My Daughter, Angus

By Bill Zahren
(Posted 12/28/04)

Not long ago my oldest child, Haley (age 13), asked the question millions of 40-year-old suburban males long to hear:

"Dad, do you know where the AC/DC album is?"

I knelt down and wept.

"THANK YOU GOD," I called out, my soul in rapture. The spirit of AC/DC lead guitar genius Angus Young descended upon me. In an instant, this vision rippled across my mind:

A huge auditorium. Lights are low. Crowd in a frenzy. Electricity crackles through the air.

A soundtrack ripples out the sound of some faux thunder, like a distant storm brewing. The crowd responds by lurching toward the stage, the scent of anticipation in their nostrils, the crazy look of rock n' roll lust animating their faces.

And then it starts -- low at first, then building, building. Initially you can't make out what a few hundred are chanting. As it grows, and hundreds turn into thousands, it becomes clear:

"HAY-LEY."

"HAY-LEY."

"HAY-LEY."

Without warning, the lights come to life, swiveling around like the appendages of an awakening alien as the drummer starts the heartbeat with a tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a on his symbol.

Then, as if materializing out of nowhere, it's Haley, bathed in a dramatic blue spotlight, wearing her baggy "boy shorts," wrist bands, two LIVESTRONG bracelets and black T-shirt, and her alien-head guitar pick necklace dangling impudently.

The crowd freaks out, wild with anticipation of the unrelenting ax brutalization that they know is on its way. At about the 3 minute mark, as if to say "enough is enough," Haley steps forward and unleashes a frenzied, face-melting, ax-thrashing guitar solo fusillade of rock 'n roll violence on her Gibson Angus Young Signature SG guitar (aged cherry color, mahogany body, rosewood finger board, humbucker pickups, made in Nashville - striking).

Underwear is flung onto the stage, teenage boys weep unashamedly, a dozen or so people simply pass out. The crowd becomes a sea of backward-capped, howling hooligans as Haley's freakish jam smashes through the thin line between decorum and electric guitar-driven spasticness.

At which point I, seated in row 21 of the balcony, explode into father shrapnel, ruining the concert experience and creating unfortunate dry-cleaning expenses for everyone within in a four-row radius.

All this rippled through my mind between Haley saying, "Do you know where the AC/DC album is?" and me hitting my knees.

And the thing is, I know I'm setting myself up for a fall. I know this could be another soccer situation. Haley showed some early interest and aptitude for soccer, so like a good, overzealous, high-testosterone American, within weeks I had visions of her playing in the Olympics and World Cup.

When she decided earlier this year that she didn't like to play soccer. I was crushed. WHAT? You don't like soccer? And you're going to let that stop you from playing? I mean, come on. Suck it up. You're going to play with extreme passion, forfeit most of the free time in your teen years for a game you don't enjoy, and you're going to like it, dammit! Your mother and I have huge plans.

So thank goodness Haley came to me one day last March and asked for an electric guitar and weekly lessons so I could transfer those unrealistic, unreasonable, high-pressure child expectations over to guitar playing.

Here's the thing: Haley has shown interest in a couple things I wish I could do -- be a good athlete and play life-altering, cranking ax that makes members of the opposite sex throw random undergarments onto the stage.

I can't be a star athlete. And having Haley shredding the electric ax really frees me from learning it myself. So party on Haley! I and my disposable income are fully behind you!

In fact, now that I think of it, it seems to me that Haley's Crate brand starter guitar may be a little inadequate for the next Stevie Ray Vaughan. The Gibson Angus Young Signature SG guitar runs a scant $1,900, complete with impudently dangling whammy bar and black reptile pattern hardshell case.

Hey, that's about the same as a the cost of a year of traveling-team soccer. Granted, watching Haley blast a 60-foot laser into the upper corner of the net would be a pretty spiritual event, but so is the intro to Back in Black.

Maybe the Lord giveth (one child-makes-it-big guitar fantasy) and the lord taketh away (one child-makes-it-big soccer fantasy) on this deal. We'll see. If all else fails and Haley bails on electric guitar, it might be time for "Pressdog Cranks on the Ax."

You KNOW I'll get me some of those Angus Young shorts and come flying off the big speakers. Pray for the people in the front row.

©2004 Bill Zahren

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