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Maybe I'm showing my age, but whatever happened to romantic pop music? Judging by the noises coming out of over-amped car radios, pop music today is anything but romantic. It seems to be all boom and thud; women are referred to as "ho's" and "bitches." They're not writing about love; the songs are about sex.

Now, I'm all in favor of sex. I think it's one of the greatest inventions that living creatures have come up with. I think life would be pretty dull if we reproduced asexually: I just can't see myself having fun by splitting off another copy of myself.

But there's more to the male-female relationship than "making the beast with two backs," as Shakespeare so delicately put it in"Othello." Whatever happened to romance? I was reminded of this a few nights ago as my romantic wife and I dropped in at the Bayside restaurant to have a bite to eat and listen to Chuck Jones play the piano and sing ballads from days of yore.

Chuck is a marvelous entertainer and a fine wit who can improvise lyrics on the spot to suit his listeners.

So I'm sitting there, looking at the sparkle in my wife's beautiful brown eyes and listening to Chuck play ballads such as Hoagy Carmichael's immortal "Stardust," "Fly Me to the Moon" and others by Cole Porter, the Gershwin brothers, and more recent songs by David Gates, of the group "Bread." Those songs had melodies to them, tunes that touched your heart. Their lyrics spoke of yearning and loss, of hope and desire.

"If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can't I paint you?""Night and day, you are the one; only you beneath the moon and under the sun.""My funny Valentine, sweet comic Valentine, you make me smile with my heart." Compared with today's crash-bang, "jump your bones" tunes — well, I don't think a comparison is possible. Even the biggest pop stars are now recording "retro" albums, in which they sing the sweetly romantic ballads of earlier years.

Why has pop music changed so much? Like the slang and idioms of our everyday language, pop music has moved away from white middle-class attitude toward a more multi-ethnic, lower-class point of view. Kids want to pose as tough street rappers, even if their parents belong to the Royal Poinciana Country Club, so they dress like homeless hobos, talk like ghetto thugs, and listen to music that's more noise than melody.

I suppose this is a more-or-less natural evolution.

When I was a teenager, most of my contemporaries wanted to look and act like Mafioso wiseguys. Hell, a fair percentage of my South Philly compatriots were Mafioso wiseguys. Most of 'em are dead.

In sixth-century Constantinople (today's Istanbul), when Justinian sat on the throne of the Eastern Roman Empire, teenagers dressed themselves as barbarian Huns, complete with shaved skulls and forelocks. Go figure.

What really worries me is that this generation of thud-bang "music" lovers has no appreciation for symphonic music. Go to the Naples Philharmonic's concerts and look at the audience.

"Q-tips" is what they're called. White hairs in every row.

Youngsters are not listening to classical music. The last time they heard Ravel, I imagine, is when they saw Bo Derek in "10." When I was growing up (you know you're getting to be an old fart when you start sentences that way), the only symphonic music I heard was on the radio. Not concerts; I heard the musical "stings" that introduced the adventure and mystery shows I listened to.

The Lone Ranger rode to the stirring music of Rossini's "William Tell Overture." The Green Hornet came in on Rimsky-Korsakov's "Flight of the Bumblebee." "I Love a Mystery" always began with Sibelius' haunting "Valse Triste." That didn't make me a lover of classical music, but at least I was exposed to a little bit of it. By the time I reached high school, I was a big fan of pop singer Frankie Lane: "Lucky Ol' Sun," "Cry of the Wild Goose," "Mule Train" — not as romantic as Porter's "In the Still of the Night" (which I still love), but exciting songs.

Then Mr. Speck, our high school music teacher, made us listen to Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade." Wow! I still loved Frankie Lane, but the depth and expression of symphonic music knocked me out. I started buying tickets to Philadelphia Orchestra concerts. Under Eugene Ormandy's direction, it was the best symphony orchestra in the world.

I could only afford a seat 'way up in the peanut gallery, but what music! I pity today's kids, who've never heard Beethovan's "Emperor Concerto" or Brahms' magisterial works.

The sad fact is that mine may be the last generation to enjoy symphonic music. Symphony orchestras need audiences to pay their bills. You can't put a hundred or so trained, dedicated musicians on stage for free, any more than Snoop Dogg or Willie Nelson will work without pay.

And youngsters aren't coming to symphonic concerts. Orchestras all over the country are in financial trouble. Fortunately, the Naples Philharmonic is in good financial shape, thanks largely to the tireless efforts of Myra Daniels.

But without new blood, this magnificent art form will wither. Without young people joining their audiences, symphony orchestras will eventually collapse. What a loss that will be! We're fortunate here in Southwest Florida. We have the Naples Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Piano Quartet with their Classic Chamber Concerts — even a new Naples Opera Company. Will they still be around 10 years from now? Not if young people don't know, don't care, don't attend their performances.

In the meantime, though, we can still go to Bayside and listen to Chuck Jones playing and singing songs of joy and sadness, yearning and fulfillment, love and romance.

Naples resident Ben Bova is the author of more than 110 books, including "Titan," his latest novel. Bova's Web site address is www.benbova.net.