The music must be good if the walls vibrate, right?
I said, "THE MUSIC MUST BE GOOD IF ... " and this is where you either notice my mouth moving or I punch you in the arm and use sign language.
We're listening to my son's new band, The Saintanne, which plays music in what most of us would consider way-too-loud mode.
By "us," I mean 60-ish adults who, because of that aging thing, go functionally deaf if more than two people are talking. A metal-walled garage with flashing lights, a drum kit, a singer and two guitars all going full blast is a smothering experience.
But in a good way. That's my kid on the drums.
You gotta follow your dream, and Ben's has always been to be a musician playing drums. This brought sympathy from neighbors who said, "Wow, drums? Sorry," but I'd always say, "No, really, he's good."
And he was. I'd settle down for a nap and suddenly the floor would shake, the knickknacks would rattle, the air would quiver. Neighbors could hear it, but no one complained. The kid had rhythm and ability. In high school he played for a couple of musicals, such as "Godspell."
Four years ago, he and a friend formed Zion Curtain, whose music, judging by the sample still available on My Space, is very loud.
OK, I never understood their music, but that didn't stop Zion Curtain from going on tour. This consisted of piling into Ben's car, driving to Seattle and points northwest and playing places that pay their performers in beer and gas money. A couple even let them sleep on the floor afterwards.
Here's my point: Ben was married by then and had a job, and was working on being a good citizen, productive and settled and all that rot.
But he never quit wanting to be a musician.
Too many of us let our crazy, childhood dreams fall to the wayside when the responsibilities of "adulthood" beckon. Most of the stuff on our bucket list got there because we claimed we didn't have time, back when doing that stuff didn't involve a visit to the doctor first.
So when Ben went on his tour, we figured "good thing, because when he has kids, that's all gone." As he drove off, we winked knowingly.
Now, he's almost 30, and he and Crystal have Alice. Ben runs two Boys and Girls clubs. He hobnobs with politicians, human services types and business leaders.
But a while ago a friend said, "My band needs a drummer," and Ben said, "I'm there."
The Saintanne plays "experimental western," which is like no western I've heard: No twangy guitars or wailing ballads. It's more blues and rock with lots of reverb. The lead singer plays a tom-tom, and he and Ben get a real jungle rhythm thing going.
Last week they played at Kilby Court, a Salt Lake City hole-in-the wall one step above a garage band gig, because it really once was a garage. If you want to say you heard a band when it was getting started, Kilby Court is where you go.
So we went. It was the band's first gig, ever. Ben's arms were a blur, the singer wailed, the audience stood and the sound washed over us all.
I'm pretty sure it was good. I was so deaf, I really can't say otherwise. Ben seemed pleased.
This Saturday they're playing at Kamikaze's in Ogden from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m. I've never been there, probably won't go, but if you do, let me know how it sounds.
I said "LET ME KNOW HOW IT SOUNDS!"
Oh, just write it down.
The Wasatch Rambler is the opinion of Charles Trentelman. He can be reached at 801-625-4232, or firstname.lastname@example.org. He also blogs at www.standard.net.