Bonding between the generations

I dressed as a hippie and went to the Onehunga RSA to hear Larry Small sing the other night.

I was a little out-of-place. Mostly because I did not live through Woodstock 1969 and because I struggled to find the right decade in my wardrobe. I had settled on a wee denim and floral top from the early 60s that a friend had given me for safe-keeping (it was her mum's) and a skirt from the early 80s.

I figured that when neutralised by some Rastafarian sandals from Kmart I could pass as an aftershock hippie from the 70s. Not quite. But at least I knew all the words to all the songs and was down with the peace-sign dance moves.

I've always thought Larry Small (or Lawrence Small) was quite the legend. I grew up hanging out with his kids and sometimes, when we were well-behaved, he would sing for us.

He has a framed newspaper clipping of himself gracing the front page of what was TimeOut in the 90s, wearing super flares and amazing chunky-heeled boots.

The story is about a reunion concert of the musicians from Surfside, the super-hip North Shore hangout that was as illustrious as The Kings Arms is now (or was, before Whammy and the Bacco room) in the 60s and 70s. Larry was part of the resident band.

So anyway, I went along to the hippie fundraiser night with his daughter and had a totally rad time. There was even a supper, with little meatballs and sandwiches.

Larry, in his leather jacket and bandana proved he is still ever-the-dude. And the handful of youngies proved the 60s and 70s are still ever-so-now, going almost as wild as they do at sweaty, yowler-synth-noise gigs in underground locals.

There was a slightly awkward moment when I ran into the owner of the top I was wearing. What are the odds? She didn't know her daughter had lent it to me. Moving on.

Reflecting on this groovy night, I started thinking about what entertainment you can and cannot share with parents. I am always careful when I select shows to take my olds to - and stand-around, noisy gigs where bratty kids swear and knock over your beer are mostly out.

Recently I took Mum to Avenue Q, a bit of a risque step as it involved puppet-sex and porn monsters and, other than her not remembering to take her cellphone so we could meet, that was a success.

I took Dad to the comedy festival and, other than him falling asleep, that was a success. He even met Rove.

And then last weekend, after a fairly busy week of gigs 'n' things, I decided to have a quiet one with the parents. Dad had rented a DVD and, considering this is kind of rare, I thought I'd stay for some quality inter-generational couch time. The DVD was Bruno. I hadn't seen it because, well, it was Bruno.

For anyone who has seen it, you will know it is not really conducive to quality inter-generational time. Actually, I don't know what the guy at Video Ezy was thinking when he let my father walk out of the shop with it.

I lasted about 15 minutes before, red-faced, I asked Dad to stop it. Of course it was another five minutes before he realised how to stop it. Crisis averted.

So, instead of watching dirty DVDs, we are going to watch Dad's "absolute fave" musicians when they tour here: Leonard Cohen, who I consider to be somewhat of a legend despite also being a perverted old man who hides this fact behind poetry, and Cat Stevens, sorry Yusuf Islam, who is less cool than his counterparts (maybe because of his wholesome lifestyle) but was the first artist whose lyrics I learned by heart.

This is the text Dad sent when I confirmed we would go: "You r a beaut."

Unfortunately Debbie Harry slipped on to the scene a few years too late. I almost went into cardiac arrest when I heard she was coming back. The parents, not so much.