Mum sent me to music classes when I was younger. She was the original Tiger Mum who spent at least 2 hours each day listening to me practice my scales and arpeggios, and another hour helping me memorize Italian words like pianoforte, adagio and andante. She even signed me up for an additional subject at O' levels - music. She wanted me to be musically-oriented, "all young ladies must be well-mannered and musical", she quipped in between my pathetic moaning. She wanted me to be more cultured and not restrict my vocabulary of Italian terms to spaghetti, lasagna and al dente. I think, secretly, Mum wanted me to have a career as a music teacher. I must be a great disappointment to her, today, because my piano is currently used for the occasional blues and rock, and my Italian terms gave way to several Hokkien swear words.
Then I met my husband. He attempted to impress me with his ability to play his electric guitar, his bass guitar and sing.... sometimes all 3 at the same time. He thinks he looks like Gene Simmons and sings like Bono. Our neighbors disagree.
Occasionally, he'd head down to the Crazy Elephant pub on Sundays for a jam. And when he can round up a bunch of equally tone-deaf mates, they'd book a studio for their jam sessions.
In his free time, he'd show me old photographs of his old band Appaloosa and one wouldn't even recognize him in those photos, leather pants, thick mullet and amazingly skinny... not the pants. But one could recognize that same look of pure pleasure as he holds his guitar.
Today, he plays with a band called Pure Mince. I can't understand the reason behind that name for a band and figured that these modest old chaps actually felt they were awful enough to call themselves Pure Mince (I understand it's a Scottish term for lousy). Their St Patrick's Day gig at the Prince of Wales pub last year had just proven that they were really modest after all. Their rendition of everything U2 was actually quite good.
David's still full of passion for his guitar and Pure Mince, though I wished he didn't practice his singing at home with his headphones on. The neighbors probably thought one of our dogs' about to give birth, or worse, I'd stepped on the boy's nuts.
So here are some pictures celebrating the hubby's first love, after me of course, and the reason I've become a band widow once a week and an aging groupie once every few months when he plays at a gig.