Teach Your Children Well

Rock Kid, Rock Dad

By Chris La Tray, 11-26-06

Somewhere around 2000, 2001 or so, my son, Sidney, came to me with a question which bore the weight of shaping our relationship for the foreseeable future. He was seven at the time. “Dad, have you ever heard of a band called ‘The Backstreet Boys’?”

I could tell by the look on his face he was troubled. Hell, I was troubled! I’d always wanted to be the kind of parent that accepts whatever art, music, clothes, etc. their offspring prefers, even if it is woefully wrong. But this . . . this pushed the boundaries, potentially, of what I could stomach. Boy bands were huge at this point in America, but not under my roof. I’m sure my face was ashen when I replied, “Yeah, I have, why?”

“Some kids at school were talking about them, and one of them had a tape.” He turned a grave expression on me. “What do you think of them?”

I swallowed hard. I was so unhinged that I couldn’t read him. This was much tougher than the last serious question he’d asked, about who was cooler, Batman or Zorro. That one was easy. I answered that the question was like asking what was better, pizza or cheeseburgers: both are great, but sometimes you’re hungry for pizza, and sometimes you’re hungry for a cheeseburger. I could tell he’d been satisfied with that answer, because he had smiled. But this, this was different. Bravely, I replied, “What do you think of them?”

“Well. . . .” The pause lingered. He chewed his lip. I breathed a silent, brief, prayer to the spirit of Bon Scott. With a nod and a deep breath, Sidney said, “I think they suck.”

That’s my boy, and we were going to be okay. I had done my best to raise him well, and at that moment I knew we were on the right path. I guess things had been set in motion when he was about 3. After a day of having to endure Beauty and the Lion Mermaid, or whatever Disney flick he was currently hooked on, for the umpteenth time, I threw my copy of “KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park” at him and said, “Check this out, eh?” He did. Over and over and over. Seeing him hold his plastic guitar and lip synch along with “Rock n’ Roll All Night” gave me far more pleasure than any father would ever feel watching their kid score a touchdown at some damn football game, and here he was barely out of diapers! When Sidney graduated from kindergarten, we were given a notebook of drawings he had compiled over the year. Most were based on certain class themes, but regarding one in particular the teacher said, “I don’t really know what this means, but this is what he said it was.” She shrugged. Looking at the picture, I grinned. There was a wild-haired stick figure bending over some big red boxy thing. The caption, in the teacher’s handwriting, read, “Gene Simmons fixing his car.”

Post-Backstreet Boys, I rewarded him for being such a good son by taking him to his first full-blown rock concert. We went to The Gorge and saw the KISS farewell tour, from the 6th row. We were both ecstatic. He got to see the band he’d loved since his toddler years (something we had in common; I was 10 when I bought my first album: KISS – Love Gun), and I got to see my heroes for the first time with the original lineup in full makeup. Ted Nugent opened the show, and Sidney flirted briefly with digging the Motor City Madman as well, but when I explained what a “Republican” was and that they tend to make sandwiches out of puppies, he gave up on that one.

When Sidney was 9, his favorite band was the SoCal stoner rock band, Fu Manchu. Fu Manchu was also a favorite of mine, and one of the greatest coups of my rock career to date was successfully bringing them to Missoula for a show, which my band opened. Sidney got to ride in the car with Fu as I shuttled them to and from their hotel, and he scored autographs and some handshakes. When I took him home, he said, “Dad, that was the coolest thing ever.” I knew how he felt. I had had the opportunity to meet one of my rock heroes earlier that year when my band played with Spirit Caravan, the band (at the time) of Scott “Wino” Weinrich, a legend in most underground heavy music circles. An idol of mine, Wino turned out to be a great person to spend time with, something that so often doesn’t happen when one meets a hero. I was lucky enough to become friends with Wino, and while spending a weekend at his home in Maryland he pointed to an autographed photograph of Lemmy from Motorhead hanging on his wall and said, “It was really cool getting to meet Lemmy.” I could relate. I’m sure Sidney could have too.

The boy went through his AC/DC phase in the wake of seeing “School of Rock.” I took that as an opportunity to fill some holes in my CD collection with the new, re-mastered editions of that band’s catalogue. “School of Rock” was a godsend to me; Jack Black’s character Dewey Finn was like a prophet of rock to my impressionable child, and AC/DC was just the start. Sid started listening to records from bands like Led Zeppelin, Cream, and Black Sabbath. My CD collection benefited too, because what kind of parent would I be if I didn’t have a record he needed to hear? My Ramones collection had some holes filled. When Bam Margera’s TV show inspired Sidney to ask me about Turbonegro, I was ready. When my band was on tour and a club’s booking agent in LA was raving about the new Zeppelin DVD and exclaimed that I simply must get it, I knew that I needed to follow through in the event that Sidney would want to see it.

There have been brief flirtations with music that didn’t work out. He was seduced briefly by “Who Let the Dogs Out” by Baha Men, but thankfully got over that. He likes Gorillaz too, but I can live with that; I have been known to sneak a little alt-country onto my iPod and he looks the other way. He thought he liked HIM for a while, but he informed me the other day that he thinks they suck. He prefers Motorhead. I’ve been fortunate not to have the sanctity of my home invaded by any of that nu metal, goth rock stuff all the Hot Topic kids are into; when Sid picks up the guitar sitting next to the desk in my office, he always plays the riff to Hendrix’s version of “Born Under a Bad Sign.” When Slayer played Spokane this summer, we were there. I spent the Thanksgiving week trying to work while he was downstairs doing his best to replicate John Bonham’s drum solo on “Moby Dick.” Just yesterday I taught him how to do a killer pick slide.

Which takes me to the height of musical ecstasy: playing in a rock band with him. A year or so ago we put together a trio with Sid on drums, my best girl (and Sidney’s step mom) Julia on guitar, banjo, and vocals, and me on bass and vocals. We call the group Tater Pig, and it is a mishmash of styles: some of the traditional folk stuff that Julia loves, some of the punk rock that Sidney loves, and the old school heaviness that comes out in pretty much anything that I play: I think I could make “Splish Splash” sound like “Iron Man.” When things are cooking it is as fun as any rock band I’ve ever been in, and it is great to see my boy learning the ropes of what it takes to be one of the people who deliver the rock.

Hey, if you happen to be at Betty’s Divine for First Friday on December 1st from 6:30ish to 8:00ish, stop in – Tater Pig will be in full swing with some twang and groove. The red-haired kid on drums is Sidney; make sure and shake his hand after the show. Tell him to get a haircut. And tell him if he makes honor roll the rest of the way this year his dad is totally serious about flying to Detroit or LA to see Iron Maiden. The boy’s old man will be the guy on the Fender bass with a big grin on his mug.

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