For One Who’s Reached Jazz Age, Volume Is Assault : The music once considered ‘old people music’ now soothes savaged ears after a rock concert. And for a dad, not even flailing drums can drown out the patter of tiny feet.

I’m getting older. I’ve known it for 36 years. But only recently, during a night out on the town, did those words ring true in my ears.

Chris, a good friend, invited me to see his rock band perform at Bourbon Square, a local club on Victory, west of Sepulveda Boulevard. “I’ll be there,” I said.

Responsibilities have altered my priorities over the last five years, and I don’t get out as often as I’d like. The closest I’ve come to attending a live music show was in June, when I put beach chairs on the patio, popped open a beer and barbecued while listening to the Playboy Jazz Festival on the radio. Who says box seats are hard to come by?

I appreciate rock music but I prefer jazz. However, as a child I always referred to jazz as “old people music.” My father used to say jazz relaxed him. It put me to sleep. I didn’t understand him (or hear him) until I went to work for Bank of America in 1980. After a day of arguing with customers about why we returned their checks, it was difficult to come home and unwind while listening to screeching guitars, flailing drum solos and screaming lead vocals. The quiet sounds of jazz became my new drug of choice.

Chris said his band had a style similar to the Dave Matthews Band. Although I’m not familiar with Dave’s music, I have read about him and I know that there is a Dave Matthews in the band. It’s a telltale sign of aging when you don’t know when a group is named after a person in the group or a thing. For instance, in their respective bands there is no one named Pink Floyd, Steely Dan or Jethro Tull. Back in the ‘70s, my parents took me to an Earth, Wind and Fire concert. I’ll never forget witnessing the generation gap widening before my eyes when my mother asked, “So which one is Earth?”

I invited my cousin Harry to attend the show at Bourbon Square. Harry forewarned me that he could not stay out too late because he had to pick up his oldest daughter, 14-year-old May, at midnight from a party given by her classmate. I told Harry that I couldn’t stay out too late either because I had to feed my only daughter, Sabrina, then 9 months, at midnight. This isn’t the way I remember boys’ night out.

It was 10:15 on a Friday night when we arrived at the club. Bourbon Square was how I remember clubs used to be--you know, back in the “olden days” when I used to frequent places like this. Dark, smoky, fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling, a few black-light posters on the wall. Twentysomethings with all of their hair, no mortgages to pay, throwing back beers all night long. And there we were, Harry, with his bad back, advancing gut and trifocal glasses. And me, with bags under my eyes, a hairline in need of reseeding and an oversized wallet in my back pocket bulging with baby pictures. We eased over to a table, trying our best not to look like dads.

While waiting for Chris’ band, Harry and I were injured by a band called Otto. “Two o’s, two t’s,” the lead singer shouted at one point during their set. I wondered which guy was named Otto. At those decibels it was impossible to distinguish between the subliminal messages and the sublime.

Forty-five bone-jarring minutes later, it was over. Otto said good night. I put my fillings back in my mouth, patted my one hair back down and popped my eyeballs back inside my head.

By now it was 11 p.m. Harry phoned his daughter. They were dancing to the music of Snoop Doggy Dog, Dr. Dre and Naughty by Nature. Nothing subliminal about their music.

At that moment it was hard to tell which one of us was in the wrong place: May, at her first party, dancing to music her father would never allow her to listen to at home. Or Harry and I, listening to loud rock music when both of us would be more comfortable at Chadney’s in Burbank, the Baked Potato in Pasadena or La Ve Lee in Studio City listening to “old people music.”

Chris’ band, Stiff Upper Lip, arrived on stage at 11:30 p.m. Introduced as the headliner, the band played with confidence, poise and a lot less volume. Dave Matthews would’ve been proud.

I arrived home at 12:30 a.m., way past my bedtime, smelling of tar and nicotine and wishing whoever was blowing that dog whistle in my ear would stop. My wife was up trying to soothe Sabrina, who had just been fed but would not fall back to sleep. I sent my wife to bed and turned on the jazz station KLON-FM (88.1). The host, James Janisse, was playing “I Thought About You” as done by Miles Davis. No screeching guitars, no flailing drum solos or screaming loud vocals. Three minutes later Sabrina was fast asleep. I listened for 10 more minutes.

I think I like getting older. It’s a lot quieter.