Car Radio Tunes In to Family Static

Here we are in the car again, listening to that new song by Cher, the one where she apparently swallowed a harmonica or a kazoo or something, because halfway through the verse her voice seems to change to a musical instrument, which is a nice effect but a little weird just the same.

“What’d she do, swallow a harmonica?” I ask.

“That’s a synthesizer, Dad,” the boy says.

“She swallowed a synthesizer?” I ask.

It keeps happening, this synthesizer thing. Cher will be in the middle of a verse and her voice suddenly becomes electronic.

After a while, you want to yell for someone to Heimlich her--to get that thing out right away--because it can’t be good, having a synthesizer stuck in your gullet. Even for someone as tough and talented as Cher.

“How the heck did she swallow a synthesizer?” I ask.

“Must’ve been an accident,” the boy says.

It’s good to hear from Cher again, our oldest and most esteemed pop diva, who still sounds and looks fabulous, a multitalented performer who always manages to make us laugh out loud.

In the ‘70s, it was her TV show.

In the ‘80s, it was “Moonstruck.”

Now in the ‘90s, it’s this synthesizer thing.

“Change the station, Dad,” my older daughter begs. “Please change the station.”

“I like this song,” the little girl says.

“Yeah, Dad,” says the boy. “Crank it up.”

Sure enough, it’s a catchy little song, a disco-tinged tune about “believing in life after love.” Personally, I don’t. Nor do a lot of people. But Cher does. She wails on about “life after love” over and over, growing louder and more synthesized by the second.

“Please change the station, Dad,” my older daughter pleads.

“No!” says her little sister.

“No!” says the boy.

“I guess we’re not changing the station,” I say.

“Great,” my older daughter says, pulling her sweatshirt up over her head.

*

Used to be, the car was the best place in the world to listen to music. The Moody Blues. Neil Young. Led Zeppelin.

You’d crank up “Nights in White Satin” or “Stairway to Heaven” till the windows rattled and your girlfriend shook all over, not just from the volume, but from the music too, because that’s what good rock music does to a person. It makes you move all over--happily and involuntarily. All night long.

“Crank it up,” the girlfriend would say, wiggling like a puppy.

Twenty-five years later, the car isn’t such a good place to hear music anymore. Sure, there’s Lenny Kravitz. Sure, there’s Brandy. But sometimes, a dad would rather just listen to the engine humming.

“Who’s this?” the boy asks as another song begins.

“I think it’s Garbage,” my daughter says.

“Sounds like garbage to me,” I say.

Which is just what you’d expect a dad to do, make fun of the new music. To a kid, that’s not so bad. To a kid, the worst thing that could happen is for your parents to like the same music you do, a sure sign that something is amiss, either in your taste or in theirs.

“Turn on Radio Disney,” the little girl says.

“OK,” I say.

“No!” the boy says.

“No,” the older daughter says.

Radio Disney. Just the threat of it sends shivers through the older kids, the prospect of the Chipmunks singing at octaves pleasant only to little kids and screech owls, who possess the same internal hearing apparatus.

“Crank it up, Dad!” the little girl says when I finally find her station.

For miles around, dogs crawl under houses. After a few minutes, several of the dogs will develop muscle spasms in their legs and brains. So will I. Which is a bad quality in a driver.

“How about something else?” I ask after the third Radio Disney song.

“No!” the little girl yells.

“Yes,” I say, punching a button on the radio.

Only there are no buttons to punch on car radios anymore, just tiny black tabs the size of baby teeth, invisible on a black background.

Usually, it takes two or three attempts to change the station. In an emergency like this, it takes five.

As the Chipmunks reach for the high notes, I frantically punch tiny black tabs, increasing the volume, raising the bass, opening the trunk, everything but changing the station.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“I’m trying to change the station,” I say.

“Hit the button,” the boy says.

“Which one?”

“The black button,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Finally, I change the station. Softly, a Sarah McLachlan song plays. It sounds like she’s singing from a million miles away, a gentle and haunting ballad.

From what I can tell, there is no harmonica in her throat. Just a soft piano in the background. Nice and simple. Like great rock music is supposed to be.

I like the song. I like it a lot. I’d tell the kids. But why ruin it?

“I don’t like this song at all,” I grumble.

And in the back seat of the car, they look at each other and smile.

“Crank it up,” one of them says.

“Yeah, Dad, crank it way up.”

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.