On the lifetime of genres

In the midst of a very nice dinner of seared Ahi tuna and veal scaloppine, served alongside a pleasant and richly flavorful bottle of Luccarelli Primitivo, my wife and I were chatting.

I had just told an anecdote of my day (hello there, Adam!), involving a younger colleague asking me the name of a “song from the 50s or 60s, something about ‘Bill’ in the title.” I pointed out to him that, dude, no, the only song in my mental cabinet from “way back” with Bill in the title is Camper Van Beethoven’s “Where the hell is Bill?”

“In my head are the loud, edgy, raucous, and exotic sounds of the early 80s and 90s, Industrial and Prog and Grunge and –”

My wife pointed her fork at me, right there, at that exact point in the sentence, and said to me: How long did that guy say the mysterious lifetime of literary genres was? Huh? 20, 30 years, no? Isn’t it a bit odd that we don’t buy music any more?

Or even many books?