Clair McFarland: That's What I Get For Bribing A Rock Star

Rocking ain’t easy, unless you’re Middleborn.

Even then it has its hiccups.

Not long ago I caught him messing around on our electric guitar when he was supposed to be putting away the dishes. He played a fat, reverb-laden version of “Smoke on the Water” that electrified me so much, it gave me a sudden urge to put away the dishes.

Middleborn’s fingers stammered on the frets. He paused, frowned at his pointer finger and popped it in his mouth.

“Blister?” I asked.

“Yup,” said Middleborn.

“Need a break?”

“Nope,” he said, and turned up the amp.

The twins, who are bluegrass musicians, were trying to play chess at that moment and didn’t need any stinkin’ rock n’ roll. So they heckled him.

“Freebird!” roared the little, feisty twin.

Middleborn scowled.

The big, sweet twin curled up with laughter.

“You KNOW I can’t play ‘Freebird,’ DUMMY,” said Middleborn.

I was just about to pluck the guitar out of his hands and make him sweep the house for saying “dummy,” but an idea stopped me.

“The first of you to learn ‘Freebird’ on guitar gets $150,” I blurted.

Sure it seemed genius at the time. It would take them years to learn that song, I reasoned. They’d get distracted, they’d quarrel over the guitar; they’d take breaks to go sledding. And I wouldn’t have to shell out $150 until Middleborn’s junior year of high school at least.

This way they’d all get in some guitar practice, and I’d end up with a boy who could play one of my favorite songs on demand.

I sniffed with satisfaction. But I accidentally inhaled the scent of a four-boy household, and spluttered.

Then I marched off to put away dishes.

Six days later, my editor called to ask me why I threw the word “tempestuous” into a news story. He caught Middleborn’s still-shaky Skynyrd strain in the background.

“Woah, who’s playing that song?” he asked.

“Oh, Middleborn. I promised $150 to the first boy to learn it,” I answered.

“I WILL MATCH THAT,” shouted my editor, his voice rattling the amp in the next room.

Middleborn’s jaw dropped open.

He’s spent the last two weeks bent over a YouTube tutorial and that guitar, explaining to some bygone young lady that he’s too free to weather her ennui any longer.

I like to pad barefoot into the guitar room (we used to call that a living room) and yell things like “Turn that down!”

Middleborn hitches up one eyebrow and turns a knob on his axe. Then he plays a G.

“Like this?” he asks.

“That’s LOUDER!” I shout back.

“Oh, whoops,” says Middleborn, twisting the knob again. He plays a D.

“THAT’S EVEN LOUDER!”

Middleborn’s nose does a golly-shucks-wonder-what-went-wrong wrinkle, and he slams out an E-minor so loud it shoots up my sinuses.

“I’M GONNA UNPLUG YOU!” I bellow. And I mean it like I say it. I’m not just out to unplug that amp, but the electrified mafia of attitudes that has overtaken my son.

His green eyes widen. Not in a scary, Ozzy Osborne sort of way, but in a “nope, don’t unplug me” manner that I find endearing.

“Now,” I say with a sigh. “For the love of Eric Clapton. Play something soft. And NICE.”

He nods. And he cranks out at least 45% of the most heartfelt, most forlorn version of “Freebird” my sinuses have ever experienced. 

Clair McFarland can be reached at clair@cowboystatedaily.com.