Mikey started music camp last week. He is in the beginner’s guitar section. The electric guitar was a present for his 7th birthday, but we could only afford the lessons this summer. Hah! Didn’t think that one through.
He loves it, of course. There aren’t many activities our extrovert doesn’t enjoy, so long as they don’t involve risk. Some friends are in ice hockey camp, which I thought sounded like a lot of fun. I asked Mikey if he would like to try it, and he looked at me as if he was struggling to explain a difficult concept to a slow child. “Mom, don’t you think that’s a little dangerous? I could get hit by a puck, and then where would I be?”
Camp is in a trailer from the 70s, because nothing is too good for our boy.
He can now play D, C, G7, and E minor chords; notes on the B, E, and G strings; and several songs like Yellow Submarine, Get Up Stand Up, Eleanor Rigby, and The Hokey Pokey. So I’m told.
We’re still in the rough stage, where everything sounds like cats on a hot tin roof. Last night he practiced Get Up Stand Up, and I hinted that 14 E minors fired off like a gun shots may not a song make. I played him the actual song, which he claimed sounded slower than the version he heard at camp and then proceeded to hum to me the differences. That whole conversation was like the time Vanilla Ice tried to explain to MTV News why Ice Ice Baby sounded nothing like Queen and David Bowie’s Under Pressure. I love him for it.
Mikey, not Vanilla Ice.