Want to start a band? Don't invite any parents to join it

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jul/08/start-a-band-dont-invite-parents

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Like a lot of now-middle-aged Gen-Xers, I Used to Be in a Band. I’ve been feeling that old itch to make some music again, so I’ve been trying out some new players, meeting up for practices.

I’ve come to a very important realization at this late stage of my life. I now have two rules for choosing creative collaborators: no junkies, and no parents.

I know that this will elicit gasps of horror from some of you. “Junkies have made some great music!” you will cry. Fair enough, though most of the famous junkies you’ve heard of got famous before they got hooked on heroin, pills, booze, underage Thai sex workers or whatever rocks they crashed their life on. Lou Reed and Billie Holiday had their record deals long before they ever stuck needles in their arm.

Oh, it’s the “No parents” part that you’re upset about?

The thing is, spotting those little red and yellow plastic toddler cars in a person’s yard is about as much of a red flashing light as noticing track marks up and down their arms. Both say, “When I show up at all, I will be late,” as well as, “There will be vomit.”

I know, I know – you parents are still hip and cool and that it’s vitally important for you to feel like parenthood hasn’t made you into one of those Boring Old People.

And yes, I love little Gibby and Hugo and Flannery. They are awesome little science projects, and I’m sure they’ll be fascinating creatures in about 35 years.

But every time you cancel on us or show up an hour late because one of them is running a fever, or because the grandparents have shown up unexpectedly or because you thought today would be a great day to take baby Adeline to see the elephants at the zoo, you’ve left three or more grownups standing around a room with their instruments plugged in, just… waiting. It’s apparently not OK to say, “Hey, why don’t you just be like French parents and leave your kid at home with a carton of cigarettes and a Ukrainian separatist war criminal who’s moonlighting as a nanny?” to people. They get all up in arms about it.

And now, because of little Brooklyn, everyone involved will have to schedule another practice, which is already hard enough for a bunch of people who aren’t washing dishes in restaurants and pounding whole cases of beer for a living, anymore.

I know I’m not supposed to speak ill of your bundles of joy; we live in the Cult of Child, where anything to do with children and childrearing is sacrosanct and the entire world – from Castro Street storefronts in San Francisco to dive bars at 3am – must be sanitized and made safe for kids at all times.

But like anyone who has ever worked with a heroin addict, pill-popper, alcoholic or parent of a child under, I don’t know, 41, will tell you: until that thing that really lives at the center of their life is satisfied, there will be no progress on any front. For the next few decades, parents, I’m afraid your kid is your only hobby.

I’m not trying to be a jerk, but I have learned this the hard way. No matter how much you love making music, you will always love your kids more. And, really, that’s just as it should be. I’d be worried about you if you didn’t.

Seriously, though, it makes you a terrible bandmate.