Appropriately, when I was 13, the Beatles were the band that pulled me away from my generation's country by proving that it was nothing more than a mindless recasting of melodies they had made better three decades earlier. I realized that, if I were lucky, a country song would rarely be more than the Beatles in my vernacular, maybe with a little slide guitar or muted mandolin for authenticity's sake. My parents encouraged me, buying Beatles anthologies and biographies for birthdays, but for themselves -- having already gone through their own rock or rhythm-and-blues phases (also known as college) -- stuck closer to the dull glow of modern Nashville.
In fact, they think my rockist aversion to such is a high-minded hoot. I could hear Mom smiling through the phone as she said that I needed to take Dad to see Kenny Chesney for Father's Day, or when she dropped this non sequitur: "Dad says you need to go get the new Dixie Chicks. You won't like the music -- but you don't like Bush, either."
No, it doesn't matter that she was exactly right.