My daughter listens to rap in the car. It's radio rap (not the classic rap I respect) and I don't like the way women are depicted in some of the songs. But I understand.
When I was a teenager I chopped off my hair, bleached it blonde, wore steel-toed engineer boots with 1950's prom dresses and went to punk shows at the Whisky A Go Go, Cathay de Grande, Devonshire Downs. Black Flag, DOA, Circle Jerks, Wasted Youth, The Stains. The flyers in this post are the originals from that time. I loved the raw, sexual energy, the sense of danger and the creative freedom of the punk movement. And I liked that it wasn't my mother's music. She wore her hair long and natural and listened to Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell.
Once I brought my mom to an acoustic show by X at the Whisky. She was intrigued. But I'd never let her come to the hard core shows where boys wearing swastikas slammed in the pit. And I joined them.
My daughter wants acrylic nails, darker skin, wider hips; she has her friends braid her hair. I doubt she'll let me come to a show with her, but you never know. She might need a ride.