On subject of music criticism, father believes he knows best

Tuesday, December 1, 1998

COLUMN: Dad promotes interest in talents of Ice Cube, Marilyn Manson

This Thanksgiving break my father gave me a lot to be grateful for. Actually, besides turkey and yams I was forced to digest a whole lot of old-timer goodies from Frank Sinatra to the Beatles. All of a sudden everyone, including my dear old dad, has joined the mission to make a true musical connoisseur out of Michelle.

Let's see if I learned anything.

My father, Edward Zubiate, thinks he is truly hip. A middle school assistant principal, he walks around very tough-like behind dark sunglasses intimidating all the 12-year-olds that cross his path. He prides himself on being a fan of Tupac Shakur, but this weekend, he went too far. Unfortunately for him, I'm beginning to see music through my own eyes, and he doesn't like it one bit.

All my life I have been taught to love the basic B's: The Beatles, The Beach Boys and Bob. (As in Dylan, not Marley. No matter how hard I try, I will never appreciate reggae.) I used to choreograph cute little skits in my little bathing suit holding a beach towel while The Beach Boys sang "California Girls." So I am proud to say that I do love some classic music (meaning pre-1990s.)

But my father has never been a consistent fella. His musical tastes vary as much as the other fads he gets into, such as cheese popcorn and sunflower seeds. As well as hanging onto the stuff from his youth, he frequently ventures into the land of the present to turn on the radio and impress us all with his knowledge of 92.3 The Beat. Ever since I joined the Daily Bruin, every weekend has become a battle where he reads my clips from the week and gives his own criticism and interpretation. My own is not good enough. I'm just a punk kid.

Once in a while I'll bring my father something I think he, as an old man, will appreciate. Seeing as he likes the blues, I brought home some Johnny Lang. Score one for me, he ate it up in an instant. Recently I played Beck's "Mutations" for him because many of the songs sound very, very Beatle-ish. This was not a pretty car ride home. Bored and uninspired he announced to everyone, "I know a star when I hear one and this one, my daughter, will never amount to anyone."

"Uhhh...too late, Dad. Beck's last album was a huge hit, and his sound has been described as the future of music. This album alone has already been given great reviews, and the melodies are truly moving."

"Sorry," he says. "I know good music when I hear it." So speaks the voice of God.

And of all the things for my father to instantly love: Marilyn Manson. It's kinda embarrassing when you live in a neighborhood of old folks and your father is blasting "Dope Show" louder than you've ever been allowed to blast any sort of music your entire life.

My father is filled with these little quirks. On a trip to Vegas, my old editor, Mike Prevatt, opened up the glove compartment to find a stash of tapes belonging to my father from when he used to own the car. To the amusement of everyone present, a majority of these tapes are labeled "EZ Best: Volumes I-VIII." I will never hear the end of it. Every once in a while, Mike will now suggest something my dad will like and add, "Hey, maybe it can be another EZ Best!"

But my father has good intentions. If it weren't for him I probably wouldn't be a music writer now. I would be laughed out of the office if I never had heard of Jimi Hendrix, and no one would bother to read my work if I didn't have a little bit of knowledge of the blues, swing and classic rock.

It is kinda cute when he quotes Ice Cube. Who wouldn't laugh when a chubby little Mexican man whispers in your ear War's line: "The world is a ghetto"? It is also pretty sweet when he invites me to look up at the stars with him while Sinatra croons ballads of love and good times.

Because of my dad, I've been forced to hear all kinds of music and love it. He took me to see "Phantom of the Opera" the first and second time. He sat me in front of "West Side Story," and a love for musicals bloomed.

He loves music more than almost anyone I've ever met. When I ask him the moment at which he was most proud of me, in a second he will say when I sang "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" for him my senior year of high school.

Despite the fact that he calls all my records "bubble gum" music and refuses to ever let me have control of the radio in the car, he supports me when I write something he can relate to and brags about me to all he knows.

Dads are funny that way. Even though you argue about everything from clothes to politics, you can always find a common ground. Unfortunately in this case, the common ground is Marilyn Manson. What is the world coming to?

Zubiate can be reached at mzubiate @media.ucla.edu when she is through being punished.

Michelle Zubiate

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