We Will We Will ROCK You (boo hoo)

As previously advertised, here is the story of Grown Man Crying. 

It’s not actually that sensational, in that it’s less about me being terrifying and intimidating (I think) than it is about the man in question being particularly pusillanimous and peculiar. It’s all very Spinal Tap  in a preschool kind of way.
Domestic Engineer and Jessica, you in particular have requested this tale. If it proves to be horribly disappointing I can only apologise and promise that some of the other (stories for another day) are much juicier and gossip-worthy, and their subjects (me excepted) less pathetic.

You can also head over to Bambino Goodies today where there is an incredibly self-congratulatory post on last week’s parent-teacher meetings. Oh? I didn’t sell you on that? Really?

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When I was pregnant with One I was afflicted with the same sense of futility and ennui that has gripped me intermittently since my move to Stepford and I felt a terrible longing for some kind of change (other than the obvious nausea, fat arse/belly combo and parasite growing within).

I was browsing through a local parent’s website looking for things to do with Four (then two) and my eye was caught by an ad for a local band who played rock music for kids.  They were advertising for a female singer.  Now normally I would not consider this type of thing as

a) I am not a rock chick 

b) Local bands are SO not me, and 

c) I hate ‘kid’ music

But despite what you might have assumed about me given my rather caustic conversational tone, I am actually quite open to any old thing happening as long as it’s a laugh, and right around that point I was having major sense of humour failure.

So I wrote to them, they wrote to me.  I forgot about it, they prompted me.  I forgot about it again, they prompted me again with a funny email and eventually I went along for an ‘audition’ which I found rather endearing in my incredibly snooty and superior way because, and I have to keep on mentioning this because I am danger of forgetting it due to excessive motherhood, I am a professional musician and singer who has filled stadiums, sold albums and thrown Spinal Tap wobblies in dressing rooms.

I am not a garage commando.

They, on the other hand, were a bunch of dads who drank beer, had learned a few chords, banged out some nursery rhymes on electric guitar with a distortion pedal and were in a band that played rock music for kids because it was the only kind of bands their wives would let them be in.

But I liked them! They were an improvement on the Tupperware Moms I had met thus far and I could smell pot in the room, which boded well for the distant future when I would not be pregnant or breastfeeding.

The bass player, who we shall call Fotherington Thomas, (not his real name) hailed originally from England although I did not discover this for at least a year. He had come to the US at 17 and assimilated so thoroughly that even I could not detect an accent or any trace of irony/humour in the man. I should, however, have spotted the puppyish adoration and desperation to ingratiate himself with me and perhaps questioned its authenticity and origin, but to be perfectly honest I didn’t really notice it that much. I have quite often found myself, particularly in the past,  in the somewhat strange position of people going a bit funny around me and it’s often kinder for all concerned, (myself included), just to ignore it. The drummer and guitarist, who we shall call Sticks and Strings, were a pair of slightly seedy ageing rockers; a Shakespearean comedy duo. One tall and skinny, one short and rotund with six children between them but still trying to slip off to bars to chat up girls, smoke weed in the cab of Strings’ truck  and talk about ‘making it big’ as if this was something that might still seriously happen when they were discovered by a cigar-smoking agent in a big white Cadillac.

Anyway, I ended up joining the band which was comically appropriate as I got huger and huger with One, but it was a reasonably entertaining way of spending a Thursday evening,  and once we started doing gigs for children I actually started to enjoy myself. There is something so satisfying and immediate about performing for little kids. They absolutely loved the music and would cheer and clap and run up to hug me after the shows, telling me all about themselves and asking me to be their friends. I have to say that in all the years I have been performing as a musician, I have NEVER had such a loving appreciative audience as a group of toddlers. They  love you authentically, in the same way as they love their family, friends and pets. Very touching.
Here’s an odd thing: As I get more unwieldy, Fotherington Thomas becomes more and more helpful and attentive – carrying things for me, bringing items to the house, phoning all the time, offering assistance, always having water and snacks on hand. Again, I think he is just being nice. Sticks and Strings are always sloping off for a smoke break or advocating ending rehearsal early and going to a bar which is no fun for a giant preggo lady so FT and I thrown together a great deal..

At some point One is born, I take a month or two off and then come back. I start to lose the baby blubber and my pregnancy induced apathy fairly quickly and within four or five months I am beginning to look and feel like myself again. Then I start sloping off to bars with Sticks and Strings after rehearsals, (not to pick up girls, you understand, but just to have a beer) but puzzlingly, FT won’t join us. He also won’t come outside and chat during breaks in rehearsals but sits inside fiddling with the gear on his own while the rest of us sit outside shooting the breeze. It’s almost as if he is..sulking? Could he have preferred me as a giant hippo with no personality?

It is around this point that I realise that the band has been together for 8 months and we still play less than an album’s worth of material fairly badly so I begin to push for some improvement. Apart from anything else, it’s getting boring to bash through the same old bollocks again and again and none of them are audibly getting any better.  This does not stop Fotherington Thomas from trying to book multiple gigs for the increasingly popular group, which is all well and good, but it becomes apparent that he is willing to play at the opening of a crisp packet, and possibly even pay for the privilege. However, it seems he has forgotten to consult with the rest of us about willingness and availability. Sticks and Strings don’t mind this as they will do anything to get out of the house and away from their families but I’m not in quite the same position with a baby and a toddler to care for. So after booking me for three crappy gigs three weekends in a row where we might have an audience of 25 people in a whistlingly empty parking lot I point out to FT that I am not really willing to spend my free time in this way and that only gigs that are profitable, fun or both are worth my time and effort. He is furious with me and says that it is no effort on my part as I don’t lug any of the equipment to the shows. I explain nicely that I am a SINGER, not a roadie and that my job, and the effort entailed, is to entertain people by singing to them.

He considers this a state of emergency and calls a band meeting.

To my surprise the band confronts me on my ‘bad attitude’ and tells me I should view unattended gigs as ‘open air rehearsals and paying my dues’ which makes me laugh out loud.

Oy Vey! It was like being 21 again! One way to get my youth back, eh? 

I gently point out that they aren’t really open air rehearsals, they are humiliating, second rate gigs that I, as the singer, have to carry the rest of them through, and the answer is just plain NO, I am done with dues paying at this stage of my career, thanks very much.

Sticks and Strings come around to understanding my position but something has irrevocably turned in Fotherington Thomas.  

From then on he started behaving peculiarly. He would not return phonecalls, he missed rehearsals, he would make bitchy comments, he would snarl and turn his back to the rest of us while playing and as a consequence miss notes and play out of time. It was excruciatingly boring, but rather difficult to walk away from as by then we had lots of gigs lined up and little kids looking forward to seeing us. We kept on trying to cheer him up and get through to him but to no effect. The result was denial followed by more snarling, bitching and appalling playing (even worse than before, hard to believe though that was). Eventually I told Sticks and Strings that an intervention was necessary or else I was going to have to leave the band as this type of sandwich-throwing behaviour was unacceptable under any circumstances, and for a kiddie amateur outfit it was simply risible, not to mention rather unpleasant.

So. Another band meeting was called after a pre-school concert. Sticks, Strings, Fotherington Thomas and myself, accompanied by a crawling, dirt-eating, 6-month old One went to the park to talk things through. We told FT that we were concerned about tensions in the band and that he was unhappy and asked if there was anything he wanted to talk about.

Denial.

We asked if he was sure

Sure, he said, put on his sunglasses and crossed his arms, defensively.

I asked FT why he wouldn’t return my phonecalls and kept on avoiding my invitations to lunch/coffee to talk things through.

He came back at me, guns blazing, shouting that he had

TWO jobs to go to, had a family to attend to, a start-up he was trying to get off the ground and he hadn’t had the time.

Ok, I said, but that didn’t explain why he was so angry and hostile or why he kept on missing practice and generally behaving in a peculiar manner.

Shrug.

Was it that he was disappointed that we were not doing all the gigs he wanted?

Intense studying of ground

Was he mad that I wanted us to play a wider repertoire and improve the standard of musicianship?

No response

Did he want to say anything?

Yes. He did. It was his band and he had been in it longer than any of us.

Strings objected to this and said he’d joined at the same time as FT so how did he figure it was his band?

Did not!

Did 

Did not!

Did!  (they went back and forth on this for a bit)

Finally I interrupted them and asked if there was ANY WAY that a group of ADULTS who were in an AMATEUR  LOCAL band that played music for THREE YEAR OLDS might just be able to suck up their differences and strum through a few nursery rhymes once a week without having any major meltdowns. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? Having been in bands, big and small, for the best part of 20 years and seen my fair share of dramas, there really didn’t seem to be that much to get worked up about here.

At this, the grown man, aged 43 (yes, folks, you read it FORTY THREE, not four, not three) who is married, has two children, two jobs, as we have been told, and owns property in this million dollar town, BURST INTO TEARS, shouted

“FUCK YOU, BITCH” and ran away.

 

Rock and Roll!

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