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.)
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.)
This is sensational stuff Dude.
ReplyDeleteThank you Bernie, I glad you've found some value in my experiences.
ReplyDeletekeep rocking!! ;P
ReplyDeletekeep blogging too
It is a VERY slippery slope friend. I used to dream rock, breathe rock, live rock. And then after years of crappy retail and customer service jobs, I landed my first decent job. Then 1.5 years later, this lead to my first good job. Another 1.5 years after that, this lead to a very good job...
ReplyDeleteBut guess how often I play my guitar now?? Right, almost never. Guess how many bands I'm currently in? Zero. I lost the rock. Now I feel like a prisoner of my good job. The money is flowing like never before, and yet I am pretty much miserable. I miss the rock. Sounds like a cliche, but totally true. So why not quit, right? Looks simple in the movies when people quit great jobs to follow their dreams...
Well, REALLY think about the reality of giving up a $70,000+ per year job to go back to working at Wal-mart and playing in bar bands. NOT easy! Who's going to make the payments on that shiny new truck in my garage? Time to sell the 46-inch LCD HD TV? Can I really leave the two-story house to go back to the tiny studio apartment? And of course I HATE myself for not having the guts to just leave it all.
Be careful with the day jobs my friend. At some point you might find yourself a prisoner of your own success, just like me... In the money, but miserable. Don't stop rocking!!!
To Anonymous Prisoner of His Own Success - I feel your pain my brotha! I did everything you are supposed to do also, went to college, got a degree, found a professional job in Health Care, got a promotion, ect. For the first 2 years I had exactly the same experience and routine: Wake up, go to work, work over time for free to impress the boss, rot in traffic, get home exhausted, go to sleep, dream of a more interesting life, Repeat steps 1 through 7. I too, had lost the Rock. But I just got to a point where I really didn't care about it anymore. I did move back to the studio apartment. I sold my European car and got a Ford van for hauling gear. For months now I've been balancing both worlds (sort of) and just drinking lots of coffee, dragging my ass to rehearsal after work, and dragging my ass to work some mornings after a gig. As you can see by my blog, this life ain't easy, and it ain't for the faint of heart. But I believe that my efforts will eventually pay off, and honest compliments from people like you help to fuel the drive inside of me. Thank you very much for taking a moment to read this, and for sharing your story with us. I truly appreciate your support, and rest assured, that I will indeed keep on Rocking. And please, my man, strum a few chords on your guitar once in a while.
ReplyDelete