There’s something about settling in for the night to read The Great Gatsby from the solitude of your bedroom, only to have the silence broken by an unexpected tap, tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. A chorus of instruments comes alive from the television speakers, and even though it’s faint, I instantly recognize the melody of this particular classic.
“Does she walk? Does she talk? Does she come compweet?” my four-year-old croons from the living room as he keeps rhythm on the drum-kit.
I laugh. Hysterically, actually. Even the noise cancelling headphones that had just come in the mail today on loan from a friend can’t drown my son’s serenade to the much heralded homeroom angel.
It’s awesome. I mean seriously - who doesn’t love a little of The J. Geils Band every now and then? I definitely do. My wife does…ish. Brady certainly does. I know this because he plays the song three more times, each time banging the drum sticks together at the intro to cue the other band members of Her Living Room Hero on the PlayStation.
I find myself wishing that my parents could see this. Especially my mom. She’d be proud – her little drummer boy has not only grown up, but has his very own modern day Partridge Family, courtesy of Rock Band 3. With me on lead guitar, Brady on drums, Traci on vocals (very much against her better judgment), and Kacie on the keytar, we’re ready to not only see, but rock a million faces on any given night.
Perhaps I should have known that Brady would get the most out of the game. The kid not only tried to play the guitar behind his neck the first day we had it, but he also tried throwing it from left to right around his back. Just when you think there’s nothing else your kids can do to surprise you…
“Where did you learn to do that?” I asked of his ability to display such a degree of showmanship.
“Yo Gabba Gabba,” he said, as if I should have already known this and was a fool for asking.
But in the four weeks since his debut as a guitarist, he’s abandoned its weightiness for the sexiness of the drums. Somehow my son already knows that chicks dig drummers, which probably explains why he’s not wearing any pants at the moment.
I peek from my hiding spot and see the seriousness and purpose with which Brady’s hitting the pads. He’s surprisingly nailing a high percentage of the colored notes AND singing. With a little less hair, he could be the next Phil Collins. Easily. Or not. No pressure, son.
I continue to watch his facial expressions with every strike of the drum pads. I take note of the emotion with which he sings.
Traci's now standing behind him, smiling at me as I watch him. All eyes are on our little musical prodigy, and that's just the way he likes it.
My internal dialogue begins to practice a response for the first time he asks what a centerfold is.
Something tells me that showing rather than telling will not be such a good idea.
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