Like magic, we are now five CDs richer. Had these been the kind of CDs one redeems at the bank, we’d be wealthy. But this batch is five compact disks.


     My grandson and namesake was riding his bike when he spotted five shiny disks tossed by the side of the road, some of them are commercial, some “burned,” by a computer. They include: “Lucky Luciano, the Playamade Documentary”; “Once Called Cholos; Now Called Ballas” and “Young Buck.” All of the CDs had been removed from their cases, making us wonder how they ended up by the road. Was someone angry at her boyfriend, hoping to punish him by pitching both his Young Buck collection and his identity?
     Could the driver have made an especially sharp turn, forcing the CDs to exit? Was the owner sick of the selections and more desirous of ridding himself of the music than of keeping the area litter free?
     Here are some of the common characteristics of the CDs:
     € The “n”-word surfaces freely;
     € There’s a liberal sprinkling of the m-f word — that’s how one rapper greets the audience — which describes a physical act committed by extremely close relatives; € The bass is heavy and atonal; € There’s a theme of violence, with the highly original lyrics, “bang, bang, you’re dead”; € Sex is regarded as something indiscriminate and merely quantifiable (“Twice last night, once this morning”).
     Several times a day, and occasionally at night, someone drives by with a super-amp system that literally shakes the house. I’m not making this up.
     Even though the car windows may be rolled up and our house windows rolled down, the low-frequency vibrations permeate the neighborhood.
     Some people say, “If we’re 100 yards away and we feel the reverberations, imagine what the driver is feeling. But take heart; they’ll all be deaf by age 30.” No way will that prediction elicit sympathy from me. My belief is that as they indeed grow deaf, they’ll merely compensate for their self-VanGogh-ization,” crank up the amps more, and make the rest of us really suffer.
     About 10 summers ago, before water restrictions prevented us from washing our cars with a hose, several of us decided on a group bath for our various cars. We set up an assembly line, one spraying, one washing, one scrubbing, one rinsing. But as soon as we let out the command, “Let us spray,” a couple of low-riders visiting their girlfriends opened their car doors and transformed the neighborhood ambiance to something resembling a Grateful Dead concert.
     Even the younger members of our group, those who conceivably could have some affinity to the music, agreed the blaring sounds don’t conduce to creative thought or even car washing.
     But as luck would have it, Harvey, a family friend, was moving away and asked us to store some items. One of them was a powerful monster boom-box, the size of a UPS truck and capable of evoking spirits from the vasty depths.
     And I just happened to have the right CD to insert into his boom-box:
     Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, “with 50 massed brass bands.” The overture builds gradually, but by the last movement, when the cannons fire, our hair curls and our fillings get jarred loose.
     But let’s be clear: ours is a good kind of volume; it’s high-quality music and sounds good when played loud.
     Well, we matched the rap-playing, door-opening, volume-raising low-riding interlopers amp for amp, watt for watt, volt for revolt. And as the low-riders left, we all high-fived one another, secure in the knowledge that the dose of “long-haired” stuff was therapeutic, and solely for the good of the neighborhood.
     Eddie, a neighbor who lived near the house of gangsta rap, told me a few years later that he had never heard “that kind of music before.” I invited him over and we listened to every note of Beethoven’s nine symphonies.
     Whether Eddie was sincere in assuring me, hours later, that he’d really enjoyed his Beethoven overdose (he pronounced it “Bee Thoo Ven”), I can’t tell. But even if he were just being polite, I felt good reversing the roles by holding somebody captive and exposing him to some of the things in my life that I enjoy.
     Around that time, things quieted down, and I confined my listening to Beethoven’s “Leonore” or “Emperor Overture” to my Walkman.
     But now a new generation of rappers has been appearing, windows down, amps cranked, tweeters tuned and woofers wailing. . . .
     Memo to Harvey, wherever you are: You left your boom-box in our closet. Mind if we use it? And in return, we’ll give you five slightly used CDs.

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