Suffer Little Children – the Rise of the Kindie

18 June 2010, 12:13

I read with interest in Word magazine this month about the Leisure Society’s recent concert and the rise of “Kindie”, and also the review of Sing Me To Sleep: Indie Lullabies on this site. The concept behind these projects seem to be somewhat akin to indie music Sunday School for our children, bringing them up with a strong musical sensibility, spurning all that is evil (i.e. The Wiggles). So in the way a Sunday school will teach our children about the genealogy of the Old Testament, the preaching’s of Jesus and moral conduct, these Kindie nights should teach how Punk begat Nu-Wave begat Britpop, how Morrissey writes really wonderful lyrics, and why Kasabian are best left alone. And no, I don’t think Morrissey is like Jesus. He’s more of a John The Baptist.

I have a vested interest in this, having spawned two pre-school children, a daughter who is nearly three and a son who is barely one. My daughter’s musical repertoire stretches from both verses of “Ring-A-Ring Of Roses” to that modern classic “Five Little Monkeys Jumping On The Bed”, but that’s as far as it goes. She is just as likely to sing along to a Radio 2 jingle as anything else, which she often does to our continual amusement. My son is doubly useless, only capable of going “buu buu buu” if he hears the music to Peppa Pig. Harsh, but true.

I have a rosy dream that one day I will sit with them as wided-eyed teenagers, 12” vinyl, cassettes and CD’s sprawled over the carpet, delighting them with Senseless Things b-sides and dazzling their minds with shoegaze EP’s. They will flick through the pile of records, their inquisitive minds asking me more about this wonderful looking Pop Will Eat Itself album, and as I play it they will squeal with delight. But I have a feeling that this is unlikely to happen. So far, all I know is that if I play Strawberry Jam in the car, they usually fall asleep. There was a brief burst of excitement the other day when Teenage Fanclub came on the radio and my daughter exclaimed “its daddy’s music!”, but that is all.

Part of the problem is that I rarely listen to music in the company of my children. Modern technology has shrunk the tools of amplification so that I rarely listen to music outside of my car or without headphones. When I was a child, there was only one apparatus for music in our house, the massive chunky hi-fi in the lounge. This room also housed the only other source of entertainment, the telly, and if my dad was listening to a record, this was switched off. Therefore, I had little choice but to sit in there and listen as well. He had questionable tastes (well, he liked Leo Sayer), but I clearly remember the thrill of actually listening to Sergeant Pepper for the first time, not just as background noise, and feeling intimidated and somewhat frightened by the orchestral swell of A Day In The Life. My dad would let the needle stick on the groove playing the nonsense sounds that end the album, and I would dutifully get up and put on another record.

Something else that has changed in my relationship with music, that had an effect on me as child, is the association with product. I don’t display any CD’s or records – they are all in boxes, stored away. The few CD’s I purchase don’t stay out for long, as I immediately put them on my laptop and pack away the physical item. There is little musical flotsam in my house for my children to pick up and enquire about. Again, as a child I would study my dad’s album sleeves, spending what seemed like hours pouring over the cover of ELO’s magnificent Out of the Blue, or that War of the Worlds album. There was a sizeable rack of vinyl under the hi-fi and I would idly flick through them, pulling out choices to play. These vessels of music, and the experience of sitting with my father listening, got me initially interested and emotionally attached to music. Itunes kills this stone dead. What tactile pleasure could anyone receive flicking down an electronic list of band names and titles, devoid of artwork? Very little I’d say.

“Kindie” then is an interesting proposal, but can it really work. Can we really ‘force’ our likes and dislikes onto these unique characters and personalities. I am sure every mother and father has faced the failure of trying to get their child to appreciate a TV programme, book or film they loved in their youth, facing the realisation that it is the child who decides what they like and don’t like, not the parent. Children I think realise instantly when they are being force-fed something, often liking the very thing you’d think they would hate (Q: what is my daughters favourite Disney, A: dreadful The Rescuers, for heavens sake).

Maybe there is another problem. Often parents who force their children to Sunday School end up with God-hating teenagers. Maybe there is a risk of the same happening with music, that they associate it with their parent and wish to rebel. That they become Owl City fans just to spite their guardians. In the end, maybe the whole exercise is futile. As with most parenting endeavours, maybe it is more down to the satisfaction it gives the parents rather than the appreciation from the children. None of us really know how our children will turn out and lets face it, the musical stars my children will possibly worship are more than likely currently still at middle school, banging out Frog Went A’Courting on a glockenspiel in double music.

What is important though about these child friendly concerts and everything that goes with it is that it gives parents and children the chance to spend time together, something that should never be underestimated. So we shouldn’t get hung up on whether Timmy prefers The X-Factor or Krautrock, or whether little Jocasta truly appreciates the nuances of Bowie’s Berlin trilogy. What really matters is that we get to spend time with our children, enjoying each others company, sharing experiences that could lead to common interests and passions that allow us to share together throughout our lives. And hopefully I’ll fondly remember this article in twenty years time, when my son gets the Bon-Jovi logo tattooed on his bum.