Did your Parents Deprive you of Fun?

Why did they do it?

It was 1980, and I was in Year 9 at college.

My friends and I were huge fans of the “Hottest band in the world, Kiss”, glued to all their amazing songs.

My mother, my dominant parent, had just bought my sister and I two tickets to their massive concert at Melbourne’s VFL Park, a huge outdoor football venue. It was a reward for good grades at school.

It seemed that the only people not going to it lived under rocks at remote locations.

My group of school friends were all going, and, the Saturday before the concert, we gathered at the home of one of my best friends, to listen (again) to their huge album Dynasty.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The next day was Sunday, and my family went to our church, as we always did on Sunday mornings.

My mother was a very strong Christian, and her faith had no flexibility nor room for anything that she saw as contrary to it. My faith was, and still is, very flexible.

The service started and continued on its usual path, leading up to the Sermon by our strong-minded Pastor. He preached about a very informative topic, and then, mid-Sermon, he abruptly stopped. He looked out over the congregation from his towering pulpit with piercing eyes and said those dreaded words that I still remember today: “ I hope that none of you are going to that Kiss concert!”

I felt beads of cold sweat break out on the back of my neck, and I slowly looked over at my mother. Her eyes were as cold as steel, and stared straight ahead.

When we arrived home, she bought the tickets from my sister and I for their purchase price, and, no matter how much we pleaded with her, she was determined that we were not going to be exposed to satanic music and demonic spirits.

Needless to say, all my friends went to the concert, and talked about it for days afterwards. I still remember the look on the face of my best friend’s mother when we told her — she said “she did what?”.

Unfortunately, there are consequences to actions.

Even though her son and daughter were not exposed to live evil, my mother had to endure the expansion of my Kiss album collection, as well as seeing the walls of my bedroom disappear under a wallpaper of Kiss posters. She was greeted by Gene Simmons’ tongue and Paul Stanley’s puckered lips whenever she ventured inside.

Ironically, she did not have the same opinion of other, supposedly satanic bands of the same era, such as Iron Maiden (“666, the Number of the Beast”), and Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath (“My name is Lucifer, please take my hand”).

I finally saw Kiss live many years later, in 2001, when they performed in Adelaide.

All these years later, I see that she was doing what she saw was right, in her own eyes, and being my mother, she was right, no matter what.

We still love her, to this day (RIP, 29/02/2020)

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