Same As It Ever Was (But Then Again, No)
I have a fairly good memory, and I make an effort to not sentimentalize my past. I clearly remember that I had pain and loss and troubles and doubt and fear in my younger years. But back then, I was also able to plausibly imagine that I had all the time in the world to work these things out. (In my homegrown mythology, Denial and Optimism are twins).
So, change was scary but often beautiful and thrilling: my last girlfriend became my wife; most of my original band-mates from the early days moved far away, but I eventually co-founded a new band where I got to be a front man and songwriter; our first child was born and we surprised ourselves by being pretty good at parenting; we made it through six miscarriages but eventually had our second child, as healthy and beautiful as the first, making it clear to us, finally, that a healthy chunk of our "good parenting" was dumb luck; I lost jobs but always found new jobs; each of my bands fell apart but I started or joined new bands (and kept writing new songs).
So far, so good, yes?
But at a certain point, "change" changed. It was no longer synonymous with "challenge" or "evolution" or "adventure". Instead, it began to evoke dread, and, on a bad day - and there seemed to be more bad days - it started to sound like a polite euphemism for "entropy", or "decay", or just "loss".
When the kids were younger, the work of bringing in money for the family, or the work of taking care of the household and the garden wasn't any easier, but we didn't allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by it all - or at least not overwhelmed into paralysis - and so we were able to keep a certain momentum going.
Over these past few years, that's become a bit more, ah, problematic. Not that there aren't some real factors in action here (and I won't presume to speak for my wife, but these things apply to her too), including chronic pain, financial uncertainty, and the worst President in our country's history, each of which can and do create their own cascades of escalating misery.
<Well, I think I've painted a dark enough picture here; time to let some light in (since one of my principal deities is Balance) >
So, here's where I tell you what doesn't suck. Or, to put it another way - a better way - what am grateful for? Plenty, it turns out.
First, my wife, then our children. There's a lot more to it than just jotting their names down at the top of a list, of course, and they're not what I wanted to write about right now, so I'm setting them to one side for the moment. (Don't worry; they'll be fine).
What did I want to write about here and now? Music.
I've been playing and singing for more than 40 years now, and writing and arranging my own material for more 30 years, so on a certain level, it has been one of the constants in my life. I've gone through more than a little self-doubt about my inherent abilities and whether or not I would have achieved a great deal more if I'd gone all-in and made it the focus of my daily working life, and those internal arguments still rattle on, to this day. But for better or worse, I kept writing and playing and singing. At times, I had no clear idea of what I was working toward, beyond a fervent commitment to never being a former musician, but, hey, it did the trick.
My last band, The Waterdogs, had a long run - more than 15 years - but despite the fact that we had a lot of good songs, with two main songwriters in the group, and a decent level of musical proficiency, we performed rarely - perhaps 3, 4 times a year - and those were mostly block parties or school fairs. Not sure if that was the main cause of our demise, but it was a factor. There were also personality clashes, and the not-uncommon build-up of impatience with each others' eccentricities. (As I've observed on more than one occasion, being in a band can be like the worst parts of a being in a marriage and running a small business).
But when it became clear that the group was done, I sat down with our bass player Joe, who I'd always seen eye-to-eye with, and we agreed to keep playing together, with the material pared down and re-arranged to be more suitable for a duo, and to see if we could enlist one or two more players to make it a fuller ensemble.
It took more than a year, but we managed to bring on, first, David on mandolin and violin, and then Berne on percussion. Then came the work of getting them really connected with the songs, figuring out which parts worked, which didn't, then a bunch of practices. Not a fast process, but we made steady progress. The challenge for me was that I was now The Guy. I wrote all the songs, I sang all the songs, I played the only guitar on all the songs. I'd never had that role before, and it required that I really knew what these songs were supposed to sound like, and that I help everyone to find their parts. Oh, and I had to sing and play my best, to keep them wanting to be part of my made-up world.
The initial goal was to record about 13 songs well enough to serve as a good demo, and we accomplished that. Again, during this process, I had to put more thought into every note I sang or played than I ever had before. And as we did the recording, overdubbing, and mixing, I realized that I was - at least at times - singing and playing, well, better. Clearer. I'd broken through some kind of barrier.
I also realized that during the times I was playing, even just by myself in the front room, whatever physical or emotional pain I'd been feeling receded. It didn't vanish, mind you, but it was like it just didn't matter as much, for a little while.
Some breathing room can make all the difference.
I have a fairly good memory, and I make an effort to not sentimentalize my past. I clearly remember that I had pain and loss and troubles and doubt and fear in my younger years. But back then, I was also able to plausibly imagine that I had all the time in the world to work these things out. (In my homegrown mythology, Denial and Optimism are twins).
So, change was scary but often beautiful and thrilling: my last girlfriend became my wife; most of my original band-mates from the early days moved far away, but I eventually co-founded a new band where I got to be a front man and songwriter; our first child was born and we surprised ourselves by being pretty good at parenting; we made it through six miscarriages but eventually had our second child, as healthy and beautiful as the first, making it clear to us, finally, that a healthy chunk of our "good parenting" was dumb luck; I lost jobs but always found new jobs; each of my bands fell apart but I started or joined new bands (and kept writing new songs).
So far, so good, yes?
But at a certain point, "change" changed. It was no longer synonymous with "challenge" or "evolution" or "adventure". Instead, it began to evoke dread, and, on a bad day - and there seemed to be more bad days - it started to sound like a polite euphemism for "entropy", or "decay", or just "loss".
When the kids were younger, the work of bringing in money for the family, or the work of taking care of the household and the garden wasn't any easier, but we didn't allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by it all - or at least not overwhelmed into paralysis - and so we were able to keep a certain momentum going.
Over these past few years, that's become a bit more, ah, problematic. Not that there aren't some real factors in action here (and I won't presume to speak for my wife, but these things apply to her too), including chronic pain, financial uncertainty, and the worst President in our country's history, each of which can and do create their own cascades of escalating misery.
<Well, I think I've painted a dark enough picture here; time to let some light in (since one of my principal deities is Balance) >
So, here's where I tell you what doesn't suck. Or, to put it another way - a better way - what am grateful for? Plenty, it turns out.
First, my wife, then our children. There's a lot more to it than just jotting their names down at the top of a list, of course, and they're not what I wanted to write about right now, so I'm setting them to one side for the moment. (Don't worry; they'll be fine).
What did I want to write about here and now? Music.
I've been playing and singing for more than 40 years now, and writing and arranging my own material for more 30 years, so on a certain level, it has been one of the constants in my life. I've gone through more than a little self-doubt about my inherent abilities and whether or not I would have achieved a great deal more if I'd gone all-in and made it the focus of my daily working life, and those internal arguments still rattle on, to this day. But for better or worse, I kept writing and playing and singing. At times, I had no clear idea of what I was working toward, beyond a fervent commitment to never being a former musician, but, hey, it did the trick.
My last band, The Waterdogs, had a long run - more than 15 years - but despite the fact that we had a lot of good songs, with two main songwriters in the group, and a decent level of musical proficiency, we performed rarely - perhaps 3, 4 times a year - and those were mostly block parties or school fairs. Not sure if that was the main cause of our demise, but it was a factor. There were also personality clashes, and the not-uncommon build-up of impatience with each others' eccentricities. (As I've observed on more than one occasion, being in a band can be like the worst parts of a being in a marriage and running a small business).
But when it became clear that the group was done, I sat down with our bass player Joe, who I'd always seen eye-to-eye with, and we agreed to keep playing together, with the material pared down and re-arranged to be more suitable for a duo, and to see if we could enlist one or two more players to make it a fuller ensemble.
It took more than a year, but we managed to bring on, first, David on mandolin and violin, and then Berne on percussion. Then came the work of getting them really connected with the songs, figuring out which parts worked, which didn't, then a bunch of practices. Not a fast process, but we made steady progress. The challenge for me was that I was now The Guy. I wrote all the songs, I sang all the songs, I played the only guitar on all the songs. I'd never had that role before, and it required that I really knew what these songs were supposed to sound like, and that I help everyone to find their parts. Oh, and I had to sing and play my best, to keep them wanting to be part of my made-up world.
The initial goal was to record about 13 songs well enough to serve as a good demo, and we accomplished that. Again, during this process, I had to put more thought into every note I sang or played than I ever had before. And as we did the recording, overdubbing, and mixing, I realized that I was - at least at times - singing and playing, well, better. Clearer. I'd broken through some kind of barrier.
I also realized that during the times I was playing, even just by myself in the front room, whatever physical or emotional pain I'd been feeling receded. It didn't vanish, mind you, but it was like it just didn't matter as much, for a little while.
Some breathing room can make all the difference.
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