‘Can you keep the noise down a bit, please?’ Morry - my dad. Sometimes he drives me bonkers. He’s the other side of forty and he thinks he’s a rock star. Right now he’s in the lounge with the amp cranked right up, playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Cass - my mum - she’s just as bad. I can hear her dancing around. She’s singing too. I’m trying to practise, next week I’ve got a concert. How can I concentrate with that racket in the next room?

‘Sorry, mate,’ Morry replies, ‘we got a bit carried away.’

I can hear them giggling. They’re middle-aged and they carry on like little kids.

You wouldn’t know it, but Morry used to be fa mous. For about a week. He was in a band called Crimson Viper. They had a couple of singles in the charts. They were even on Countdown. Molly Meldrum said they were going to be the next big thing. They weren’t. Morry reckons it was bad karma, whatever that means. Their manager ripped them off, their drummer OD’d. The same sad old story.

That’s when Dad met Mum. She was a groupie.

Well, she used to go to all their gigs anyway. Morry says she was always right up the front, next to the stage, throwing things at him.

‘What things?’ I asked.

‘Roses,’ said Mum.

‘Knickers,’ said Morry.

Mum was always trying to sneak backstage after the show. When she finally did, Morry fell in love with her and they’ve been together ever since.

Marry’s never given up trying to be famous again. He’s been in hundreds of bands. I’m not exaggerat ing, literally hundreds. They always start the same - all the members are really enthusiastic and practise a lot, usually at our place. Then they start playing gigs in scungy pubs way out in the sticks. There’ll be about eight people watching. (My mum is always one of them.) They become more popular. Morry rings up all his old contacts - managers, DJs, produc ers, people from record companies. But just when they’re ready to go into the studio, or play a really big gig, something happens. Something catastrophic. The bass player is offered a fortune to play in Slim Dusty’s band, or the drummer OD’s. Then the band busts up. Mter a while it starts all over again.

Morry still thinks he can make the big time. So does Cass. In her eyes he’s never stopped being a guitar hero. I reckon he’s got Buckley’s. I’d never say that to him, I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, but you’ve got to be realistic.

For a start there’s his hair. Or lack thereof Over forty bald blokes just don’t become rock stars. Sure, singers like Elton John and Phil Collins haven’t got much up top, but they went bald after they’d made it big, not before.

Another problem is Morry’s musical tastes. Actually musical taste would be more correct, because really he only likes one band - Led Zeppelin, or Led Zep as they’re known in this house. Led Zep hasn’t made a record in twenty years. So what? They were the best. They invented heavy rock. Everything since has been second-rate. That’s what Morry reckons anyway.

Everywhere you look in our house you see Led Zep. You can’t even sit on the toilet by yourself Led Zep is there, too, peering down. One corner of the lounge room is dedicated to the memory of John Bonham, Led Zep’s drummer. He OD’d of course. There’s an enormous poster of John, and under neath, a cross made from two drumsticks. When he died Morry was inconsolable. He moped around for weeks and weeks. He made a tape of all the Led Zep drum solos, and played it over and over. It drove us all bonkers.

Then there’s my name - Robert (after Robert Plant, singer), James (after Jimmy Page, lead guitar), John (afterJohn Bonham, drummer), Paul (after Paul Jones, bass player). I’m not joking, it’s there on my birth certificate - RobertJamesJohn Paul Morrison. I suppose I’m lucky Morry’s not a football fanatic.

Jimmy Page played a Les Paul. So Morry plays one. Jimmy Page played a Telecaster. So Morry pulls his out all the time. Jimmy Page played a twin necked Gibson. So Morry went out and got one of those, too. When Morry sings, he almost sounds like Robert Plant. He’s got the same stage mannerisms, too. If they ever make a movie about Led Zep, then Morry should audition. He’d have to wear a wig of course. Morry writes his own songs. They sound just like Led Zep songs, though.

‘What Led Zep album’s that off?’ I’ll ask when I hear him playing something vaguely familiar.

‘Oh that’s an original, one of mine,’ he’ll reply. Yeah, sure thing, Morry.

Sometimes we’ll go and visit Marry’s mates. In the old days they used to play in bands with him. They live in big houses in places like Potts Point and Vaucluse. They’re all bald, too, but at least they wear Italian suits and drive BMWs. As we drive home I ask Morry why he can’t do what they do - write jingles for television ads and do stuff with computers.

‘Sold out,’ he’ll say. ‘They’ve all sold out. At least

I’ve got my integrity. I haven’t prostituted my talent to the corporate world.’

‘Good on ya, Morry,’ Cass will say.

In the meantime our beat-up old Kombi can hardly make it up the hill, we eat lentils at least five times a week, and the only way I’ll ever get to the Conservatorium is by winning a scholarship.

I was playing guitar before I could walk. We’ve got the photos at home - me in nappies holding a baby Telecaster. When other kids were revving around the playground I was learning the chords to ‘Stairway to Heaven’. By the time I was seven I was in Morry’s band. I’d come on at the end and jam on the last couple of songs. The audience used to go wild. It’s not as if he made me play. It wasn’t like that at all. But there were always guitars lying around. People were either listening to music, talking about music or making music. It was natural that I should want to do it, too. I thought other kids were mad, kicking footballs or catching waves when they could be play ing rock. Loud rock.

There’s another thing about playing a guitar. It’s to do with girls. They’d never been that interested in me. Not until we formed a band at school and played at a couple of socials. Then suddenly I was Brad Pitt. It was amazing. Girls would whisper when I walked past, there’d be all sorts of notes left on my desk, and Mandy McCarthy, the spunkiest girl in the school, asked me to go out with her. She dropped the captain of the football team to go out with me.

Not so long ago things were looking good as far as Morry was concerned. The latest band was tight. Morry was on vocals, I was lead guitar. The bass player hated Country music, the drummer was a Christian - he didn’t even drink, so no chance of him

OD’ing. Morry had been on the phone non-stop for a week. To be honest, I think people were a bit fed up with him, all those producers and record-company types. They liked him, everybody liked Morry, but they probably thought like I did - the hair (or lack thereof), the Led Zep thing - this bloke wasn’t going to make it big again. But somehow he managed to con them. We had studio time booked. We were going to cut a single. This was it. Morry had used up his favours a long time ago and if we blew this, there’d be no next time.

Then it all changed.Just like that. It wasn’t the bass player. It wasn’t the drummer. It was me - Robert Jamesjohn Paul Morrison.

I was home by myself, playing around with the radio, trying to find something I liked. Usually I only bothered with the pre-programmed stations, the rock stations. But that day, for some reason, I started hitting the search button, seeing what it came up with. The radio locked into a strong signal. It was a classical station, I knew that, though all I knew about classical was that Morry hated it more than anything else, even more than rap, and that the kids who did it at school were all dorks.

I was just about to hit search again, but I stopped. I don’t know why, but I did. I stopped, I sat down and I closed my eyes. The music didn’t really sound like anything at first but after a while I started to hear things in it.

Bang! The door slammed, Morry and Cass were back.

‘Wake up, Robby,’ said Morry, changing the station, ‘that nonsense would send anybody to sleep.’ I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t really awake, either. I was somewhere else.

Morry picked up a mike, and threw me my guitar.

‘Come on, Robby,’ he said, ‘lets practise the opening again.’

I thought that was the end of it, that it was just one of those strange little things that happens to you every so often. But that night, as I lay in bed, the classical music started playing again. The next day it happened, too. All I had to do was close my eyes and it began. I tried ignoring it. That didn’t work. I tried to blast it out by playing ‘Black Dog’ at full volume. That didn’t work. I tried not to like it. That didn’t work, either. I did like it. I liked it a lot.

After that, when Morry and Cass were away, I’d tune into that station. Later I bought a little radio with earphones. I was listening to classical all the time now - on the school bus, during lunchtime, in bed at night.

What was happening? It had once seemed so straightforward. I loved Led Zep, I loved hard rock, I played electric guitar. I was good at it, it’s what I’d do with my life. Now it wasn’t so straightforward. For a start I was addicted to classical music. Worse than that - I wanted to play it as well. A musician can’t just listen. Sure, Mozart didn’t write a lot for the Telecaster, but I decided to learn another instru ment, to ask somebody to help me.

The music teacher at school was always telling me not to play so loudly, but she was friendly enough. I asked her if she could teach me some classical on the piano. At first she thought I was joking, I was the school guitar hero after all, but then I started mentioning names - composers and pieces I liked. She was impressed. We arranged to have a lesson the next day. After that, it just happened.

At first I kept it secret from Cass and Morry. I was still playing in the band - not very well though. Try playing hard rock when your head’s full of Beethoven. Then one morning Cass found my Chopin scores in my school bag. And didn’t it hit the fan then!

‘What’s this?’ said Morry, throwing the papers on the table. ‘What the hell is this?’ He didn’t even give me a chance to answer.

‘I’ll tell you what this is. This is music written by old farts who died hundreds of years ago. This is music played by bloody robots. Old farts’ music played by bloody robots. That’s what this is.’

I explained the whole thing to him. How I felt des tined to play this music. How my teacher said I had a

‘natural aptitude’, that maybe I could get a scholar ship to attend the Conservatorium if I studied hard.

‘Robby,’ he said after I’d finished. jazz or pop or techno or hip-hop or even rap I could understand, but classical? It’s just not right, Robby. Bad karma. Bad karma.’

He walked out the door, still muttering, ‘Bad karma. Bad karma.’

I suppose he’s more or less accepted it now, weeks later, though things between us aren’t great. Not like they were. We used to be more like mates than father and son. Probably because we played in the same band. It’s hard to think of somebody as your dad when he’s in the middle of a stage, legs wide apart, screaming into a mike about making mamas sweat and groove.

I had to stop playing in the band. He didn’t say anything, not even ‘Bad karma’. I knew he was cut up though. He cancelled the studio booking. I stopped playing in the school band, too. Mandy McCarthy, the spunkiest girl in the school, left a note on my desk - ‘You’re dropped, dork’.

Next week I’m going to play, all by myself, in front of the whole school, parents as well. Apparently somebody from the Conservatorium is coming. Cass says she’ll be there. Dad doesn’t think he can make it, he’s got a really important gig with his new band. In some scungy pub out in the sticks, of course. Somebody from the record company might be turning up.

On the night of the performance my music teacher picks me up. I’m nervous as hell. I never felt like this playing in Dad’s band.

‘I can’t go on,’ I tell the teacher.

‘Yes you can, Robby,’ she says.

‘No I can’t. Morry’s right - it’s old farts’ music played by robots.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, Robby?’ she says, and as my name is announced she gives me an enormous shove and I stumble onto the stage.

When I see the piano I feel okay again. I sit down on the stool and steal a quick glance at the audience. I can’t see Cass, but it’s hard to see anybody with the spotlights glaring in my eyes.

It doesn’t go too badly, I only make a couple of mistakes and they’re not really big ones. The audi ence is really clapping a lot. Maybe there’s something else happening, like once when we played in a pub the audience was going wild and I thought, wow, they really like us, but it was the stripper on the bar they were cheering. (Dad made me look the other way.) There’s no stripper here though, it’s me they’re ap plauding. Then I hear it, no mistaking it - it’s Dad’s whistle. I see him now, about halfway back, standing up. He’s wearing his rock-star wrap-around shades, his best T-shirt and black jeans. He’s stomping on the wooden floorboards with his cowboy boots. My mum’s next to him, in a pink mini-skirt and shiny top. They’re both clapping and yelling, ‘More, more, more!’ just like you do at rock concerts. I can’t believe it. Of course all the kids start doing it too- stomping, clapping, yelling. Then the parents start as well, even these really straight people, stomping on the floor and yelling, ‘More, more, more!’ The noise is incred ible. I play another piece. They all go crazy again. I play something else. More craziness. But that’s it then, because I don’t know anything else.

Mum and Dad come backstage.

‘Great gig,’ says Dad, slapping me on the back,

‘For a robot.’

Mum plants a big kiss on my cheek. Then they go, because Dad still has to play and the pub is miles away. I have to hang around, to talk to the person from the Conservatorium.

I spend ages talking to him. He’s pretty posh, but he’s really friendly. He even knows who Led Zep are. He practically gives me the scholarship there and then.

I go out celebrating with my mates and by the time I get home Mum and Dad are already in bed. I walk over to Dad’s amp, crank it right up. Then I strap his Telecaster on and start playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’. It sounds loud, wild, out of control. The walls are shaking.

‘What the . . .’ Morry yells from the bedroom. Then he comes out in his pyjamas. The ones Mum made for him, with the little guitars all over them. He picks up a mike, cradles it in his hands, throws back his head just like Robert Plant (except the hair doesn’t get in his eyes) and starts singing.

By this time Mum’s out of bed, too. She’s doing her spaced-out hippy dance, the one she always does to ‘Stairway’.

Tell you one thing, I sure wouldn’t want to be our neighbours.