I’ve been invited to play drums in a band again… A “parent” band

It finally happened. Somehow, after 15 years living in this big bad city, someone found out I can play the drums… and I’ve been asked to come to a rehearsal.

For a… parent band.

Why did they have to call it a parent band? That’s like saying ‘let’s have a daggy fun time’. There is a reason why Sony Music hasn’t entered the DILF/MILF market.

And I wasn’t even their first choice. I was the second choice, which means their original drummer must be a real rockstar, because they’re away all of May. Probably on tour and trashing hotel rooms.

So they’ve called in the random back-up: a friend of a friend who once went to a Christmas in July dinner. Untested. Possibly insane. Possibly very crap. Also doesn’t even have kids at the school that the parent band has formed to fundraise for.

I’m hot property, if hot means desperate (which it rarely does).

So the question is, why, after all these years, when I finally get what I’ve been hoping for… I’m having an allergic reaction to the idea of being the SECOND choice for a PARENT band.

The former is my bruised ego, pure and simple. I can get over that.

The latter? Sure, there are many parallels between parenting and being a rockstar like sleepless nights, tantrums, making demands like a fearless frontman. But, it just feels so... daggy.

I can see 18-year-old Bella Archer, pulling that face at me. The one with the crinkled nose and pursed lips, the one that practically spells ‘eww’ in the crinkles.

My past self and my current self are at odds. That requires a deeper exploration. Something I’m sure my therapist would love to dig into.

But it’s 6am, and she’s asleep, so let’s go to the next best thing…. A journey of self-discovery.

What is it about being a parent that subconsciously feels at odds with being a musician?

Let’s lie down on the couch and do armchair therapy through the power of prose and reflection… Take me back to teenage Bella. You’re getting sleepy, very, very sleepy.

…………………

All those years ago, when I dreamed of being a rockstar. When I was touring, supporting bands like Magic Dirt and Machine Gun Fellatio, and playing on the same festival line-up as Powderfinger, Silverchair, Missy Higgins, Grinspoon. Winning competitions. Getting kissed by a famous guest judge — Ryan Kwanten, aka Vinnie — and handed the Home & Away soundtrack as my prize for being a star in the Launceston city circa 2000.

Come 2003, and I joined an all girl glam rock band with big hair, chunky belts and corsets where I lugged my drum kit around venues. Saw my band name pop up on music forums. Spent time recording in studios. Heard our songs played on the radio. We had a wild time of hope and possibility. I hoped that one day, I too might become a rockstar. That was the dream.

Then life happened, the singer and bass player both fell pregnant, and the band was done. Just like that.

I joined another one when I moved to Hobart, which was a wild time, but I fell in love and followed a boy across the world – a wildly bold, free (and in hindsight naive) thing to do. We moved interstate, and I thought the music scene would be bigger, badder, bolder in Sydney. But the live music scene was under attack from all angles. Pokies, exploiting addiction, raised more revenue. Noise complaints from inner-city neighbours. Lockout laws to tackle people getting outrageously drunk and raging at each other in an antisocial way. Live music fell out of vogue in Sydney.

And what felt like a rocketship when I lived in Tassie. Felt like crumbs in an empty biscuit tin in the city that was supposed to offer more opportunity.

While I'm genuinely excited for the opportunity to jam with other musos again, I find myself feeling unusually challenged by the juxtaposition of rockstar life and parent life.

When I think back to when I played in bands, it was a different time in life. I was teens–mid twenties, and certainly didn’t feel ready or responsible enough to raise a secure, balanced human being – I wasn’t even a secure balanced human at that stage. It was a wild time, the kind of wild that comes from teenage trauma. The kind of trauma it took years to work through.

Teenage Bella was brutal. 40, the age I am now, felt like a lifetime away (because it literally was) and she pitied the 40 year old DJ’s hanging out at clubs, hitting on the 18 year olds (actually I still do). Teenage Bella, the ultimate judge: Surely you should have settled down by now.

And by settling down, this meant being at home with your family. Sure, be wild in your youth, but she never intended to be wild forever.

But settling down, getting married, and having kids felt like a life sentence where one must kiss their dreams goodbye. Unless of course, you were “one of those people” where this was your dream. Alright, Teen-Bella, calm down.

Why do I conflate parenthood with the end of dreams as you know it?

Perhaps because for generations, parents have been portrayed as deeply uncool. Which, to be fair, is hard to argue with when someone is wearing white socks with sandals and a Legionnaires Hat at Saturday sports. Fashion choices aside, the responsibility needed to be a parent at home is at odds with the rowdy carefree nature of being on tour. Dad bods vs rock gods. Where is the mystique, the intrigue, the possibility?

But the thing about dreams is that being a parent doesn’t mean the end of them. The random luck of the draw has more influence. When you’re from a middle-class, large family that must split the family home inheritance between a tribe of siblings, there is no guaranteed home in retirement. Like most dreams, they quietly lose out to practical backup plans designed to make sure you’re not homeless in retirement.

The closest thing I've felt to a rockstar in recent years is being flocked by adoring toddlers chanting 'Lark's Mummy' all wanting to hold my hand – this peaked when I let Lark get a Rumi braid from a country agricultural show and wear it to daycare for 3 days, while it fuzzed and turned her hair into a knotted dreadlock.

Would I change being a parent? Not for the world.

Have I let go of my teenage dreams? Yes, a long time ago.

Do you love playing music? Everyday.

Do you miss playing music with other people? All the time.

Then stop looking a rock-band-fairy-god-mother in the mouth.

Don’t let a teenager bully you out of what you want more than anything. Stand strong now, take her on.

Get back in your green boxy Nissan Pulsar, and put another dent in it, you judgy teenage Bella.

I’ve got a rehearsal to go to.