Benny Jay: Southern Man On The Radio

In the middle of the day, I get my Younger Daughter out of school and drive her to the orthodontist.

While she's getting her braces removed, I'm killing time at Einstein's bagel shop -- head down, lost in thoughts, jotting notes to myself, concentrating on the words -- when I hear her call my name.

I look up and I see her only I have to look twice to make sure it's really her. It's like I dropped her off when she was 15 and suddenly she's 17.

"I look older, don't I?" she says.

I'm not sure what to say, so I try to say something funny: "Okay, that's it -- we gotta watch out for those boys...."

"Dad...."

"The horny bastards...."

"Oh, my God...."

"Did your older sister give you the older sister talk yet?"

"You are so weird...."

Back in the car, heading for school, I'm feeling like time's passing too fast. I'm heading into a new phase of life and I'm not sure I want to get there.

Then "Southern Man" comes on the radio.

"Yes!" I exclaim.

I crank up the dial and sing along. I know the words so well, I'm like Pete Seeger leading the crowd through "This Land is Your Land." I call out the line before Neil Young sings them: "`I see cotton and I see black....'"

"He's talkin' about slavery," I say.

"`Tall white mansions and little shacks....'"

"Tell it, Neil, tell it...."

"`Southern Man when will you pay them back?'"

I'm slamming my hand against the steering wheel in beat to the song....

"`I hear screamin' and bullwhips crackin' -- how long, how long, ahhh!'"

"He's not even singing anymore. He's so mad -- he's just howling. You tell `em, Neil!"

We stop at the light. "Listen to the guitar solo -- it's blind rage!"

I'm doing a wicked air guitar. Got my left hand working the frets and my right hand picking the strings. I'm playing note for note with Neil Young. At some point I switch to air piano, banging the imaginary keyboard. Then I go back to guitar. Man, I do it all....

When the song's over, I'm almost exhausted.

"Good song," says my daughter.

"God, I love Neil Young," I say. "He's one of the only old rockers who gets better with time. Like John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan -- especially Bob Dylan."

We drive the rest of the way in silence. At the school, she flashes me a no-braces smile and says, "thanks, dad," as she hops out the door.

"Don't forget to watch out for those boys," I yell. But she's gone so fast she doesn't hear a word I'm saying....