
But just as I was about to transcend, to ascend into the smooth, my dad came storming up to the poolside—nose ring flaring, a vein literally pulsing out of his skull. That leather jacket, baking in the 30-degree Celsius heat, had pushed him to the brink of madness.
And he roared, spit flying from his mouth like a rabid beast:
**“SON, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! WE’RE NOT GONNA HAVE THAT DEVIL MUSIC IN OUR HOUSE!”**
And just like that—he killed the vibe. He killed the mood.
And he killed my one chance.
That’s right—my one shot at making it with the smooth kids.
I will never forgive him for that moment.
Devil’s music? Ha! I’m sorry, Pops. I guess I really was just too edgy for you.