I had a nice conversation the other night with a friend of mine. He's a bartender and server at some of PA's local bars and restaurants, and he'd stopped in at the Safeway I was working in to pick up some groceries after closing time. He told me something rather illuminating about the special-needs band I used to be a part of:
"They were always a joke band."
In retrospect, I should have known that from the beginning. But I tried anyway. And inevitably the Menstrual Clot and Fuckboy lashed out at having an actual professional musician in their band, someone who actually wanted them to be more than just a joke. And they finally river-danced on my last nerve after months of stalling, delaying, and one tired excuse after another to avoid any sort of progress. Those two deserve each other. They can go pretend to be rock stars in their manbaby-cave all they want, or until the Fire Marshal shuts them down once and for all.
I know that over the years I haven't had the best of luck with local bands. And sometimes I think that the problem, the thread that ties all those failures together, is the one I look at when I look in the mirror. After nearly twenty years of playing in working professional bands, perhaps I asked too much of the locals. That said, I only expected them to be capable of maintaining a minimum standard of professionalism, and to be true to their words. And the special-needs band failed miserably at that. There are some good bands up here, to be sure - guys like The Bangers and Jack Havoc. But they have no need or want for my services, nor would I want to disrupt the chemistry those bands have.
I know that when it comes to music, I can come off at times as arrogant. Sorry, not sorry. It's an arrogance born out of time and accomplishment - raise your hand if you've played in front of a crowd of over forty thousand people - and not simple ego run amok. I don't think I'm God's Gift to anything. My friends list on Facebook contains more than one drummer that can blow my doors off any day of the week without breaking a sweat. But the talent I do have, and the willingness to put in the work, they've gotten me the opportunity to go a lot of places, and do a lot of things. And I've got the physical and psychological scars to prove it. To be honest and sure, it's apples-and-oranges different from bands playing their own music in front of crowds that size instead of someone else's. But to quote Kosta (Gus) Portokalos, Michael Constantine's character from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, we're all fruit. The essential thing is that I know what I want, and how to get to that goal. And the truth is, I'm done with trying to conquer the world. I'm too old for that shit. Playing the occasional gig in Bremerton or the Seattle Metro is as far as I choose to push it. And that's what kills me about the special-needs band. With me back-stopping them, they were good enough to do it - joke band or otherwise. But the Menstrual Clot and Fuckboy blew it, and blew it hard. The band's guitarist, however, had nothing to do with my departure, and I wish him nothing but the best of luck. Considering that he's a cancer survivor, he needs all the good wishes and luck he can get.
I'm done with joke bands. I don't want - I demand to be taken seriously.
But I'm also reaching the point where I may be done with bands altogether. I know that while I feel that I have something left to contribute to the world, I am getting too old to rock and roll. The Undisputed Champion Time is taking its toll on me, both physically and psychologically. So I need to get while the gettin's good. So I'm taking the first steps in starting a band that's truly my own: Gentlemen, Destroy. I've reached out to a local bassist, who like me is on the outside looking in, and while he admits that he has a lot on his plate these days, he wants another bite of the apple. The guitarist of his last band has approached me about his own plans, but I've yet to speak to him about mine. I have a few other guitarists I'm considering inviting into the fold. But since The Undisputed Champion Time will inevitably win in the end, I'm giving this project an expiration date. If I can't have something tangible - a lineup, a rehearsal schedule, gigs - by the end of this year, that's it. I'm done. Walk away, just walk away. I'll be fifty in six months. I have a sick wife. I have a job that is effectively full-time. I have a cute but psychotic dog. I have a life. And life demands your full attention and them some. But I still want to rock. I want to shout. I want to have fun while I'm still capable of doing it. And if you aren't willing to put the work in to make your dreams come true no matter how small and specific they are, why even bother?
