I first heard the Rolling Stones classic “I can’t get no satisfaction” in 1976. That was more than a decade post it’s release, yet a few years before my teens. And I strutted through my school years with this song on my lips.
Ah, what wondrous years they were. Years of discovery, of findings, of experimentation, of realisations. There were times when everything was dismal, awkward or just sickeningly embarrassing. And mostly the many moments of growing up were sudden, accidental. Often painful but, I believed them to be, unique. Thus, adult hood was entered with a bucketful of hope, dreams and anxieties. And this song remained a regular on all my mix-tapes.
Adulthood, a hop-scotch from one mile-stone to another. Love, romance, marriage, jobs, promotions, mortgage.
And then, joy!
Parenthood. Children. Organic blobs come alive with their own human individuality. I choked with happy emotions when my son picked up his first guitar. When my daughter recited her first written words. Happy tears blurred vision when, for the first time, I saw me in the awkward doings of these young ones.
And “I can’t get no satisfaction” became a song to be blasted on road-trips. My kids know this song and they smile when I stream this on Youtube and groove like Jagger. Or try to. No one, really no one, can move like Jagger.
And now the kids are grown and have entered their own hoods. With their own back-packs of hopes, dreams and anxieties. And my wife and I are back to where we started from. Just the two of us. But in a larger house. With more comforts than what we originally aspired for. And we are grateful.
Just the two of us and the prospect of growing old together. Trust me, for me, this does not create the same excitement, as say starting a family or moving into our first house. The challenge of creation is no equal to the task of preservation.
That three note riff continues to funk in the background. Subliminal. Loud. Strutting. Nagging me. I can’t get no satisfaction. Louder.
Strumng 