They handed out free earplugs at the drink table.
A sure sign it would be louder than anything the old man had ever heard.
For him, a beat that didn’t translate into what he thought of as music.
Shrieks and wails and notes held maybe a might too long.
The crowd loved it. What did he know?
Guests on American Bandstand would have said,
“It’s okay, but you can’t dance to it.”
I might give it a five out of ten, the old man thought.
But the others, oh, the others.
Mesmerized, heads bobbing, eyes glassed.
Hands clutching warm PBR, as if a modern communion.
It was all so new to the man and
He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Still, there was no denying the power, or the appeal to some.
He thought, how could this be in this small town?
Legendary home to ballads and old-time and bluegrass.
A place where the sidewalks roll up at nightfall.
It’s evolution, he thought.
New people, new ideas, changing times.
And I’ve got nothing against change.
But, what did he know?