It has come. The British Invasion has finally hit me. I am caught in the same frenzy as the force created by the Beatles’ first performance in 1964 on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Well, scratch the hysterical screaming and the frantic crying and you’ve got my state of mind.

How two decades of such musical exclusion is even possible is beyond me. Certainly the British sounds have come to me — we are raised on daily musical history lessons through commercials and television soundtracks. I acknowledged them with little more than a thought of “Oh, that’s nice,” not left with a strong enough impression to own the songs and listen at my leisure.

I cannot say I was consciously resistant to the forces of the sounds from overseas. You won’t hear me denying the powerful influences from bands across the pond. I have always recognized the roots without being a fan. Innumerable artists whose sounds and styles have given birth to and defined entire musical cultures hail from the United Kingdom. Yet, I hesitate to confess, you won’t find a single Beatles album among my collections.

I enjoy the classic Rolling Stones and the Clash, as well as the new wave of invaders from Franz Ferdinand to the Libertines as much as the next girl. However, I have always taken the New York rock and roll or the Philadelphia hip-hop, the Mississippi Delta blues or the Harlem jazz over any British counterpart. An unusual expression of patriotism? Perhaps. If so, it seems that dedication is suddenly in jeopardy.

It all began when — horror of horrors — I visited my parents without the accompaniment of one single sound byte from home. It took only one day without quality tunes to force me to embark on an expedition through my parents’ house. I am not going to lie, I dusted off Mariah Carey’s Emotions and belted out a line or two from “Someday.” I came across my old Ace of Base and could not help but give it a spin for a few minutes. Unfortunately, “The Sign” lacks longevity and could not provide the same entertainment it did during the height of the song’s 1993 popularity.

So I found myself rummaging through unfamiliar territory — my parents’ music collection. We have not previously had musical conflicts — Dave and Cathy were always mighty accepting, even of the Alanis Morissette and Ani DiFranco phases of my teenage angst. I embrace their Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty and John Mellencamp that create the soundtrack of my youth. Still, I was fairly certain I would find nothing in their collection to please my ears.

I pushed aside excessive amounts of reggae — perhaps that phase will hit during another trip home. I disregarded the abundance of country albums and ignored the Christmas collections. The cabinet nearly emptied, surrounded by records I am not sure I could be paid to listen to, exasperated and hopeless, the treasure was finally discovered: Eric Clapton’s boxset Crossroads.

I will be the first to admit to my geekiness. Let me offer this as a reinforcing example. I loaded the stereo with all four discs, spanning from Clapton’s earliest years with the Yardbirds to singles from his 1987 record Harvest. I intently listened to his musical evolution and even diligently read the accompanying booklet.

Few artists have been involved in more influential, often extremely short-lived bands. The Yardbirds not only helped define ’60s British rock in opposition to Beatlemania but also transformed into what came to be Led Zeppelin. It took no more than two years for Cream to turn music away from validation of hysterical teenager girls and epitomize the power trio with classic songs such as “White Room” and “Sunshine of Your Love.”

From 1970 to 1971, as leader of Derek and the Dominos, Clapton recorded his most successful single, “Layla.” As an interesting historical note, the song was written for George Harrison’s then-wife Pattie, who eventually became one of Clapton’s wives. Can you even imagine artists today developing such vastly different sounds — so strongly — in such a short amount of time?

I added his most recent release, Me and Mr. Johnson, to the stereo and sat for hours listening to the tracks repeat. I followed the evolution of his recordings of the single “Crossroads” from 1968 to 1970. One can hear the stylistic development from his interest in Robert Johnson and the American “black music” during the early days of the Yardbirds to the present state. Often his brilliance with the strings takes precedence over the more contemporary focus on his lyrical ability.

I could blame it on the musical deprivation. It could simply be that, as displayed by the earliest, most raw talent Crossroads offers, Clapton is God — a prevalent 1966 profession of London graffiti. But if one British boy could surprise me so much, grasp my attention and spark active interest, perhaps it was time to bridge my musical fanaticism.

Luckily, the old parental units could provide some aid. As they are my own, it is only natural my parents had slightly more obscure powerhouses in the same hidden space as Crossroads. After finding a tape player, the British-based sounds from Elvis Costello’s “pop encyclopedia” served to fuel my curiosity. The new-wave rock of the Pretenders offered a means of further enveloping me in rich British sounds. I have become a happy hostage to the music produced by our national ancestors.

The next time you visit your parents, I dare you to leave behind all your tunes. Try surviving without Green Day. Don’t bring along Hot Fuss or Antics. Just because your parents hate what you listen to, and their parents prohibited the rock and roll in their homes, does not mean you have to reciprocate.

In general, they may have musical tendencies you would rather not admit to your friends. On the other hand, they may have some gems on the back of the shelves. They might just expose you to a whole new genre, allowing the invasion of even the sounds most defended against.

Christine Holm is a junior majoring in English. She always forgets to write these tag lines. She can be reached at [email protected]