Sugar, We’re Going…Where?
Confessions of a Future Rock Star’s Mother
Being
the mother of an emerging rock star can pose several dilemmas. When it comes to
the hair, how long is too long? When it comes to the music--how loud is too loud? The attention
from the opposite sex--how much is too much? Granted, some of these quandaries
are beyond a mother's control, but my maternal instincts tell me I should exert
every last ounce of parental power I can before my influences are drowned out
by the next “bigger is better” amp purchase. Call it intuition or just plain
common sense: When my son's amplifier is taller than I am and outweighs me by
fifty pounds, my days of motherly control are over. But until that day arrives,
I plan to buckle up and hold on, trying my best to enjoy my son's proverbial
ride to stardom. And if this past week is any indication of my ability to do
just that, I think I can get through it—hopefully without puking.
Our
week began with a conversation I should have had with Lane long before he and
his buddies began practicing. However, staying true to my typical (lazy)
parenting style, my opportunity for a preemptive strike had long since passed
and I was left feeling two drum beats behind--like a singer off key, a
menagerie of confusion, a tempo that was all wrong (I'm not sure where these
metaphors are coming from...but you get the idea). It went something like this:
Me: (Closing
my book of scripture, feeling uplifted, full of joy...and completely unprepared
for the irony that was about to unfold) So, what song are you guys singing
for the Stars Assembly audition?
Lane:
It's called “Sugar We're Going Down.”
Me: (Long
pause, accompanied by a look of motherly constipation)
Lane:
What? Mom, why does your face look like that?
Me: Do
you have it on your I Pod?
Lane:
Yes.
Me: Go
get it.
As I
waited for him to emerge from the basement, my head began reeling. The lyrics
to a popular Def Leppard song from my youth were made readily available in my
mind. Something about pouring sugar on me…name of love (ooh)…hot-sticky sweet, from my head to my
feet (yeah)…Do you take sugar? One lump or two!
Was I
really going from reading my scriptures one minute, to explaining the sexual
connotations of “sugar” and what “going down” can mean the next? Just as I was
beginning to taste bile in my throat, a moderately annoyed 15- year-old
returned, handing me his earbuds. Hoping for the best but expecting the worst,
I listened to the song, my eyebrows raised, trying to hide any signs of
prejudice before the last note ended.
Me: (Turning
to Lane and maintaining a hollow look of nonjudgment) Hey, I need you to go
print the lyrics for me.
Lane: (Rolling
his eyes and muttering under his breath as he makes his way to the office)
No swearing......can't believe it......nothing wrong with it......so stupid...
Again,
in his absence I was able to collect my thoughts: Okay, the “going down” reference
isn't sexual but rather, suicidal. Not that there aren't plenty of other sexual
innuendos that need to be addressed, but they aren't as graphic as what I had
initially anticipated. Nevertheless, I have to divide my brain between an
anti-sex and an anti-violence mindset. Here he comes...
Me: (Ignoring
Lane's sighs of impatience and perpetual eye rolling as I read through the
lyrics. Looking up at him, grilling commences). Okay, do you know what it
means to be a notch in someone's bedpost?
Lane: No.
Me: It
means you have had sex with them.
Lane:
What? Nobody will know that!
Me: Do
you know what voyeurism is?
Lane:
It doesn't say that! I've never even heard that word before!
Me: It
means that you watch people do private things in private places without their
knowledge. It's creepy. And illegal.
Lane:
So?
Me. So
this song is about a guy who is stalking his ex-girlfriend (with whom he has
had sex) and watches her and her new boyfriend do naughty things in her
bedroom. Then, to top it all off, he is threatening to shoot himself in the
head...and you want me and your father to approve this?
Lane:
But it doesn't say those things! You are just reading into it. Nobody else will
get that stuff.
Me: (Feeling
both confused and delighted at my son's naivety but wanting to prove my point).
You don't think junior high kids will know what it means to, and I quote, “be
the friction in your jeans?”
Silence.
Point made.
Obviously,
this was not the only conversation we had about this song. There were several.
We also talked about the need to approve upcoming songs with parents before the
band spends weeks practicing them. I then took it upon myself to inform the
other band members' parents that I would be responsible for lyric censorship in
the future, since, according to Lane, I am the only adult on the planet who
reads into words and analyzes their "hidden" meaning...
As for
the 'Sugar' song, we fought back and forth and finally reached a compromise.
They could perform the song after changing the “friction in your jeans” line,
as it was deemed the most overtly crude and offensive. It was a weak
compromise, I know, but somehow I felt okay about it. Perhaps I justified it by
promising myself that from that point on, I would take a more proactive role
and be more diligent in policing lyrics and song content. Another justification
stemmed from the fact that I had witnessed, first hand, how much these kids
wanted to perform for their peers, and I wasn't willing to thwart their efforts
by ignoring the countless hours of practice and the determination they had
invested. So at the risk of seeming more like a groupie than a mother, I
conceded.
On the
morning of the Stars Assembly, their first 'official' gig, I walked into the
school auditorium, wondering whether or not I had made the right decision. Ten
years ago I would have said that any mother who would allow her son to perform
a “Sugar” song was an idiot, a naive dunce who was practically leading her
child to the path of moral corruption. But, when that curtain opened, and I
watched Lane and his friends live what they had deemed their “junior high
dream,” all doubt washed away. With
every strum of the guitar, with every flip of the hair, with every croon of the
indecipherable lyrics, I knew I had made the best decision concerning my son. I didn’t need a roaring crowd of rowdy junior
high students to confirm it, but admittedly, their screams of affirmation only echoed
the pride I felt. And, when Lane wouldn't let me leave his school that day
without hugging me in front of his friends and whispering, “Thank you, Mom,”
another little voice told me that my motherly influence is, and perhaps always
will be, louder than any amplifier my rock star can ever buy.
I know. I know. Who's being naive now...
