I love music--any kind, all kinds, as long as it has a good beat or thoughtful lyrics, I'm in.
Because I've been a fan my whole life, I know a lot of music; I can sing just about any song that plays on the radio. And sing I do, loudly, proudly, way out of tune. What I lack in talent, I make up for in volume.
But what I don't always know are the words to those songs. Maybe it's from hearing loss due to blaring my radio for too many teenage years. More likely, it's due to my short attention span; I don't always listen carefully, and my mind wanders a lot. Whatever the case, I never get the words right. My friend Vicki says I know all the songs, and none of the words.
But hey, no big deal. I don't take it personally when people correct me. In fact, it's usually pretty funny to hear what the real lyrics are compared to whatever the heck I've been singing.
Well, usually it's funny. It wasn't as funny when Mark recently corrected me.
I was singing along to "Starships" by Nicki Minaj. Mark was singing, too, until the chorus, when he suddenly grew very quiet.
"Starships were meant to fly-y-y, hands up and touch the sky-y-y," I sang. "Let's do this one more ti-i-ime, can't stop...I ain't even trying to get this!"
And that broke Mark's silence. He burst into laughter.
"You know those aren't the words, right?" he asked, in a truly condescending voice.
"I know the words," I snorted. "I just sang them, didn't I?"
He smiled slyly. "Oh, so then you know she's saying a really bad word, right?"
"Yes, I know she--wait, what?" I said, glancing at him in the rear view mirror. My mind raced through the lyrics, but came up blank. "What'd she say?"
He smile grew even bigger.
"What'd she SAY?" I asked again.
"She said, 'Higher than..." He paused, clearing his throat. I just looked at him.
"'Higher than a...M...F..er," he finally choked out.
I almost crashed the car--I'd been singing this song for MONTHS. With Mark in the car. With my window rolled down. At the top of my lungs, with a goofy smile on my face.
"No, she said, 'I ain't even trying to get that,'" I clarified.
"Um, no, she didn't," he snickered. "And by the way...that doesn't even make sense."
The chorus came on again then, and as I listened, I realized he was right. It was mostly bleeped out, but once I heard it, I couldn't unhear it.
"Oh my God!" I cried. "Seriously? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I thought you knew," he said. He was trying really hard not to laugh at me.
I immediately flipped the station.
"And besides," I asked, "how do you even know those words?"
"I go to middle school," he said. "I know more than you think."
And that's the exact moment my brain shut down. Obscenities, precocious tweens, I couldn't take any more. It wasn't enough to flip the station--I turned the radio off.
"Hey!" Mark yelled. He didn't like being punished for Nicki Minaj's potty mouth.
"Fine," I said. I turned the radio back on, but put it on NPR. If I couldn't keep profanity off the airwaves, then I'd only play public radio.
And that was when I realized I'd done something even worse than wrong-singing obscenities...I'd turned into my parents.
"Oh, for the love of Pete!" I yelled, out loud, fully cementing the transformation. Mark just looked at me quizzically.
"Never mind," I said. I couldn't say I suddenly feel very old...he already enough ammo to insult me with.
Sigh...I tried hard to be the cool mom who knows all the current songs on the radio...but in the end, I'm really just another middle-aged, overprotective mom who's shocked that young kids are singing bad words (and that her young son knows those words).
And I ain't even tryin' to get that...
This year Mark decided to play trumpet at school. My brother Scott used to play trumpet, and I even played it for all of two seconds, until I was kicked out of band for copying the girl next to me."They kicked you out?" Mark asked. He was shocked."Yup.""Why were you cheating?""I wasn't cheating," I explained. "I just couldn't read music. So I watched to see what she was doing."Mark kinda snickered at that. He's been reading music for more than two years now; he loves being able to do something I can't.When I called my mom to see if, by some strange bit of luck, she still had that old trumpet, she immediately answered, "No." But when I mentioned it to Scott, he knew exactly where it was. He brought the case in from the garage and Mark and his cousins all took turns blowing on it until they were lightheaded and red in the face.It definitely needed some love; it sat hidden in the garage for 35 years. But my friend Liz pointed me toward an instrument repair shop, where a kid shined it up and oiled the valves for $60--much cheaper than a new trumpet!Mark was thrilled to have his trumpet back in working condition, but was disappointed when I said the guy cleaned all the gunk out of it. When I asked why he was so bummed, Mark confirmed my boys-are-gross theory by saying, "I wanted to see that."
He worked the valves and blew deeply into the horn, which emitted the blare of a dying elephant. He experimented with different sounds, his favorite being the roar of Chewbacca. He played the theme to Jeopardy! then held his trumpet aloft and blew, letting out a mighty FWWWWOOOOOOM! He was a natural.
Or maybe not.
Like any good musician, he thoroughly examined his instrument. He wanted to see if a flashlight would shine through all the curves and out the other end.
He tried playing it without the mouthpiece, to see if the sound was different.
He tried playing it by completely covering the mouthpiece, and ended up gagging and complaining of the metal taste. I could've told him it would taste disgusting, but it was more entertaining to watch him try.In the end, he didn't play any recognizable songs. Mark being Mark, he created a new fancy, one-handed move, complete with crazy eyes.
It was hilarious until he fell over. Then it was even more hilarious.
He hasn't even had one lesson yet, but after watching him this afternoon, I feel like I already got my money's worth.
Last summer, Mark got a case of the boreds and quit drums. But after a five-month break and a new drum teacher, he's back to playing up a storm. He's really digging music now.
He's even branched out, instrument-wise. In addition to drums, he plays cello at school (so he says), and has a blue guitar he likes to strum occasionally. In an inspired moment, he grabbed the guitar, and started rocking a bluesy tune. He started singing, and spontaneously wrote his own song.
I was laughing and cheering him on. I clapped along to his singing, and stopped just long enough to record my son's first official composition. It's called "Gave My Dog a Bowl of Spaghetti," because as Mark explained, "That's the first line of the song."
Here's his masterpiece:
Gave My Dog a Bowl of Spaghetti
by M. Dinsdale
copyright 2010
I gave my dog a bowl of spaghetti
And he started to talk.
So I took him to the doctor
And I said, "Hi, doc."
Hi doc, hi doc, hi doc!
My dog rolled over and said,
"Scratch my belly
But you'd better hurry up
Cuz I'm going to the deli."
Then he stopped talking
And I guess he was done.
But while it all lasted
It was sure kinda fun.
I'm so proud of my budding musician/song writer! :-)
