I am the mother of rock stars. The signs have been there for a while but I've ignored them: winning talent shows, being asked to play at gatherings, stirring gob-smacked audiences.
It's not like I haven't had time to prepare for this. My sons have been honing the title for years. But they recently cemented their rock star status at the local high-school coffee house and frankly, I don't know where I fit in any more.
The leap from Sharon, Lois & Bram to Def Leppard was unexpected yet seamless. As exuberant toddlers, they loved music and we always had cheerful tunes playing in the house. Songs such as Peanut Butter and Jelly and Skinnamarink seemed to satisfy them.
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Always lurking in the background, though, was the desire of our younger son, Max, to "pway dwums like a wock star." When he was 3, we bought him toy drums and a drum pad, both of which were met with crushing disappointment because they were "not weal dwums."
His persistence resulted in lessons with a "weal dwum" teacher when he was 5. My husband and I were convinced this would put an end to it once he realized drumming took practice. My husband and I were wrong. After Max's fourth lesson, his drum teacher said, "You have to get him a kit. He's good." Curse him.
Max's older brother, Alexander, then 7, wanted in on the action so we found a father/son duo who taught Max drums and Alexander guitar. I have to admit, their progress was impressive. Within a couple of months they were playing April Wine like they had cut their teeth on it. Caught up in the excitement, my husband desperately wanted to be their bass player, but they were oblivious to his painful rendition of Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star. They were too busy mastering Jimi Hendrix's Purple Haze. He makes a fine roadie though.
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Their rise to stardom started innocently enough. They auditioned for a monthly talent show at their elementary school. You could barely see Max behind the drum kit and Alexander's guitar was not much smaller than he was. When they started to play the White Stripes' Seven Nation Army, the kindergarteners became drunk with excitement and began clapping and hugging each other. It was a regular Woodstock.
Over the next few years the boys continued to practise in our basement and to entertain family and guests. They played songs from my husband's and my era so it was like one continuing free concert, minus the lighters. Three years ago they won band of the year at a rock camp, and before that they played for a private party. They were turning heads, but for the most part it was confined to our home and hand-picked audiences. How bad could it get?
The garden path came in the form of Alexander's high-school coffee house. Max, only 12, was invited to perform with his brother, now in Grade 9. When we walked into the cafeteria, it was clear our monopoly on them was kaput.
I definitely had not hand-picked this audience. The tattooed, pierced and dreadlocked Grade 12 students made me want to belt out Skinnamarink to create the illusion of control. I felt ill.
The first band, squealing guitars and all, screamed into the mic something about a girl named Ruth and how vile she was. It didn't bear any resemblance to the touchy-feely coffee houses I had enjoyed in university.
When our boys strode up to the stage, misfits in jeans that rested on their hips rather than their knees, I didn't know what to expect. They started playing Rocket Queen by Guns N' Roses. Like zombies, the pierced and the tattooed rushed the stage and pounded their fists into the air screaming like they were being asked to wear tailored jeans. My reaction was twofold: raw terror and cold fear.
As Alexander started into his guitar-shredding solo, he couldn't have been more in the zone. The audience's head swinging, wailing and fist pounding combined to make it the best night of his life. They ended their song and the spent cheerleaders returned to their seats, drenched in sweat. Suddenly, a voice sliced through the air: "Drum solo! Drum solo!" Max started playing again as the fans once more flocked to the stage.
When Max returned to his seat beside his father and me, someone beside him asked, "How old are you, dude?"
Max gave him a quick glance and answered, "12."
"You're awesome, man!"
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I mentally waved goodbye to the hand-picked audiences and tried to prepare myself for the crowd-surfing, undie-flinging crowd that was sure to be in our sons' futures.
Later that night, after hearing from the boys how "sick" (read: affirming, fulfilling) the crowd's reaction was, my husband and I realized a few things. Firstly, the audience we were so quick to judge was harmless. They were supportive of all the acts. Their primal screams were their way of saying, "Dude, I wish I could get up there and do that."
Secondly, the day will come when our sons will spread their musical wings and leave us behind. Until then, we'll be there cheering them on. I'll be the one diverting the undies before they reach the stage. I'm still their mom, after all, rock stars or not.
Colleen Landry lives in Moncton.