On disciplining your child
My Father’s Drums Through closed doors and double-glazed windows all over the neighborhood. The one true American art form, he called it, records turned up so loud the floorboards buzzed. No rock and roll allowed. No three-chord progressions in this house; no rudimentary hook, no bridge, no lame refrain, no silly haircuts please, we are musicians. Bashing along with the hi-fi he banged through our days and nights with a rat-a-tat rage, the fury fired…