Too loud

During the reception that followed Rachle’s (doesn’t matter) thunderstorm-threatened outdoor wedding, my brother Jack, father of the bride, ambled over and put his hands of the shoulders of Linda and I.
“This ain’t loud,” he loudly declared.
Linda and I were fixing to leave.
We had already covered our ears when the Dee-Jay started blasting all-and-sundry with “Old Time Rock-and-Roll.”
A fairly attractive young girl — i.e. one that weighed about 100 pounds instead of twice that — had taken to cackling at the top of her lungs across the way.
Which tells me she was drunk — DANCING-ON-THE-TABLE ALERT!
We had had enough; too noisy for us old geezers. We’re not party-people.
I remember blasting our first apartment with Led Zeppelin. Then came Cream and Jimi Hendrix. Those days are long-gone.
Pat Benetar (you might get a scam solicitation: “You have won 89 bazilyun dollars.”) and Def Leppard at 40 watts were too loud (10 was enough; for crying out loud).
How anyone could stand 900 watts in a house is beyond me. (I suspect it might blow out the walls!)
Maybe you need that to serenade the far-away landscape. Yep, 900 watts in wide desert Antelope Valley in Californy: “Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......”
I remember pulling to a stop at a traffic-light in the Faithful Hunda.
All-of-a-sudden the whole back of the car started shaking up and down.
An Eclipse had pulled behind, and was shaking the pavement with “BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM, BA-BOOM!” The driver, who appeared to be sucking a joint, was juking up-and-down, eyes rapturously closed.
How does one stand this?
I remember an uncapped steam-pipe in my father’s refinery.
It was so loud it made me sick.
I also had to cover my ears when Big Daddy (Don Garlits) fired up his fuel-dragster at Cecil County Drag-o-Way (sorry; couldn’t find a worthwhile link).
What was amazing was A) that he laid down a stripe of rubber the entire length of the quarter-mile, and B) the 15-foot sheets of white flame that spit from his headers.