Is Trying to Pay the Rent with My Rock Ruining my Life???

Let's get this out of the way real quick.  I'm $58 short of Paying the Rent with my Rock this month. Considering this is still a fairly new endeavor, I can live with that number.  Now my friends, lets get in the DeLorean, activate the Flux Capacitor, accelerate to 88 mph and go back in time. Back to January 1st, 2011, as we examine this month of Paying my Dues, and trying to Pay the Rent with my Rock.

Great Scott....

It's New Year's Day. I'm hungover and elated. These 2 feelings are usually distant strangers. But today I just received news that I've Paid the Rent with my Rock. Just a few hours after that headline flash, I got some more good news. A friend of a friend sent me a PayPal deposit. She had seen me play months before and wasn't able to put any money in the tip hat that night. She felt bad about it and decided to send me $50 now that she was doing better. You know who you are. Thank you so much. You Rock. If only everyday could be like this. But this is Earth, and it can't. As January pressed on, the elation fled and the hangover continued.

The second Thursday of January I bought 2 new distortion pedals.  For those of you that know me well, you can imagine my excitement.  Guitar effects pedals are to me as doughnuts are to Homer Simpson.  The mere thought of them makes me drool like a St. Bernard With Down Syndrome. This Thursday was quite possibly one of the longest working days ever, with the new gear in my trunk, anxiously awaiting to Rock.  It seemed that the clock had Down Syndrome also.

I got home around 6:30 pm and immediately got to work. I took my whole effects board apart and wired 10 pedals together. I changed the chain of order in every possible combination to see which way would sound best and allow me to use the most common distortions with ease.. Then I discovered one of my pedals had 2 outputs. This would allow me to run the same guitar through 2 distinct amplifiers, giving a sort of stadium effect. Now Pandora's Box was really open. 

For about an hour I was manically creating tones and delay patterns.  The neighbors thought there were various species of mating whales upstairs. Each new sound I would make would give me another idea for an adjustment, and I'd frantically write down the previous settings and quickly change them to the next, like some sort of mad scientist on a meth binger.  Homer Simpson Doughnut Sounds (see paragraph 3) resonate from my body in such a way that you can't tell if I'm horny or hungry. Then the phone rang.

"Hey man, its Joey G. Did you get my text? I'm hosting a NAMM  Jam tonight (see NAMM definition at footer)  . There's some pro Blue's guys playing.  Come over and play a tune with my band."

Fuck.

When you live in Southern California, these things happen often.  There's always supposed to be Somebody Who's Somebody, Somewhere.  This doesn't phase me. But as a wise drunk once told me, "Every good musician is one hook up away from being a big deal."  The pedals would have to wait.

I played with the band that night...and DIDN'T get to play with my new pedals at all until that Sunday.

A pattern like this continued all month. It seemed I was always fulfilling obligations, either rehearsing with my various groups, seeing somebody's band who has come to see one of my bands, or getting last minute calls for some sort of opportunity. Simply put, I was BUSY!

Too busy.  My lady friend was clearly disgruntled with my very existence. Or better put, with my nonexistence with respect to our relationship. 

I spoke to Grandpa again (see December's blog) and he wanted me to fly out next month for a visit.  I simply couldn't. I had gigs lined up.

On one occasion I was randomly struck with 3 incredibly clever song ideas.  I consider myself a pretty good performer, but writing songs is what I really do best.  Don't believe me? Listen to a few of them here www.reverbnation.com/posttrauma. Normally, I jump on an idea and work it out rite away. That's the best practice when writing songs; to capture the moment, the idea, and complete it at one sitting, even if it takes hours. On this day though, I didn't have time. I had gigs. I had rehearsals.  These ideas are written down, and remain song-less to this day.

All of my gigs and rehearsals were for acoustic acts. Consequently, my electric guitars were becoming more of professional acquaintances rather than steamy mistresses. My Telecaster needed a Facebook profile for us to have any interaction. 

My body was suffering too.  I tend to eat pizza whenever possible.  While gigging, this seems to be more possible than usual.  It's custom to have a shot and a beer when I play a gig too. A lot of gigs means a lot of shots and beers and pizzas.

I was exhausted. I'm still exhausted as I write this.

Amid all this neglect, there was only one aspect of my Pre-I-Must-Pay-The-Rent-With-My-Rock life that wasn't suffering: my Day Job. In fact, it seemed to be thriving.  I hadn't called in sick, didn't really show up late (by my standards) and I closed some deals.  The numbers were pretty good, better than usual.

What kind of fuckin' fucked up sense did this make? The goal of Paying the Rent with your Rock is to NOT have a day job, to NOT bow down to The Man, to NOT lead a mortal suburban existence.

Then panic struck as a revelation shadowed over my very soul. I asked myself, "Through this process of trying to Pay the Rent with My Rock,
had I............have I............fuck...............I can't say it...."

Pause...

Longer Pause...

'Have I somehow become a responsible ADULT!!!!!??????"

Anxiety. Panic. Depression.

How much can a responsible adult possibly ROCK?! And if I don't ROCK, how the FUCK am I going to Pay the RENT!!!!???

I needed to do something immature.  Quickly I took the December page off of my giant calendar and made a huge paper airplane. I stepped out to the balcony of the music room of my upstairs apartment and launched it into flight, much as I used to do as a kid. The giant paper airplane glided with ease, as if not made of paper at all.

As I watched it cruise over the parking lot and towards the liquor store, the depression and anxiety continued, and another thought overwhelmed me:

"Is trying to Pay the Rent with my Rock ruining my LIFE????!!!!!"

 No.

Its not ruining my life.

But it's noticeably changing it. 








P.S- If you have suggestions or connections to help me pay the Rent with my Rock, please, don't hesitate .  I thank you all for your support.

Footer- (NAMM: a huge musician convention that is held here in Anaheim. Actually, its a Cock Convention. A Sausage Fest if you will, of smelly metal heads making H.S.D.S.
(see paragraph 3) over gear they couldn't afford even if it were for sale, and S.B.W.D.S.(see paragraph 3) drooling  over C List music celebrities.)

I call it Paying My Dues

Some call it Law of Attraction.

Some call it The Secret.

Some call it Karma.

I call it Paying My Dues.


November ended with me needing to Rock twice as much in order to make the Rent.  The first week of December, it appeared I would Rock HALF as much.  The only gigs I had lined up were on Friday nights, and it was likely that we'd be canceled on Christmas Eve and New years Eve.  The Holidays were pretty much ruining my life, as they tend to do.

Myself, Scrooge McDuck, The Grinch, and the Abominable Snowman from the Rudolph clay-mation cartoons were planning a holiday villain's night out at Pure Platinum.

Then an opportunity came up.  The corporate office for my day job (they hate it when we call them 'corporate')  was having a holiday luncheon at a golf course.  My Boss asked if I would play some cocktail lounge music while people schmoozed each other, and then accompany Him during a medley of oldies as the finale. This was not a paying gig, and it went against a strict code I've always followed: NEVER mix The Man with my Rock. I had nothing else going for me at the time, so I took it.

The next day, my friend Freddy, an aspiring R & B singer, called me up and asked if I was busy on December 22nd.

"That's a Wednesday... I'm washing my hair.  NO I'M NOT FUCKING BUSY!"

Freddy had booked his first paying gig in hopes to Pay the Rent with his R & B and he needed accompaniment. He was playing the holiday party at an Assisted Living. Although Freddy didn't know it, this was not going to be a payday for me either.  I never accept a cut of someones first paying gig.  And I never EVER play old folks homes. Again, a strict code: NEVER mix The Man with my Rock.  However, I could not turn my back on a friend in his time of need.  I accepted the Old Folk's Gig.

The NEXT day, yet another friend of mine asked if my acoustic duo could fill in at a pub he books Thursday nights for.  He too, had no reimbursement to offer. My standards were dropping rapidly, but I thought to myself, "Hey, at least its a fucking BAR!" That's 3 free gigs.  I accepted this non-Rent-paying gig to help out another friend.

After a few rehearsals for the Luncheon of The Man, my Boss expressed some extreme surprise and enthusiasm in my ability. He asked if I would play at our company branch holiday party too.  My Boss is both very generous and very intimidating.  For both of these reasons, I rarely shoot down his requests.  That made 4 non-Rent-paying gigs in one month, since accepting money for this could feasibly be considered embezzlement. 

The NEXT day, I received not 1, not 2 but 3 calls to play gigs...FREE gigs. Bah Humbug!!!!!!!!!

This was not looking promising. Just 2 of my 4 Friday Night gigs at Branagan's.  Playing for old folks at a retirement home. FREE concerts for The Man.  FREE concerts at a bar that I know pays well. It looks like its going to be fucking cold this winter.  As the kids say... FML.. But the events of December took a radical turn as I faced the biggest conundrum one can face when trying to Pay the Rent with your Rock...

To Play for Free, or Not to Play for Free?????...............That is the Question.

I didn't respond to any more offers. I needed help. I needed advise. I needed consult from a wise man that wasn't a musician or a business man.  Someone with a fresh point of view.  I called the wisest person I know of, my grandpa, William John Ulrich II.  (I'm the IV for y'all that didn't know.)

Grandpa: "How are you Tiger?"

Me: "I'm not doing so great Grandpa.  I'm trying to Pay my Rent using only my Rock.  It's not working.  Lots of people are asking me to Rock but nobody is Paying. I feel like playing for free is better than not playing at all. But the Land Lord won't accept my Rent on potential. The Land Lord wants MONEY."

Grandpa: "If you called to borrow money you called the wrong fucking grandparents."

Me: "I didn't call to borrow money. I called to black-male you for it.  Wire me $500 by next weekend or I'm telling Grandma about where you really spent Spring Break in '56."

Grandpa: "GOD DAMN YOU UNGRATEFUL FUCKING-"

Me: "SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN!!! I'm just playing around.  I called for advise."

Grandpa: "You ain't gonna get no good advise anymore if you make my blood pressure go up like that again. What are we talking about? Your Rock, that's rite, that damn Rock music. You should play some real music, like some jazz."

Me: "About paying the Rent with my Rock. And how nobody is Paying."

Grandpa: "Listen up. I'm only saying this once.  You're basically starting a new business. When you create a new endeavor, be it a whore house, a gambling racket or a Rock band, you're gonna work long hours for little pay.  You don't know if these things are going to pay off, that's why some people have day jobs, for security, and others get rich or get broke taking risks."

Me: "I don't want a day job and I don't want to be broke."

Grandpa: "Then you gotta work hard and be smart about it.  I know you're working hard. So be smart.  It's like taking a pretty girl on a date.  You put on a nice shirt.  You wear some good cologne. You pick her up and spend money on a decent restaurant and a shitty movie. You don't have any guarantee she's going to blow you at the end of the night, you just trust that your confidence and the lines I taught you are going to give this chick-flick a proper massage parlor happy ending."

Me: "Be smart. Work hard."

Grandpa: "And when I say be smart, be smart. Don't take out a nun to dinner and a movie. Take out a pretty girl that you like and that you think is going to like you."

Me: "Be calculated."

Grandpa: "And work hard.  You're generation wants everything instantly. In my day, we called it Paying Your Dues."


Me: "I think I understand. Thank you Grandpa. You've been helpful.  Send Grandma my love.  And don't forget to send that $500."

Things were clearer now.  This was Paying My Dues.  That's one bill that had to get paid before the Rent.

At this point I examined the gigs that I had lined up.  They didn't need to be in vain. They were booked for the rite reasons: to help out friends.  I just had to work harder to get what I wanted out of them. I took a leap of faith, if you will, that a paying gig would find me under the mistletoe and lay a fat green Benjamin Franklin paying French kiss upon my genitalia.

The first free gig came (though I didn't) and a funny thing happened. Paying gigs started falling from the sky.  The banquet coordinator at the golf course heard me singing and booked me for a wedding. Head start on March's Rent.

An affluent doctor saw my duo play at the other holiday party and booked us for his black tie event. We got to dress like James Bond, Rock out for a mere hour, eat a 5 course meal at a 5 star restaurant, get totally fucked up on expensive wine and martinis, and got paid $150.  EACH!!!! That's 30% of the Rent in ONE HOUR.

 At the non-paying-gig-at-the-bar-that-I-know-pays-well, we ended up with almost $100 in the tip jar. Split 2 ways, 10% of the Rent baby! Along with another offer to return in January.

Then yet another friend of mine called and said he had an acoustic gig lined up at a private party for $75 each.  15% of the Rent!

Calls kept coming in.  In total, I had 16 offers to play in the month of December alone.  I sifted through all the Pretty Girls and declined all of the Nuns.


On New Years Eve, I was short the Rent by $122.  Branagan's gave us the New Years Eve slot after all. The house paid us $50 and we got $25 in the tip hat.  I had missed the Rent by $47.

Then on New Years Day, my buddy Jon went into Branagan's to pick up some stuff he left behind in a drunken stupor the previous night.  The manager was there. She asked how much we got paid. Jon replied. "Hold on, I don't think so" she said as she opened the register and gave him another $100. That's $50 each.

Before I got the money order for the Rent, Jon called me with the news.  I paid my fucking Rent...with my Rock.

I even did my Laundry with my Rock with the extra $3.





P.S- If you have suggestions or connections to help me pay the Rent with my Rock, please, don't hesitate .  I thank you all for your support.

.