Reminds me of when I was just a boy growing up on the farm. I’d lie under my bed quivering from those explosive, angry sounds of nature until Mom dragged me out by my ankles and soothed my nerves by telling me it was just John Bonham up there in Heaven, practicing his drums.

Mom was like that. Dad, too. To them the world was a land of cause-and-effect, all brought about by musicians. Forest fire on the hillside? That’s just KISS warming up for their next tour. That giggling coming from my parents’ room late at night? Just The Doobie Brothers passing through. My sister making weird noises in the early morning hours? “Don’t you worry about that,” Mom would say. “She’s just having a Steely Dan moment.”

It’s funny what tales parents will tell their children in those early days of bliss and innocence. Like when we’d hear that strange, foreboding trampling through the woods late at night, the animals screeching in terror, the wolves howling and the bears and mountain lions running for their lives. “Nothing to fear,” Dad would say. “That’s just Ted Nugent going on a camping trip.”

Of course, I believed everything my parents told me. That Elvis and his entourage of Memphis elves brought the presents on Christmas morning, and that Keith Richards invented New Year’s Eve. Then there was that time when my parents tried to explain why Steve Morse joined up with Deep Purple. “A twister tore through his old band’s tour bus,” Mom told me. “And when it was all over, the guitar wizard took a good look around and said, `I’ve a feeling I’m not in Kansas, anymore.'”

Yeah, it’s funny what parents will tell their kids. I’m a grown man, now, with a boy of my own. And I make it a point to tell the truth to my son whenever possible. Yes, sir, I’ll never tell my son that Bjork is the Tooth Fairy or that Mariah Carey sings notes so high only dogs can hear them. And I’d never, ever tell my son that thunder is just John Bonham up there in Heaven practicing his drums.

After all, everybody knows that’s Keith Moon.