Parents of the Band, a comedy about aspiring pop-stars and their embarrassing parents, sounded like a hit. Unfortunately, it's not very funny. Still, let's stay positive: at least it's accurate.
When I worked in A&R and wrote about new bands, I encountered many families similar to those depicted. Parents often view their child's glorious pop-life through the prism of their own shattered dreams, attending every single gig, no matter how distant, and waving from the mosh-pit. They crochet mittens with the band's name on. They buy "trendy" clothes like leather trousers. One dad I encountered put his back out grooving wildly to the escalating BPM of some hard house at an after-show party.
Indie parents are often the unappreciated heroes of the music industry, who drive the van and provide cheap accommodation when that challenging and experimental second album fails to render critics and punters senseless with awe. They are also scary.
Barely have the kids glanced at a guitar before ambitious dad is managing the band and pestering journalists for a front cover. One father haunted me, seeking coverage for his son's decidedly average bunch of rock wannabes. Later, the group told me he'd just lost his job, and had tried to join them on stage (shades of the Mystery Jets perhaps).
I've encountered many instances of dads reclaiming their fleeting youth by partaking enthusiastically in what they saw as a ready buffet of drugs and (as they would often say) "birds". Remember Derek Ryder and despair. Mothers, on the other hand, are often steadfastly unimpressed by their child's ambitions (although one I knew started seeing the group's drummer).
I once phoned an aspiring rapper for his first major interview. He'd given his street name, something like GMan the Basshead, so that's who I asked for. His mum hollered upstairs: "Desmond! Or GMan The Basshead, or whatever your name is today ..."
GMan the Sleepyhead responded: "Muh-ther; I 'as warned you. You is not to call me Desmond," adding petulantly. "Anyway, I is still in me jammies."
Mum faithfully relayed his message: "Desmond says: 'I is busy wit rhymes.'" The vision of Gman the Basshead wearing Spiderman pyjamas lingers on.
Critics beware: parents defend their progeny like big cats. One mother contacted me after I reviewed her son's clunking demo. Movingly, she recounted his distress, ending with the line: "You should be ashamed of yourself. He's only twenty-three, you know."
Oh, mu-uhm!
