Mr. and Mrs. Smith were a little unhappy recently, it was there boy Harold. As will inevitably happen with all teenagers, he had started to rebel, and they didn't quite know how to take it. Rebellion they were prepared for, but this was more like all out warfare.
He had started wearing low rider Jeans that were torn at the knee, lose fitting tee shirts, and was growing his hair out. They were at a loss to explain where they had gone wrong so like most parents of their time, they blamed the television.
The music he listened to had changed drastically, from top ten pop on the Disney Channel he had switched to the most heinous Rock or boulder metal, what ever it was.
The language in these songs was worse than that associated with racists and sailors, yet Harold seemed perfectly comfortable singing along. The perplexed couple had decided to speak to him about it, but never mustered the courage.
He must have sensed this because his antics became more and more outrageous, at the dining table he had one day mentioned piercings. A boy piercing his ears was a horrific thought for them but Harold was talking about a series of five, including his lip and belly button.
That night the Smiths had gone to sleep huddled together, holding each other tight. Mrs. Smith had only stopped shaking in the grey twilight of dawn, her mind exhausted by its own phantoms.
However a few days later as they came down for breakfast, they heard the usual squealing guitar from their son's room. He'd taken to playing that blasted music all the time he was home.
With a tired sigh they headed to the kitchen, but their ears pricked up when the vocalist began his screaming falsetto. The words sounded familiar but it was a few instants before they made them out.
The wailing was a rendition of Amazing Grace that would make any church going Christian's teeth stand on edge, but to them it sounded like an angelic choir.
Harold came down to breakfast, looking pleased as punch, and after quite sometime he got a smile in response from his parents.
Over toast looking over his newspaper Mr. Smith said, "That was a pretty nice song you played this morning son."
"Yeah? You liked it? Cool"
"Well I'm used to hearing that song slightly differently, but I definitely liked it."
"Aha," said the son knowingly, "Yeah that was just a live version. Like it was just a one time thing, but if you like that, wait till you hear the next track i've got playing... Its got these amazing riffs, and the solo is so killer it makes your hair stand on end."
Encouraged by their first moments of familial interaction in Weeks the Smiths nodded.
"In fact," continued their son, "I'll play right now." He got up from the table with a bounce, and ran up the stairs to his room; displaying the caprice that the Smiths had come to miss.
Of course their momentary bubble of bliss was shattered by twanging notes drawn from a dirty guitar. A barrage of cymbles followed their son down, and he played the last few notes on his arm, as he bent over down to the floor.
As the rest of the noise joined in, Harold turned around and pointed his remote control up stairs and the music stopped.
"Isn't it awesome?" The happy boy asked turning around. The stunned faces if his parents weren't what he was expecting. huh?
His father tried to smile, "No uh, it was, uh, interesting, but, we, er, we were expecting something more like the earlier song... You know Amazing Grace?"
"But this is the same thing, is the same guy playing, oh come on, thought you guys were finally getting it...."
"Maybe you could explain it sometime?" Said his mom trying to save things. "I'm sure we'll er get it, if you just tell us."
"I don't know how, you just have to listen you know, the guitar it just plays in your soul."
"Okay son... But we'd really like to learn."
"Maybe sometime, I'll get some easier stuff to start you on... Yeah I think Kim has a couple of my older tapes, we could do that."
"Well okay tiger, I'm going to hold you to that," said his father ever willing to play the optimist.
The youth rolled his eyes, really? Tiger? "Dad! Well okay I'll catch you guys later." He got up and grabbed his bag and ran out the door. Lefts in his wake were his parents, trepidation, and tendrils of hope.
He had started wearing low rider Jeans that were torn at the knee, lose fitting tee shirts, and was growing his hair out. They were at a loss to explain where they had gone wrong so like most parents of their time, they blamed the television.
The music he listened to had changed drastically, from top ten pop on the Disney Channel he had switched to the most heinous Rock or boulder metal, what ever it was.
The language in these songs was worse than that associated with racists and sailors, yet Harold seemed perfectly comfortable singing along. The perplexed couple had decided to speak to him about it, but never mustered the courage.
He must have sensed this because his antics became more and more outrageous, at the dining table he had one day mentioned piercings. A boy piercing his ears was a horrific thought for them but Harold was talking about a series of five, including his lip and belly button.
That night the Smiths had gone to sleep huddled together, holding each other tight. Mrs. Smith had only stopped shaking in the grey twilight of dawn, her mind exhausted by its own phantoms.
However a few days later as they came down for breakfast, they heard the usual squealing guitar from their son's room. He'd taken to playing that blasted music all the time he was home.
With a tired sigh they headed to the kitchen, but their ears pricked up when the vocalist began his screaming falsetto. The words sounded familiar but it was a few instants before they made them out.
The wailing was a rendition of Amazing Grace that would make any church going Christian's teeth stand on edge, but to them it sounded like an angelic choir.
Harold came down to breakfast, looking pleased as punch, and after quite sometime he got a smile in response from his parents.
Over toast looking over his newspaper Mr. Smith said, "That was a pretty nice song you played this morning son."
"Yeah? You liked it? Cool"
"Well I'm used to hearing that song slightly differently, but I definitely liked it."
"Aha," said the son knowingly, "Yeah that was just a live version. Like it was just a one time thing, but if you like that, wait till you hear the next track i've got playing... Its got these amazing riffs, and the solo is so killer it makes your hair stand on end."
Encouraged by their first moments of familial interaction in Weeks the Smiths nodded.
"In fact," continued their son, "I'll play right now." He got up from the table with a bounce, and ran up the stairs to his room; displaying the caprice that the Smiths had come to miss.
Of course their momentary bubble of bliss was shattered by twanging notes drawn from a dirty guitar. A barrage of cymbles followed their son down, and he played the last few notes on his arm, as he bent over down to the floor.
As the rest of the noise joined in, Harold turned around and pointed his remote control up stairs and the music stopped.
"Isn't it awesome?" The happy boy asked turning around. The stunned faces if his parents weren't what he was expecting. huh?
His father tried to smile, "No uh, it was, uh, interesting, but, we, er, we were expecting something more like the earlier song... You know Amazing Grace?"
"But this is the same thing, is the same guy playing, oh come on, thought you guys were finally getting it...."
"Maybe you could explain it sometime?" Said his mom trying to save things. "I'm sure we'll er get it, if you just tell us."
"I don't know how, you just have to listen you know, the guitar it just plays in your soul."
"Okay son... But we'd really like to learn."
"Maybe sometime, I'll get some easier stuff to start you on... Yeah I think Kim has a couple of my older tapes, we could do that."
"Well okay tiger, I'm going to hold you to that," said his father ever willing to play the optimist.
The youth rolled his eyes, really? Tiger? "Dad! Well okay I'll catch you guys later." He got up and grabbed his bag and ran out the door. Lefts in his wake were his parents, trepidation, and tendrils of hope.
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