Mother lights up at mention of word “guitar” because they rock.
It’s a different story when her children start begging to play guitar and other secular instruments. There are real dangers. Fall risks and eye injuries. A pack of strings makes a mean banana peel. An amp could easily fall over and crush somone. A drumstick could take an eye out.
So she pushes science, technology, engineering, mathematics, roller coasters… Music is limited as an extracurricular activity, a family affair, administered at home. The nights are crazy. Doubt mantras are recited; whirligig riffs are twisted off while backside; drums slip off the coastline (the cliffs are not particularly steep). The sandstone that rubbed off the bass strings will need to be swept up later. Of course, the house is lit up with the family sound, little bolts of lightning and zig-zag motion strips, a neon radio tuner, rockin’ around the Christmas tree. Joe Pesci is getting worked up, “I thought you said they weren’t home?” Naturally, free-spirited homegrown family sound appeals more when it’s kept in the private sector, in the family business, not advertised but marketable, half the sound escaping through the drywall, the garage door. Eventually the neighbors show up. Pesci turns to the driver, “Come on, let’s go.”