Having four daughters means my life is basically running band auditions for teenage boys. Every time a new one shows up, it’s like another hopeful walking into the studio, nervous smile, sweaty handshake, ready to prove he can play the part. They think it’s a casual meet-and-greet. Wrong. This is the audition.
I’m not here to scare them off. I want to see if they can keep time, play in tune, and treat the music — my daughter — with respect. Some come in with attitude, some forget the lyrics, some just aren’t ready for the gig. But once in a while, one walks in who’s got something real: tone, humility, and a sense of rhythm that fits.
We have a system. Every new boyfriend starts as “Boy.” One syllable. Capital B. No name until it’s earned. You don’t make the band on day one. You learn the setlist, show up on time, and prove you can handle the stage. Respect my daughter, respect the rest of the band, meaning my wife, our family, me, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn your name.
I was in my teens and 20s once. Musician or not, becoming a dad tends to shift your perspective.
The Hall of Shame
- Car Mechanic Dipshit Boy. Oldest dated him for two years. Fake tough-guy swagger, the type who thought raising his voice at her made him look manly. Spoiler: it almost got him blasted more than once. I pitied him, his parents were tin-foil-haters who thought college was a government scam. “Don’t go, you’ll just be in debt.” Okay, but what’s the master plan? Stand around the gas station revving your Civic until destiny taps you on the shoulder? That’s not a life strategy, that’s a deleted scene from Fast & Furious 27. Dipshit is dipshit.
- No-License-No-Job Boy. This one belonged to Daughter 3. The kid didn’t have a license. Or a job. Sure, he’d toss her some cash for gas and pay for dates, but she was the one who had to drive him everywhere, like an Uber driver with Stockholm syndrome. He frustrated her, and frankly, he frustrated me, too. Get a license. Get a job. You’re not a houseplant, do something.
- Eye-Fetish Freezer Boy. Daughter 4 – First handshake, I got that “future Dateline episode” vibe. Turns out, the kid had a fetish for pictures of my daughter’s eyes. Not selfies. Not smiles. Just eyeballs. “Send me your left eye.” That’s not romance, that’s a freezer in the garage waiting to happen. And his parents? They didn’t want him dating her because she was “different.” Their judgment? Pure bullshit. Thankfully, he didn’t stick around long. Weirdo.
Daughter 2 Standards
She hasn’t brought a Boy home at all. Not because she can’t, but because none of these high school clowns meet her expectations. She’s holding out for someone who’s got their act together, a law degree, a doctorate, and a BMW, perhaps European. Admirable, sure, but she might be aiming too high at this age. The bar is low, like trip-over-it low.
Enter: The Drummer Boy
So when the oldest brought home her latest Boy, a drummer, I prepared myself for another train wreck. Because “Dad, he’s a drummer” is never the phrase you want to hear when you’re hoping for long-term stability and health insurance.
But Drummer Boy? He surprised me. Respectful. Polite. Looked me in the eye. No freezer vibes. No dipshit swagger. Just a kid who genuinely seems to like my daughter.
Then came the Studio Test. I led him into my lair, vintage guitars hanging like trophies, tube amps glowing like relics, pedals stacked like candy. He froze. Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Like Charlie in Wonka’s factory, if Wonka were obsessed with tonewood and reverb. For once, it wasn’t Dad versus Boy. It was musician to musician. I saw the spark, the same one I had when I was stringing together trash guitars and dreaming of “someday.”
The Music Test
And then he passed round two. He took Oldest to a show, she came home and shared the band with me, and they were good. Like, add-to-my-playlist good. Kid’s got taste.
Then we talked about music. Pearl Jam. Floyd. And not the lazy “Syd Barrett was the only Floyd, man” garbage. He had a real, thought-out argument for why early Floyd hit differently than Gilmour Floyd. Nuanced. Factual. A real opinion. That earned him something rare: the Dad Nod.
The Verdict
He’s still Boy, but he’s close. Real close. He respects Daughter 1 and us, passed the Studio Test, and has legit taste in music. That’s a solid resume in Boy world.
Almost name-worthy. Almost.
But here’s the deal: one slip, one freezer vibe, one dipshit moment, one “can you drive me because I don’t have a license” move, and he’s back to Boy. Capital B. No exceptions.
Until then, he’s hovering on the edge of graduation. But in this house? You earn your name. Always.