I'm sitting here really trying to come up with something and listening to Adam drumming in the pool room. I don't know how he coordinates four limbs to hold a different beat. It's actually very nice to listen to.
I remember buying him his first kit. Both children would visit their grandparents at the seaside for 3 weeks each January because I had to work during school holidays. He was 12 and wanted all things a 12 year old wants. Nintendo Game Boys, mountain bikes, Playstations . . .and a drum kit.
He couldn't play but was having lessons at school in preparation for a number of musicals over the years and after the Trumpet practice from the primary school band I was relieved. So as a surprise upon his return from holidays with Granny, I had a drum kit ready and waiting. It cost me $500 for the 'starter kit'.
There were weeks of sort of rhythm. The kid definitely had something but needed some help refining the skill. The racket was less than lovely and practice was restricted to pre-6pm or when nobody was home. But practice he did. Every day.
A few lessons later and he's getting the hang of the things. Sounding tolerable, quite expert in fact so the 'band' was born. "Indecent Exposure" not to be confused with the little known boy band of the 80's. The kids were about 14 and I was the 'Drummy Mummy'. We had the space for them to practice so our pool room became the rehearsal space. There were gigs in far flung places, community rock events, even a paid session at the local ice rink for the dancing pleasure of the skaters. It's amazing how much drum kit you can fit into the back of a hatch-back Corolla. By the time they turned 17, the band had fractured and each went their own way, still mates but no longer a unit.
Then, came Aktor . . probably about 3 years old now. Writing original material but more beer drinking at rehearsal than practice. They did OK with pub gigs and now he was old enough to transport his own kit, I was somewhat relieved. At the end of 2008 they entered a Worldwide Rock Competition. They did very well to reach the Australian finals. The winner won a a trip to Germany to strut their stuff. My little Drummer Boy however, was voted best drummer and won himself a nice new kit. Then life took hold. They still wrote, they still practiced but as everyone left Uni and became involved in the real world. It was harder to gig and harder to rehearse. Girlfriends came, jobs came, exams came . . fame left and for a while so did a little dedication.
The band is still together. We had a great night recently at a nightclub in the city, normally known for it's dance music rather than alternative Rock but the boys had an early start and a paid gig. The next is at Conception Day at a local University and whilst the verve isn't quite there and I don't think they're going to be the next U2, they have fun and they sound great.
Which brings me to now. My son . .after acquiring a Bachelor of Horticulture, a Landscape Construction Certificate and six months of running his own business . . wants to be a musician. I was horrified. I want him to get a good career, be independent, run his own business . . get himself sorted financially and move out with his lovely Amy . . not in any way the 'groupie' type but she tolerates his passion.
Then tonight, I can hear him, I can see the look on his face! He's in his special place when he drums. He can play different genre's from rock to jazz, he can tinkle and smooth, he can 'go nuts' and double kick. He can fill and hammer . . he's not just good, he's brilliant . . OK he's not dissecting the human genome or curing AIDS but he's doing what he loves and he's good at it. Maybe he should follow his passion . . I didn't, and that was a huge mistake.
And for the brave . . one reason why you shouldn't post your Friday Night drunken exploits on Facebook when your mother is a 'friend'. The boy is versatile! These are electronic drums, played to video hits and Guitar Hero on a rather . . . drunken Friday. Language warning. I'm such a cool mum. He'll kill me for posting this. No really, he will! I love you Addy. . .