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kinks.”
    â€œNothing serious,” he says. “I’ve just noticed that you seem to be drifting off a bit during practice. Almost like you might not be putting everything into it.”
    I know he’s right. I’ve been daydreaming lately, uninterested in the stuff I’m expected to play. It’s just so boring to do the same backup on the same songs, one performance after the other. I don’t really understand what the big deal is—it’s not like anyone comes to the shows to see me. I know how far that argument will get me, though, so I grab a stool to sit across from him.
    â€œSo I’ve noticed that you’ve been getting a bit lazy,” he says. “You’re falling back on chords too often. Let’s try ‘Old Joe’s on the Town Tonight.’ I’ll take you up to the bridge, then you play through it for me.”
    He drops right into the song without even thinking about it. He can be a bit of a slave driver, but I have to admit that my old man is a hell of a talented musician. I listen for the melody line, tapping out the rhythm against my guitar, and pick it up when he hits the bridge. He’s right that I’ve been cheating through this part for a while now, relying on chords instead of picking out the tune, which is more difficult, so when I try to do it the way I originally learned it, I screw it up.
    He puts his hand up. “Okay, hang on,” he says. “See what happens when you get lazy for a few shows? You lose it.”
    â€œDad, I don’t get what the big deal is,” I say. “It sounds fine when I just keep the rhythm.”
    â€œWell, we don’t want it to sound fine,” he says. “We want it to sound great. Neil, you know how this works. We’re only as good as our weakest part. I know you’re better than this. I’ve heard you play these songs a thousand times.”
    â€œNobody is coming out to see me,” I protest.
    â€œYou’re right,” he says. “They’re coming to see all of us. Together. Now, I want you to run through this piece with me until we’ve got it down pat.”
    I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
    We run through “Old Joe’s” a few more times, and then he makes me practice two more songs until he’s satisfied. By the time we start to get rolling, I’m half glad he forced me to do it. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I probably wouldn’t know how to play guitar at all if it wasn’t for my semi-famous family.
    We’re at it for more than an hour. “Okay,” he says finally. “That’s good for today. How do you feel about it?”
    â€œGood,” I admit. “I think it’ll sound better now.”
    â€œYou’re darn right,” he says.
    â€œI was wondering something,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about ‘Off to the Dance’ and wondering if maybe I could come up with a solo.”
    â€œOh yeah?” he asks skeptically.
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be a big deal,” I tell him. “I kind of have something worked out.”
    â€œLet’s hear it,” he says, sitting back down.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “So it’s right after Shamus comes in with the bodhran. I was thinking we could add a few bars, and I could play against the drum for a bit.”
    He nods and listens as I push out the riff I’ve been working on in the back of my head since last summer.
    â€œSomething like that,” I say when I’m done.
    â€œI like it, Neil,” he says. “I’m glad you’re thinking about the music this seriously. I’m not sure it’ll work with the tune the way we have it arranged, but keep working on your own ideas. Who knows, maybe you’ll even end up writing your own songs someday.”
    Figures, I think, as I walk back to the house. He’s got no problem telling us what to do, day in and day out, but the minute I