Read Online My Year of Epic Rock by Andrea Pyros - Free Book Online Page A

with a few other people from the ecology department at the college he teaches at. They call themselves Thin Vitae, a name that for some reason cracks up every adult. Me? Not so much.
    Anyway, they “jam” (yes, seriously, that’s what he calls it) once a week to oldies music in their faculty lounge. They even play the annual student/teacher picnic. And Dad was so gung-ho that I share his love of music that when I was ten, he signed me up for two weeks of Girls! Rock! Camp! in New York City where Grandma lives. He convinced me to go, even though I was intimidated by the whole idea, but after the two weeks of being bossed around, big time, by a woman with long hair and a grumpy attitude and a series of faded T-shirts who said she played backup on a bunch of alt-country albums, I could at least keep a beat.
    It was actually fun.
    Dad was beyond ecstatic. I thought he was going to pass out when we had the concert for the parents on our last day and we played Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” I think I saw him get teared up after the show when everyone was having juice in those tiny paper cups that always get all soggy. He made all the other professors he works with watch the video of my big drum debut and showed it to any college student unlucky enough to enter his office for months afterward.
    Mortifying.
    But I am actually okay on the drums, or at least I was when I was still playing. Not exactly good, and certainly not great. But I took lessons for a year after Girls! Rock! Camp! and I can still keep the beat. But then Brianna kept saying that my drumming lessons and practices were cutting in to our time to hang out together and that drums were a “boring instrument,” so I told my parents I was too busy with homework and I quit, even though I sort of didn’t want to—I didn’t think the drums were boring, and I knew Dad was bummed because he’d hoped I’d stick with it.
    It had been way too long since I’d even seen a drumstick, let alone picked one up.
    â€œOf course I remember you playing drums. ‘Enter Sandman!’” Dad made a shredding air guitar move, almost knocking over his computer. Did I mention the part about him having a beard and how his hair is going gray? I’m not sure air guitar is really right for him anymore, not that I’d ever tell him that.
    â€œRight, well, some friends and I were talking about maybe forming a band to play at the talent show.”
    â€œHey, that sounds great. Anyone I know?”
    â€œUm, I’m not sure. Well, I mean, you know Tiernan Albert.”
    Did Dad know anyone I went to school with other than Brianna? Had I even invited anyone else over since, like, third grade?
    Ugh. Talk about depressing.
    â€œI always had a band going when I was your age. I loved it,” he said.
    â€œYou know, Shane, that’s one of the guys who wants to do something for the talent show, he said girl drummers are cool.”
    â€œWomen drummers are cool!” said Dad, super excited. “Meg White, Gina Schock, Moe Tucker.”
    â€œIsn’t Moe a guy’s name?”
    â€œThis is a female Moe. Also Karen Carpenter, Sheila E., Debbi Peterson, Janet Weiss. I’m sure there are more recent names that I won’t know about because your old man is too old and out of the loop. What’s that band you all like? The Neon Knickers? Don’t they have a female on drums?”
    Dad has a photographic memory. It’s amazing. He can look at a map once and never need to see it again. Greatest skill ever.
    He started typing something on his computer and pulled up an old-looking music video. He pointed at it. “See?” I sat down on the couch next to him and squinted. The outfits were kind of crazy, but the drummer was awesome.
    â€œThat’s Sheila E.,” he said, nodding his head along with the music.
    â€œI kind of feel weird about being in a band,” I said.
    â€œWhy? What’s