Hipster Jr.

Such unabashed public appreciation is uncool by all known standards, and even in the eyes of his peers, Fred's not doing it right. He doesn't shop at Abercrombie and Fitch, and he isn't a varsity starter as a sophomore. He isn't going steady with the hottest girl in school. At Woodrow Wilson High School, where Fred is legally obligated to try to learn something five days a week, Fred says he has an awful time of it.

It's bad enough that his shaggy hair and trendy clothes get him mistaken for a girl sometimes, something Fred frequently jokes about, rejoicing when he isn't called "ma'am." If there's any trace of real anger in Fred, it comes out when he talks about the kids at school. "They're just stupid," he says, and the shallowness, the preoccupation with cliques, none of it appeals to him. Conforming to the standards of a good teenage nonconformist, he's got a healthy disdain for high school.

At home, Fred's parents are devout, conservative Christians, a lawyer and a schoolteacher—not the kind of folks you'd think would be shipping their son off to bars and galleries, even if it is with an official legal permission slip drawn up by Bill in case he's not around when the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission shows up. Fred was about 8, Bill says, when he and wife Jill first realized their son was going to be a little different. They'd gone out to dinner for the evening, leaving Fred at home with his older brother. Fred called his dad at the restaurant.

"He asked, 'Would it be OK if I painted the back fence?'" Bill says. Of course, he knew better. "You mean, you have painted the back fence?" he asked his son. When they got home, they found the fence covered in peace signs and flowers.

Art galleries and smoky bars; these are the places that Fred will remember someday when he recalls his adolescence. At the Wooden Nickel, Fred doesn't concern himself with the half-hour drive back to civilization. That's his dad's job. Fred's too busy looking artfully nonchalant, pounding away at a couple of keys, letting the rock and roll surge around him. After the band's set, he walks straight up to Bill, who's still applauding.

"Good job, sport," Bill says, patting his arm.

Feigning exasperation, Fred replies, "Oh, Dad. I am not going to play football!"