My father's midlife musical crisis

A relatively well-hidden secret for several months, it nonetheless had to be confronted when he came home the other night clutching a copy of Classic Rock magazine, on the cover of which the faces of Rick Wakeman and Keith Emerson nestled in a graphic designer's dream of rainbow swirls and toadstools.

He's even started listening to ELO without feeling the tiniest twinge of shame.

Obviously this kind of revelation is a blow to any happy household, but after talking it through extensively and ringing a Channel 4 helpline, we've come to accept that a penchant for King Crimson makes him no less of a loving father, whatever the neighbours may whisper when our backs are turned.

I'm joking, you realise, but only just.

And I would never judge anyone on their taste, or lack of it, in the complex minefield that is music.

I'm joking again; of course I would.

The reason I think this recent turn of events worthy of column inches is it seems to be signalling some kind of milestone mid-life taste reassessment '” granted a fondness for epic keyboard solos is preferable to him bleaching his hair, buying a Mustang, or raving it up in Liquid Lounge on a Friday night, but it still warrants a raised eyebrow on my part.

Largely because I know Dad's 18-year-old self would have been doing the same.

In fact, accompanying the scornful eyebrow activity, I'd like to think that the Dad of '78 would have been spitting a gobful of disdain over the Dad of 2006 and his recent proggy tendencies.

This is a man who rode the New Wave like a tartan-trousered pro with a copy of Melody Maker in place of a surfboard.

A man from whom I have inherited an original Dymo label maker, everything Elvis Costello ever committed to vinyl and an appreciation for electro ensembles with hair like Nazi Youth.

We have a photo of him in his early journalistic days with Jake Burns from Stiff Little Fingers (we also have one of him with Cliff Richard '” it's been a mixed 28 years).

And now we have the image of him betraying his post-public-school-post-punk roots by listening to a band named Spock's Beard with all the fervour he once reserved for pogoing to The Undertones.

Somewhere, sitting on his pearly cloud, John Peel is weeping.

And Dad's rocky progression into progressive rock (I am thankful, of course, for the opportunities he's given me for wordplay of this calibre) has now got me worried.

Perhaps succumbing to the taste pariahs of our youth is an inevitable part of the ageing process, along with thermal underwear and making groaning noises every time one exits an armchair.

Will I, one day in 2036, wake up with a burning desire to listen to Razorlight?

Am I, with the onset of middle-age spread and crow's feet, going to have an epiphany and suddenly understand the appeal of Snow Patrol?

While all around me are monitoring their cholesterol like it's HIV positive and applying for a life insurance package with a free carriage clock, am I going to be consulting a taste therapist about my alarming urge to go out and purchase a Keane album?

The very thought makes me shudder.

Taste, you see, is a tricky subject in post-modern society.

Never are lines more blurred than between the realms of good taste, irony and destined to spend the rest of life attending tribute concerts at Pontins.

I have long exercised a belief in proper musical education, the younger the better, preferably taught alongside times tables in the nation's primary schools.

Had I been exposed to Sergeant Pepper, Ziggy Stardust and friends in the curriculum during my infant years, I might have been spared the period I spent thinking the Vengaboys had the monopoly on musical innovation.

Of course charity begins at home, and as a result I would like to wager my little brother is the only 11-year-old in the West Sussex area with the Velvet Underground on his iPod (he remains largely unaware of this fact, but that's beside the point).

He knows the difference between Keiths Richards and Moon and can recite Jam lyrics by heart.

And while I concentrate my efforts on the future generation, Dad can listen to Jethro Tull in peace.

With headphones.