What happened?

“I think I hear music,” I said to myself at 6:40 a.m., the time to which I set my clock-radio.
It’s Dubya-Hex-Hex-Hi, the classical-music radio-station out of Rochester I listen to. It’s Brenda Tremblay, a graduate of Houghton College like me. She’s 1990, I’m ’66. Her father graduated a music-major two classes before me. Her mother did too, but I don’t remember her.
Bach, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Hilda of Binghamton. Much more bearable than what passes for music nowadays. “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA! BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA! YADA-YADA-YADA-YADA!” Shouting and yelling, liberally sprinkled with F-bombs. Can they even hold a tune?
Every Monday night, as I begin collecting trash for the next day’s trash-collection: “Take out the papers and the trash, or you don’t get no spendin’ cash. Just tell yer hoodlum friends outside, you ain’t got time to take no ride! Yakkity-yak! Don’t talk back!”
Summer of ’63, driving home from my summer job in my parents’ ’57 Bel Air stationwagon, Baynard Boulevard in Wilmington (DE), pounding the dash to “Duke-Duke-Duke-Duke of Earl.” All the windows are down, the rear tailgate is open. Womp-womp-womp-womp! “Nobody can stop the Duke of Earl!”
The other day I went to pick up my dog at doggy daycare. He’s daycared at a grooming emporium next to a Dominos Pizza. As I got out of my car the pizza delivery kid parked his Volkswagen GTI next to me. “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA! BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA! YADA-YADA-YADA-YADA!” I had to walk away.
Recently I noted to a friend the last rock-n-roll album I bought was Def Leppard. That’s almost 30 years ago. Nothing since.
What happened? Whither Hendrix and Disraeli Gears, or Little Richard or Jerry Lee Lewis? “RACHA-RACHA-RACHA-RACHA!” is noise compared to “Goodness gracious, Great Balls of Fire!”