by Jarret Liotta

WESTPORT — I’m trying to write my column, but I can’t seem to stop arguing with my children.

It’s a glorious late Sunday night, with my lovely daughter (whose name escapes me) back from college, filling the house with her unique brand of argumentative guff.

Threat of Tattoo

Along with threatening to get a tattoo to commemorate her latest musical obsession — a rather dull group from New Jersey known as Pinegrove — she’s forcing her brother and I to listen to a litany of their mediocre videos to prove her point.

(My daughter’s a gifted songwriter and musician who attends Berklee School of Music, but she doesn’t realize that I know much, much more than she does about music. (I, in fact, play the banjo, which she doesn’t, and that’s only one random aspect of my musical proclivity.)

Needless to say, as a caring parent I feel it’s my duty to try and enlighten her as to what especially constitutes good music.

To serve this duty, however, I keep neglecting to settle into writing my stupid column; instead I keep getting pulled back to the Youtube on the television to evaluate and critique a parade of music videos and songs my offspring are hawking.

The Band, Byrds, etc.

In an effort to explain how derivative Pinegrove is, I call up the quasi-country example of The Band singing “Dixie Down,” which I’m sure these young Jersey whippersnappers are trying to emulate. (I’m not a big Band fan, but I have to credit them with at least getting there first, along with Neil Young, the Byrds, the Grateful Dead, Dylan … Hey, I’m just trying to help!)

But she’s not agreeing, and the threat of the tattoo looms larger.

I shake my head and return to the computer, mumbling something about her not having my opinions to kick around anymore.

After my son (whose name escape me) further confuses my musical palette with a Tori Amos video that looks more like a trailer for a Drew Barrymore movie, my daughter next decides to expose us to the mystery of Caroline Polachek and her spooky tones.

My son likes it and compares her to Bjork, but I have to confess that — while I’m drawn to her big ears — I could never like a singer who wears the shoes she has on.

Chorus, Hallelujah

To counter the mood established by her shoes — and to demonstrate the majesty of quality singers of a classic caliber — I subject my children to The Roches singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” It quiets them down for a minute — probably more from a disturbed shock than anything else — and talk of the tattoo is temporarily averted.

Christine and the Queens follows, thanks to my son, and while the song is somewhat forgettable — I forget what it was called — the Breakfast Club-like interpretive dance performance making up the video is striking in a Peter Gabriel-sort of way. (It also doesn’t hurt that they’re French, making everything forgivable and, let’s face it, awesome because they’re French.)

The taste of Europe inspires me to share a favorite Fairground Attraction song called “Claire,” which potentially wins the night, at least from my standpoint.

“They’re English,” I state with solemnity, closing the case for good, I estimate.

Writers’ Bloque

It finally looks like I can get back to the column, but my son then subjects us to some strained ballad by Hootie & the Blowfish. The sloppy sonorous tone tempers the mood and prompts new outrage from both me and his sister.

“This is putting me to sleep,” she states.

“This is awful,” I declare, likening it to the lesser examples of Christopher Cross’s middle eight.

In an effort to rejuvenate the spirit of the night — please understand, it’s now after 2 a.m. in our strange and chaotic household — I call up The Housemartins singing “Happy Hour.”

Egged on to dance like a mental patient, my vibrant enthusiasm is grossly juxtaposed their nervous glares.

(I stop before the bridge has ended and snap, “Just shut it off, then.” Clearly I’m teaching them nothing and no one appreciates my dancing!)

The spirit of vintage videos takes hold, however, with the classic “Take On Me” from A-Ha closing out the night.

(I learn from my son, an eighties-music aficionado, that A-Ha was the most popular band in Norway at that time — a veritable straight line, I know, but a valuable nugget for all the scholars of Norwegian pop music.)

“Quarter to three, there’s no one in the bar except …”

It’s after 3 now and I again realize I haven’t written a word of my column …

Sometime yesterday I was relatively sure I could do a piece about either the tribulations of online dating, or about why fried shallots are so much better than just plain onions, but now I’m not sure where to focus my spirit …

The kids are both asleep and revolving episodes of “The Odd Couple” are keeping me company …

Perhaps Felix and Oscar would make for some interesting copy?

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