I don't give a damn how many copies of SPICEWORLD are purchased by 13-year-old-girls squeaking, "Girl Power." It doesn't mean shit to me what necrophilia crap Marlyn Manson barfs up on his next album. If the new Pearl Jam album stiffs and the next Alanis Morrissette bites in comparison to Tori Amos, so what?

I'd rather listen to a bad Stevie Wonder record than a great Puff Daddy CD. You can have your Nas, Mase, Snoop Dogg, Wyclef. I'll keep my Santana, War, Earth, Wind and Fire and P-Funk jams.

There are fewer things more ridiculous than 40+ folks trying to fathom the deeper meaning of what "gettin' jiggy wit it" means. The more I watch MTV, the sooner I change the channel. How many times can you see the same variations on a theme in a rap video? Am I really supposed to believe that bored millionaires with too much black in their wardrobe are living lives as tortured emotional cripples a la Courtney Love or Trent Reznor? These weenies are about as real as a faked orgasm.

This is not my idea of progress. I grew up on Sly and the Family Stone, graduated to James Brown and Motown, took a sharp left turn in rock n' roll via Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Rolling Stones, reclaimed my R'n B roots through Parliament-Funkadelic, smoothed it out with Isaac (Black Moses) Hayes and a big helping of Philadelphia International with a splash of Earth, Wind and Fire and Isley Brothers on the side, got through disco by switching to jazz-rock fusion, dabbled with new wave and punk via the Cars, the Clash, Elvis Costello and Graham Parker, fell in love with Linda Ronstadt, dropped her for Bonnie Raitt, followed Prince through his changes, remembered when Michael Jackson was black, rocked and rolled with AC/DC, Ted Nugent, Cheap Trick, J.Geils Band, Steely Dan, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Yes, Aerosmith, Van Halen and before switching over to confirmed jazz addict held out until Living Colour, Soundgarden, Ministry and Metallica began to fade from the scene.

So, why the hell should I try to get jiggy with it?

One of the unseen consequences of integration was it became possible for Black kids to get an appreciation for Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Elton John and Joni Mitchell as well as Marvin Gaye, Temptations, War or Aretha Franklin. It is almost a cliche as to how a White kid immersed in black soul, rhythm n' blues, reggae and rap will start singing doo-wop on the corner with his cap turned around on his blonde dreadlocks. Crossover rock n' soul meant you had brothers and sisters singin' about Maggie May, tripping on the Dark Side of the Moon and hanging out with Bennie and the Jets while the blue eyed Average White Boys were out Tearing the Roof Off the Sucker and asking What's Going On because That's The Way of the World.

I don't think that happens as much these days. There seems to be something of a schism between gangsta rap and death metal followers. Both are selling nihilistic fatalism but try and find the common cord between the genres. You won't find it. Yes, of course it is possible to dig in equal parts both Indigo Girls and Me'shell Ndegeocello or Fugees and Garbage. The lines that separate these artists and their audiences are drawn so narrow it allows little space for crossovers.

Not that it matters much to me. I'm deep into the jazz thing now. The joys of digging into the legacy of Miles Davis and Ahmad Jamal means more to me than keeping up with what's new from Usher, Maxwell and Smashing Pumpkins. Call it diminishing interest in what's hip and a greater appreciation for what lasts. I've withdrawn from having my tastes determined by whomever the ROLLING STONE cover boy is this week. The price of staying contemporary with music requires me to accept sampling old records as creativity, musicians who can't play, singers that can't sing and bands that don't exist outside of a studio.

Maybe it's Kurt Cobain and Tupac Shakur's fault. Maybe if they hadn't checked out in such premature and ugly ways rap and rock might still be innovative and fresh instead of stagy, moldy recycled leftovers micro waved and repackaged for another generation that have confused cabaret for creativity. And maybe this is just another raving and drooling rant from another paunchy greybeard whose belt size is outpacing his age.