But before I tell the story, let me say, I love rock 'n roll...the sounds, the attitude, the look....everything. So, for entertainment's sake, and all of you hipsters out there that have decided to buy vinyl instead of mp3 (myself included), I'll backtrack to a major part of my seventh year. When I was in elementary school, I was gifted a "boombox" for my birthday. I listened to the local pop radio station for a few weeks before I realized I could "borrow" cassette tapes from a big box I found in the closet. I grew very fond of Bob Seger, Tina Turner, and Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors" album. I then learned a trick on accident while examining the design of those cassette tapes. If you put tape over the punch-outs on the top edge, you can utilize the previously unpushable "record" button (I'm sure this is common knowledge with folks who had more time growing up with cassettes, but I remember being really impressed with my discovery). I ended up erasing an entire "Best of The Eagles" with pop radio recordings...probably a lot of Boyz II Men, Mariah Carey, and Ace of Base. Now, I know it sounds ridiculous, but up until this time, I hadn't put much thought into the round disk-shaped opening on top of my portable stereo. I am guessing I had chalked it up to a technology far beyond what I had available in my home. I didn't know what a CD was. But one day, while exploring the brand new Wal-Mart Supercenter down the road, I walked past a collection of red square packages decorating the end of an aisle in the electronics department. On each package, staring back at me, were three attractive female faces with unrealistically piercing eyes. I examined the back side of the plastic package and found a symbol that I recognized from the top of my boombox...a circle that said "compact disc digital audio" next to it. So, in hopes that what was in the package was compatible with my music machine back home, and I'm guessing as the result of some prepubescent sex appeal, I bought my first CD with a bunch of quarters I'd been saving up...."Crazy, Sexy, Cool" by TLC.
I listened to that album on repeat, which I think is hilarious now. I eventually acquired quite a collection of 90's pop/dance music....mostly sports-related compilation albums like "Jock Jams". It wasn't until I was eleven or twelve that I discovered the album that really did "change everything". My parents and I were at a bookstore for reasons I can't remember as buying books was not a part of my childhood. There was a music area in the store with racks and racks of CD's...all with those large plastic things attached that I'm guessing were used to prevent five-fingered discounts. I ended up spending twelve dollars on some music I wasn't sure about. The cover had a picture of an old man carrying a bundle of sticks. It wasn't anything like the neon colored covers of every other CD's I'd purchased. I don't think I realized the songs encoded on that disk were 30 years old. I didn't know the difference between what I was listening to at that time and what has become known as "classic rock". I don't know why I chose "The ZoSo Album" instead of Jay-Z's "Hard Knock Life" or Backstreet Boys' "Everybody", but I'm so happy I did. I unwrapped the cellophane as soon as I got in the backseat of my parent's car, popped the CD into my new "Discman", clasped that foam-covered headset around my ears, and pushed play...
Hey mama, said the way you move
Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove...
I was listening to Led Zeppelin IV, The Fourth Album, Four Symbols, ZoSo, Runes, The Hermit...whatever you want to call it. I think my brain exploded every 30 seconds for the entire 45 minute drive home.
I ended up buying most of the other Zeppelin albums shortly thereafter, along with Pink Floyd, The Who, and Cream. I've since been exploring the rock 'n roll genre thoroughly, as well as the blues, r&b, country, soul, and countless other genres that overlap. I bought a guitar when I turned 15 years old, learned how to imitate a lot of those noises I loved, started a crappy punk band, and now here I am, 15 years later with no hit singles, no record deals, and only a hand full of people that realize I still play on a regular basis. I've played with 26 different groups, last I counted...some for a few years, some for just a few shows. It's been a lot of fun. And that brings us back to my last gig, St. Patty's Day.
"What do you mean you don't care?"
It wasn't the musician that snapped back with the response, but a lady that had just got in a fight with a waitress a few minutes earlier. She had simultaneously been commenting on my lack of "investment" with the group I was playing with while I was indulging the musician his own complaints. I was a little shocked, but I asked her to explain her reasoning. What it boiled down to, evidently, was that I didn't smile enough while on stage...which meant to her that I was unhappy and not really interested in performing. "I just wish you were more invested in your music," she said to me. I laughed out loud and she gave me an ugly glare. "I don't care," I said another time. A 30 minute argument ensued.
The argument didn't actually involve me that much, but it was definitely spurred by the few things I did say. Everyone else who had gathered around by this time had a lot comment on...mostly about how musicians are underappreciated, how it's hard making a living as an "artist", how people "don't really understand", and a whole bunch more sappy, ego-boosting self-deprecation that didn't make any sense to me. I'm as guilty of making a big deal about my personal endeavors as any other egomaniac, but this conversation was just stupid, so I added fuel with the same remark..."I don't care." The St. Patty's Day crew of band members and drunkards became more livid, especially the ones trying to offer support to a "fellow artist" in an argument I was evidently having with a drunk lady that I hadn't said more than a dozen words to. I was now the target of a, "Wha do ya think yer better than us?" assault.
The musician that I first spoke of tried to resolve the situation. He said something that sounded rehearsed, as if he'd been practicing for a Rolling Stone feature, about how playing music was about that feeling you get on stage when you hit just the right note and it feels like you're floating. I understood this. But then he elaborated, "I'm just trying to share my music with the world (or something like that) and make a living. I'm a broke musician trying doing the only thing I know how to do...write songs and perform them for the world (or something like that)." The lady stormed off. The smell of macho musician cliche was thick on the sidewalk.
The musician then told me he had spoken with the lady earlier. Evidently, she didn't want to pay the cover charge to "listen to that crap" (referring to my group's music...I won't entirely disagree). He continued the interview talk with some sort of "haters gonna hate" speech and reiterated to the entire group how broke he was, just living on the little amount he made from tips and iTunes sales. He spoke with a man next to me about his new album. He critiqued my guitar playing. He heckled a couple college kids walking on the other side of the street. He bummed a cigarette off of a fanatical middle-aged woman. He was wearing one of those plaid flat caps, a corduroy sport coat, and pointy boots. The set he played earlier that night was mostly composed of blues covers like "The Thrill is Gone", "Going Down the Road Feelin' Bad", "Crossroads", and several other 12-bar standards. And then, a homeless man walked up to us.
"God bless you, do y'all have a dollar you could spare?" Our circle was broken for a moment, as a man in dirty clothes engaged us all with a sad smile. I recognized the man, as he often walks by the clubs several times each night looking for a few bucks. Before anyone could say sorry to the man, "the musician" turned to him, reached into his wallet and pulled out some bills. "Sorry man, all I've got is twenties." He pulled the man further into our group, put a twenty in his hand, and embraced him in a long hug with lots of back pats. "God bless you brother. You go get a good meal. I love you man. Have a good one. God bless." He turned back to his audience. Everyone swooned and got out their wallets.
The homeless man walked off into the night, probably with more money in his pocket than the club made on cover charge. The musician sold a CD or t-shirt to everyone standing in our circle (except me, if you hadn't already guessed). The drunk lady came back out and said the exact same things she told me a few minutes earlier. And me...well, I just sat there dumbfounded. I spent a while trying to figure out just how mad I wanted to be about the interactions I'd just had with complete strangers. I decided I didn't care.
I'm very passionate about a lot of things...painting, music, Scrabble, etc. But I'm sorry to say, I don't think there's any room leftover for a stranger's critique of my stage presence or the authenticity of a "fellow struggling artist". I've tried hard for years to convince myself that I cared a lot about everything. Turns out, I really don't care about much. And while it hurts a little to admit that I lack the compassion I've always hoped I had, I feel confident that I care a lot about a few things, and hopefully that's enough.
Don't get me wrong...
Or do, I guess...I don't care. But it's not that I'm trying to avoid compassion, I'm just trying to be more honest, even if it hurts, and concentrate on what actually matters to me. It's probably selfish, but at least I know it's not manufactured. Turns out, it's a real balancing act trying to totally invest in what's important to you as a person while avoiding inadvertent self-importance. So, not that it really needs to be said, but I'll say it...I'm not here to convince anyone of anything...other than myself, maybe. And if you don't care, that's fine, because I don't care that you don't care. I just gotta ramble on...
And if you wear flat caps and corduroy coats, don't let me change your look, just don't assume that they make you more of a professional, struggling blues musician that covers the 2004 Eric Clapton versions of 1930's Robert Johnson tunes. Take that for what it's worth...as you know, I paint pictures in a fashion that's not too different from what was done 500 years ago. I'm afraid originality will be always out of my reach, but you won't catch me wearing a beret anytime soon. Do what you love, love what you do, blah blah blah...but don't try to fool all of us into thinking you're who you are...if we can't figure it out without a getup or rehearsed monologue, shame on us.
And shame on me for posting this. I might be a pretentious hypocrite for blogging about this sort of stuff, but I'm afraid of what it would mean if I wrote all of this down and kept it to myself. The most honest people I've met are all assholes...I'll come to terms with one while I work on the other.
I love rock 'n roll...I guess that's what this all boils down to. And I guess I like the "I don't care" attitude that comes with a lot of it. If you watch a recording of an early Led Zeppelin performance, you'll see what I mean...they don't care about anything other than that exact moment. Or maybe they didn't even care about that. I'm pretty sure they didn't care about the jerks that criticized them for ripping off blues standards and calling them their own (go ahead and backtrack a couple paragraphs if you'd like). And I'm pretty sure they weren't just acting like they didn't care. Or maybe I'm assuming too much. Probably so, but who cares? I do, obviously, but you don't have to. If nothing else, just listen to "Good Times Bad Times" again, or for the first time if you haven't had the fun. That kick drum should be enough to beat all of this nonsense out of your head.
In the days of my youth
I was told what it was to be a man
Now I've reached the age
I've tried to do all those things the best I can
No matter how I try
I find my way to do the same old jam...
