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| 15 is such an adorable age |
Our boys hosted a
garage concert on the last day of school. Three bands were slated to play and
kids had been invited representing several Bay Area high schools. I don’t recall ever fully signing on
for this, and was silently panicking at the thought of 700 moshing metalheads.
I demanded a guest list and again went over the house rules of no booze - no
drugs – no disrespectful behavior. Only one mom phoned to make sure parents
would be home and I confessed that this was uncharted water for us too.
As the bands
warmed up, our driveway resembled the scene in Bambi when the forest is on fire
and all the bunnies and skunks are evacuating in a wild panic. All wildlife in a 2-mile radius had
scampered or flown away. The
sheriff that arrived moments later helpfully suggested closing the garage door.
He gave me his card in case I ran into any trouble. I gave him my name and
number for my pissed neighbors to call so he didn’t have to drive back.
The first two
bands were lite punk if such a thing could exist. They were loud for sure but I could still watch Colbert
Report without a problem. Then the
hosting headliner band came on, with corpse paint and a plastic skull goblet
with homemade corn syrup blood for the full effect. As their mother I can honestly say it was horrible. Like a fissure had opened at the end of
our driveway and drums as loud as a Hell’s Angels memorial ride and vocals like
gargled nails. My garden wilted. Paint peeled from the walls. The mosh
pit was at full tilt when the garage door opened just a few inches and a kid
literally rolled out and the door shut behind him. I was refilling a bowl with chips and asked him if he was
ok. He was holding a broom. He said, “I’m fine.” I went back inside and waited
for the phone to ring.
The first call was
from a man who asked if they could please take it inside. I told him it was in the garage. He
asked if they could close the door.
I told him that, sadly the door was closed. When I told him the sheriff
had already come by he then claimed to be from the Sheriff’s dispatch
office. I thought it was curious
that he had a English accent but told him I’d have the band turn down the
amps. He lightened up and admitted
to having been in a band and I told him it was their first real gig with
girls. Those poor girls.
The next neighbor
was civil and politely asked if we could please never do it again. She asked if it were perhaps Satanic
Jazz. No, not Satanic, but in that Back Metal tradition of Norse mythology, the
earth based pre Christian…… never mind I’ll be pulling the plug soon. She told me I was a good mother for
letting them flex their creative wings and hopefully for all our sakes it was a
phase they’d quickly outgrow. I
gave the band a 5-minute warning.
In the end only
twenty or so kids showed and the bands were disappointed at that, but clearly
they’d earned their stripes by the sheriff coming and pissing off the
neighbors. We earned major kudos
from the other parent roadies who had opted to go out to dinner during the
concert and were now loading amps and guitars into their sensible hybrids.
While my older son
was dutifully washing the corn syrup blood off the garage floor I heard a
rustle in the tree and a mourning dove coo. One of our cats squeezed back under the fence and reclaimed
her perch in the garage.
2008
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.
