Music Then And Music Now
The one where I mistook Wiz Khalifa for Burj Khalifa
The child is segueing swiftly into a manling. The shoulders are broadening, the hips are narrowing down, the puppy fat has made its way into the land of distant childhood memories and the jawline is getting into the defined realm territory which will be mandatory in the future if he needs to be granite-jawed in the way the romance novels state a respectable romantic hero should be. But I digress.
The fact of the matter is that he is changing. A slight shadow on his upper lip has him scurrying to experiment with his father’s razor behind a locked bathroom door emerging suspiciously fuzz free and angelic, denying all wrongdoing vehemently until I pop into the bathroom and discover traces of foam drying awkwardly in the washbasin. He checks himself out in the mirror one gazillion times a day and constantly eyes the marks on the wall put to measure his progress upwards in centimetres in the vain hope that he would have suddenly sprouted a couple of additional inches after a night of deep sleep. He has also, heaven save the world, been caught flexing a fledgling bicep and admiring it in the mirror.
This advance into potential teendom has not gone unnoticed. Along with it comes the gut wrenchingly horrifying realisation that as a parent you automatically don’t quite cut it in the coolness quotient. And nowhere is this more evident as in the case of music. The boy is listening to more music than should be considered legit. But then legit is a debatable point, given that there is only so much world and time a young boy in secondary school and a competitive sport can free up to devote to the act of listening to music.
Very often, I find him singing lyrics which, in gentler times, would have had me scour his mouth out with toilet cleaner. “Mamma,” he will squawk, much offended when I raise angry objection, “Bud dat’s d song, I’m only singing the song.” I sigh and retreat. This is karmic butt bite for when I publically embarrassed the mater by singing George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,” in tones loud enough to have the dead wake up from their graves from the neighbourhood cemetery, and the neighbourhood aunties purse their lips disapprovingly.
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