Why I play music... aka... how a kid with Asperger's learned to connect with the world... Part 1

I was recently asked one of my favorite questions: why do I play music?

 

I’ll answer that in a second, but it is funny that when talking about music with others, it usually falls into one of two categories:

 

1) Why I love music and why being a musician is awesome

 

OR

 

2) Why I hate music and why being a musician sucks

 

When talking about number one, I extol the virtues and many gifts music has given me. The stories, the emotions, the connections to other humans (more on this in a bit), the comfort I receive from hearing a familiar album, the way it allows me to process my own emotions, the way music connects me to my past (I have terrible recall for my past, so I use music as my historical checkpoints. For instance, if someone asked me what I was up to in 2003-2004, I could probably muster up a few things but it would hardly be a complete answer. But, if you asked me about the time when I was obsessed with Arcade Fire’s “Funeral,” Sun Kil Moon’s “Ghosts of the Great Highway” and Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism,” I could run you through a huge list of connected memories from that time in my life. I know there’s more than a few of you out there who can relate.), how music saved my life and gave me a purpose when I desperately needed a reason to stop thinking about killing myself, and on and on. Music has given me everything. It’s given me so many wonderful memories. It is the reason I met the friends I have. It is the reason I met my wife It’s literally the reason I’m writing this right now.

 

Being a musician allows me to live the lifestyle that feels most natural to me. No one criticizes me anymore for having longer, messy hair or not showering every day or waking up at 10:30am or spending too much time playing guitar/singing or RANTING ABOUT RANDOM THINGS or any of the other reasons people used to think I was weird. Now, people accept those things because I’m an “artist.” It’s great.

 

BUT, when talking about number two (ha! Insert poop joke here), which is usually with other musicians, I talk about the false promises music has made to me, how the industry has changed so drastically, and for the worse, in my lifetime, how I wish I could go back in time and tell myself everything I know now, and maybe persuade my younger self to choose something else to obsessively pursue, how I wish I could separate my self-identity from music but it’s tentacles have wrapped and swallowed up most of my insides, in both a good and bad way, how thinking about my future with music makes me so hopeful-yet-depressed, and all the other reasons my fellow musicians and I usually throw out as to why we should quit music (but, ultimately, never will).

 

As I stated before, being a musician allows me to live the lifestyle that feels most natural to me. Unfortunately, that also includes lots of bad habits and has lead to a number of terrible decisions over the years. Drinking too much, drugs, ill-advised sexual adventures, deep and cyclical depression, the disintegration of relationships, the inability to stay in one place for very long, etc., etc. Music giveth and music taketh away. Everything in life always comes to balance. The higher the highs, the lower the lows, and so it goes…

 

Usually, when talking about number two (ha! Bet you didn’t think I’d say it again but now you’re thinking about poop for a second time!), it will slowly morph back into number one. I don’t know for sure whether this is because at the root of it all we really do love music unconditionally or if it’s because we are trying to justify our commitment to music and all the years/time/energy/money we have already invested in it. I’d like to say the former but I don’t know if I can say that unequivocally…

 

Which brings us back to the original premise: why do I play music?

 

As far back as I can remember (which usually goes back to about age 5-6, when I would spend all day either trying to recreate Michael Jackson’s dance moves from “Bad” in the living room or running around the backyard all day with a plastic ninja sword pretending to be Leonardo, the leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles…), I always felt a little different from other kids. Obviously, at that time, I was unable to articulate those feelings or thoughts in any meaningful way. When I started going to school, I remember starting to become more aware of it. So did others. But, remember, this was way before anyone was really thinking about how kids acted in a clinical way. It was either they were smart, dumb, hyperactive, disruptive, lazy, etc. and the kids who did receive any special attention were the ones who were severely learning disabled. Even our tiny town had a learning disabilities class, which is incredible (and so was the woman who ran it) given that our entire K-8 school housed maybe 400-500 students. But, any other kid that displayed “not normal” behavior was usually labeled slow, was told they had ADD (attention deficit disorder, before they added that “H” to it) and moved to the redundant class. I was also lumped into this group, at least for a bit.

 

Soon, after some additional testing and the incredible support from my mom, they concluded I should actually be taking advanced classes instead of being moved to the slower class. They landed on the fact that I was disruptive because I was bored and I didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t done with their work as quickly as I was. I’m not saying this brag, but to illustrate the beginning of my disconnect from the “normal” people around me which I’ve felt for a long time.

 

In Middle School, and especially in High School, these “outsider” type feelings really started to grow. Again, I had no way to verbalize this to anyone so they could maybe offer some suggestions or help; so, instead I retreated inward. I used to study people having conversations and try and figure out the mechanism behind it. It didn’t quite make sense to me. It was like an impossible math problem. I could talk at people but not with people. For some reason, it was hard, or almost impossible, for me to care about what anyone else was saying most of the time. Despite this, it wasn’t like I was a loner. I had plenty of friends. I was invited to parties and sleepovers and whatnot. People generally liked me. But, that was always centered around one thing: sports. Sports were my conduit and connection with others. I lived and breathed sports (Packers, Brewers and Bucks fan for life! In that order.), spent hours pouring over stats, collected massive amounts of baseball and football cards, and drew up plays in all my school notebooks. My friends and I would play sports all day, every day. Baseball season turned into Football season which turned into Basketball season which turned back in Baseball season. I could talk sports with anyone and for hours. I’m sure some people were likely sick of me talking about my beloved Green Bay Packers, and how Brett Favre was the greatest football player ever and my eternal hero (which he still is to this day). I didn’t need other hobbies or interests as sports consumed every waking moment. I was convinced I would either:

 

A) Become the starting shortstop for the Brewers

 

Or, if that didn’t work out, I’d fall back on:

 

B) Become a starting wide receiver for the Packers

 

Simple, right?

 

(I know, you’re probably wondering why I’m blathering about all this when the question was about music. Well, hold on to your butts, I’m almost there.)

 

Well, not exactly. First off, it would have been highly unlikely that a 5’7”, 120lb white kid from the sticks would be able to crack either of those major sports leagues. Not impossible per se, but not entirely possible either. Second, I had an Achilles’ tear when I was a Sophmore in High School. It wasn’t a complete tear, but it wasn’t far off. Coupled with my ongoing knee issues and my flat feet, I began to realize that sports were not likely in my future. It was a devastating blow for someone who didn’t really know much else. What would I do now? I briefly dabbled in nihilism, like a lot of High School-aged kids do, I’m sure. I had nothing left to look forward to. Things weren’t going great for ‘ol Bradley (or Brad, at the time).

 

When I stopped playing sports, suddenly most of my “friends” were no longer my friends. I wasn’t part of a group or team or anything. I had lost my connection to other people. Depression set in. Suddenly, that was my identity and I was really good at it. I started working at a factory so I had something to do after school. It was mostly mindless but passed the time and paid pretty damn well, especially for an unexperienced 16 year old in a small town. My coworkers became my new friends. Maybe this is what I’d do going forward. They all seemed to be doing OK. Until I started to see through that more and more. Some were. Some were not. Some were just as depressed as I was pretending not to be. There was a lot of drinking the nights away; and sometimes, the harder stuff would come out. I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted something more. And still, through all that, I never felt like I fit in. Even with other depressed, aimless people, I was still the outsider. I told myself it was because I was destined for greater things, which turned out to be somewhat true. But, mostly, I just couldn’t feel any real connection to most of those around me. I didn’t know why and I didn’t know if anyone else felt like this. It was lonely.

 

It was around this time we had to take one of those stupid aptitude tests that supposedly tells you what you should be when you grow up. Most kids were already scouting out colleges at this time and I’m sure the school was trying to help them towards picking their major. (I had no path for my future, and thus, no desire to go to college. I viewed it as a waste of time. And, it would have been had I gone.) But, as is often the case with standardized personality/trait tests like that, my answers were so erratic and diametrically opposed that it could not reasonably spit out an answer as I was seemingly two separate people. There was the loud, boisterous Brad who thought speech class was the best because everyone had to shut up, give me all their attention, and listen to me talk. There was also the Brad who preferred to hole up and read Kurt Vonnegut Jr. books, play NFL 2K (or Madden when the NFL/EA killed 2K. Sega Dreamcast for life!) for hours, and hang out with my little brother in our bedroom and not interact at all with the outside world. There was the Brad who would cut class with a small group and go get high outside the Taco Bell and devour double-decker tacos like they were going out of style. But, there was also the Brad who spent his study halls alone, practicing pep band songs on his trombone. There was the Brad that thought Metallica and AC/DC were the greatest bands in the world. But, there was also the Brad who loved Tchaikovsky and Outkast with equal vigor. So, how was this stupid test supposed to know which to choose? Which was the real Brad?

 

There was always one teacher who I greatly respected, had become friends with and rarely argued with (which, is a miracle, as I rarely got along with my teachers). He sat me down and said this test doesn’t work for people like me. He said the Brad he knew would never let a damn piece of paper choose his direction in life. “What are you passionate about? What do you love to do?” he asked.

 

The only things that came to mind were reading and listening to music, but never at the same time. I don’t know how people do that. If music is on, I can’t concentrate on other things. “Aha!" he said. “Then music it is.”

 

“But how?” I asked. “I can’t sing to save my life and the only instrument I can kinda play is the trombone. I wish I could play guitar…”

 

“Then figure it out.”

 

He knew what motivated me and how much I loved to be challenged. Years before, my first foray into music was short-lived. I had saved up my lawn mowing and snow shoveling money and bought myself one of those $99 specials out of the JCPenney’s catalog. Kids over the age of 30 probably remember how awesome that fucking catalog was. It would come like two or three months before Christmas so you could start dreaming of all the stuff you couldn’t have. My sister and I would earmark dozens of its 1000 pages, hoping to get at least a few of the treasures inside. But, in this case, I could finally get it on my own. I ordered it through the mail and patiently waited for it to arrive. When it finally did, I was beside myself with excitement. I was on a path to a new world! Except, I didn’t know what to do with it. We couldn’t afford lessons and I didn’t even know how to get it in tune. Eventually, I figured out that I needed to spend another $15 on a tuner. I learned how to strum a few chords but it was much harder to play than I anticipated. Both literally, as my fingers ached, and sometimes bled, each day after only a short while, and generally as I struggled to remember where my fingers were supposed to go. I gave up after only a short while. He knew that. He knew I hated struggling at things but if someone challenged me, then I had to prove them wrong at all costs. I had to go home, pick up that damn guitar and get to work.

 

He also played guitar and would stay after school to show me some simple things to go practice. He showed me how to play a few very basic blues and folk songs. I spent hours practicing each night. Eventually, I graduated to strumming along to Bob Dylan songs. I learned how to play “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by Poison and would host singalongs at the few parties I was still invited to. But, this all still felt like work. I wasn’t having much fun. I still sucked, still couldn’t play anything but a few basic chords, and had no idea how I would ever turn this into a career. Then, just like what had happened back in ‘92, when Brett Favre was introduced into my life after Majkowski went down during that Bengals game, as he seemingly always did, and he brought me sports as my connection to the world around me; I would be introduced to a hero who would show me a new path to connecting to people. Going forward, that connection would be music; and that hero’s name was Bruce Springsteen.

 

To give you the full experience, I’ll give you the full scene. When I was 16, my grandma was getting rid of a bunch of stuff, and one of those things was her old console sized record/8-track player. It was the kind that is about four feet long and three feet high, is all made of light colored wood and closes to be like a bar top. It was so heavy, I’m still surprised we were able to get it upstairs. The wooden monstrosity took up most of one whole wall when we finally finagled it into my (and my brother’s) bedroom. I was so excited to have my own record player but didn’t own any records myself. I started going through my mom’s collection and pulled a few to try out the player with. There was Neil Young’s “Decade” collection, Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” and Bruce Sprinsteen’s “Born to Run.” I had heard hits from all three artists, but never really dove into their records on the whole. Once I got the record player set up and working, I put on “Decade.” It was better than I had hoped. I loved his seemingly reckless and wild style when he played with the band and I remember the song “Helpless” really hit me hard.

 

I got ready to fire up a second album. I chose “Born to Run.” I had heard the song “Born to Run” on the radio a few times and I liked it, but thought Springsteen was mostly for the older crowd, not 16 year olds. I was so used to CD’s where the side you play is down that I put the record on upside down (B-side up). I pushed the button to start the automatic needle drop and found a spot across the room. I sat down on the floor next to my bed, back against my dresser. I closed my eyes. The Neil Young record had felt so alive and so real, I hoped this one would feel the same way. I had heard vinyl sounded different and so far it was 1 for 1 in my real life test. The needle finally touched down and made its silent loop around the outside groove, with a few cracks and pops so you knew it had found its mark. THEN… the intro to “Born to Run” kicked in (as it’s track one on side-B) with that drum fill and then that simple yet iconic guitar riff. I got shivers. By the time the vocal kicked in, I was already in another world. I couldn’t open my eyes. My heart began to beat faster. My whole body clenched up. My brain raced. What was this I was hearing? What was this I was feeling? It felt like it was all happening in slow motion, and suddenly, I was watching myself as I sat there paralyzed by the beauty and majesty of the sound coming from those old speakers. I could feel every drum fill in my stomach. Every word was perfect, every note necessary. Elation and anxiety washed over me. I searched my mind for a comparison to this moment. I tried to figure out the math behind this feeling while the physical version of me sat, eyes closed, on the floor taking in the this wondrous music. I wanted to be like him and just let this newfound glory wash over me but something was stopping me. I couldn’t stop trying to figure out what was happening. My brain kept spinning in circles and I tried to find something, anything to help me understand. I was panicked. But, looking down, that version of me was in heaven. Why don’t I get to enjoy this as he is? It wasn’t fair. I was having a meltdown and he was calm as could be. Finally, I gave up. I closed my eyes. And then something incredible happened. I slowly felt myself rejoin my physical body. In stressful moments like this, I’ve always felt a disconnect between my brain and body. But, suddenly, int that moment, they were reconnected and my brain switched off. There was no time for thoughts when this magical music is playing. For the first time in a long time, I stopped thinking. I was just being. I was just accepting. I was just being happy in a beautiful moment. It was something I had forgotten how to do.

 

“Born to Run” paused my thoughts and gave me the momentary peace of mind I had been longing for. It was the thing that used to happen when I would play sports. I could just be. I didn’t have the voices constantly chattering away as I tried to figure everything out like the world was one big math problem that I needed to solve. “Born to Run” allowed me to just be me for a while. It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders, if only for those four and a half minutes. It was the greatest feeling in the world. Or so I thought. But, music had an even greater gift and was just waiting for me to find it.

 

I started the song over. Partly because I needed that feeling again. And, if I’m being honest, partly because I thought there was a skip on the record in the bridge when they do the descending line just before they all pause and wait for Bruce’s famous “1, 2, 3, 4” to storm back into the final verse. There wasn’t of course but the band hits those notes so perfectly at the end of the run, that I swore it was the same one skipping, what seven times, before resolving. This time I focused all my attention on the words. By the time he said “Baby, this town rips the bones from your back. It’s a death trap…” I felt like he was singing about me, but me in the future; and, somehow he was doing it from the past. Somehow, back in 1975, he knew exactly what 16 year old Bradley would need to hear about 20 year old Bradley 30-some years later (hopefully that makes sense). I felt everything that he felt as he sang those words with all his heart. I felt like I knew him and he knew me. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought and felt the way I did. Maybe someone else understood my thoughts and feelings even better than I did. I finally felt like I wasn’t alone anymore. I cried as that song played for the second time. I felt like I had found my way back home after wandering aimlessly for the past year or two after losing sports. Bruce unlocked that part of my brain and my heart that allowed me to be myself again. I owe him everything for that.

 

That’s what music gave to me. It made me feel “human” in a way nothing else could. I finally felt “normal.” The more music I really listened to, the more I felt like I was part of a larger world of people who knew exactly who I was. I could learn from them. They were teaching me it was OK to be myself, no matter how fucked up I felt most of the time. And whenever I was feeling bad, they gave me a place where I could leave that at the door, put on a record, and escape; even if just for a while. I knew this was what I wanted to do. I knew I wanted to give the gift of music to others. I wanted others to feel OK about being themselves because someone else out there knew exactly what they were feeling. There’s a comfort in that. It’s why people listen to sad songs to feel better. Music gives people permission to be who they are and lets them know they are not alone. I may not know Bruce Springsteen personally, but he’s given me the best friend I’ve ever had in “Born to Run.” I thought it was my duty to pay it forward. If I could make music and help one person feel less alone and less fucked up in the world, then I’ve done my life’s work.

 

This is why I play music: to help people, especially those who’ve lost, or still haven’t found, their connection to the world around them.

 

That is what music gave to me that day so many years ago. That is what I hope to give back to others.

 

I know a lot people who have Asperger’s/Autism might feel that same disconnect I did (and still do sometimes). But, I want them to know it’s OK and they’re not broken. And, there’s a place where you can feel at peace and at home. It’s music. And maybe for some, it isn’t music. TV also does a lesser version of this for me. TV still allows me to shut my brain off for a while so I can relax a bit (Rick & Morty for life!). It doesn’t provide the same life-giving energy that music does, but everyone is different. Maybe it’s books or movies, but these stories can help us understand ourselves better than we can alone.

 

OK, so I’ve just now mentioned Asperger’s in a long post about playing music and having Asperger’s. Well, there’s lots more of that coming in part 2. You see, the whole time I’ve been feeling disconnected from the world, it was really just a product of the Asperger’s. I didn’t know it then. I don’t know how I could have. No one was really talking about it much back when I was kid. They still don’t, really. I don’t think doctors, teachers, parents, etc. are given much information on Asperger’s and what to look for in identifying it early on. I don’t know what would’ve been different, if anything, had I known sooner. I, myself, have only recently found out and started learning about it. It’s been a crazy three year journey since I started learning about it and how it affects me, but my life has already changed for the better by just knowing I have it. Just as it helps me understand myself better, it also helps those around me (like my wife, friends, etc.) understand a little better why I am the way I am. I don’t think younger Brad would have been able to do much with this information. I feel like I found out at the right time in my life.

 

I also really want to impart that I don’t think of Asperger’s as a disability in any way. In fact, it has helped me in numerous ways in the pursuit of my musical career. I’ll talk more about this in part 2 but I don’t think I’d even have gotten into music in the first place had it not been for my Asperger’s; so I definitely think of it as a blessing. I think people will start to be able to better identify Asperger’s in kids once we stop thinking about it as a negative. Now that I understand Asperger’s (and myself) better, there’s been at least a handful of times where I wish I could tell a parent that their child is likely on the spectrum. But, even the one time I brought it up (when it was even about someone else’s kid) they were quite offended by the mere suggestion. Maybe I should just not care (as I’m good at that) and just say it anyways. But I don’t want people to think it’s an insult and then never seriously consider it for their child. They should realized it can be a good thing. It is for me. As with anything in nature, there’s always a balance. So, there will always be negatives to balance out those positives but I still think I’m much better off on the whole because I have Asperger’s. But, more on that in part 2. Stay posted…

 

Death? aka what I should probably do before I die... Well, I've done most but still...

This week, I'm going to be much more direct and to the point (read: short). "Why?" you may ask. Well, it's because I'M GOING TO FUCKING DISNEY WORLD! Not right now, but I do have to do laundry so I can pack. I've never been and missed a couple chances growing up as we were not able to afford the trip back then. Plus, I wasn't really in the mood for all the kids and whatnot being a brooding, serious teenager. But, seeing as I'm now a grown-ass man who STILL has not been to any Disney property, I think the time has come to check this one off the old list; such that there were such a list in existence. What else would be on my all-time, do at least once in my lifetime list? Hmm...

The Fucking "Fuck Death" List (aka things I should probably do before I die)

#1. See Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden - DONE

You might notice that this superseded "have sex" and I mean it, hard. I grew up on Bruce, worshipped at the Sacred Church of Springsteen, studied at the Springsteen Technical Institute (or STI, as we called it... wait... Shit!), did my Master's Thesis (aka MY ALBUM "IN MY YOUTH, I'M GETTING OLD...") on Springsteen in the modern "throwback" era, finally sold my "best live performer in the world" stock in the past few years (sorry, Kanye's "Pablo" tour sealed the overtaking of the #1 spot for Mr. West), and have purchased so many copies of "Born to Run" over the years (on cassette, then CD, then enhanced CD, then vinyl, then CD/DVD box set, then remastered vinyl) that I finally just decided to get "Born to Run" tattooed on my arm to remind me for the rest of my life how impactful that album (and Bruce) truly is. There's nothing in my life (apart from my brother, sister and mother) that isn't a direct result of my love for that album. It sounds like hyperbole, but (perhaps unfortunately) it is closer to an understatement, seeing as it not only gave me many things in life, but life itself; after saving it on more than occasion (long story, kind of. Well, more weird and sad, I guess). Anyways, I wanted to see the best in the best place to see, well, almost anything, MSG. Knocked this one off the list over ten years ago ("Magic" tour, my third Bruce show overall) but the memories never fade, baby...

#2. Have sex - DONE

Also, one I knocked off the list about ten years ago. I actually did not have sex until I was out of High School. I made a decision early that I did not want to be stuck in fucking Horicon, WI any longer than I had to be. Most of my friends were quite a bit older than me. Each one was out of High School and had stuck around almost entirely because they "fell in love" (such that that can happen in High School) with a girl. "The easiest way to fall in love with a girl is to sleep with her," is what I was told. OK, simple enough. No sex, no falling in love, nothing to stop me from leaving Horicon and then Wisconsin when I wanted to. Needless to say, within weeks of being out of High School and moving to Madison, WI I checked this one off the list. Almost made me not want to leave Wisconsin (didn't know what I was missing...), but "Born to Run" and Woody Guthrie's "Bound for Glory" book wouldn't let me stay for anything. Plus, while I was in San Francisco for a month getting settled so she could then join me, that girl started fucking someone else... So, that made the decision a little easier as well.

#3A. Move to New York City - DONE

#3B. Play folk music at the Gaslight - n/a

#3C. Play folk music at the Cafe Wha? - DONE

OK, so I had to compromise, albeit only a little, on this one. After a few more months in San Francisco and a quick 9 months in Seattle, it was time. I had to go New York. I couldn't wait any longer. After all, Bob Dylan was signed and making albums at age 22 and I was soon turning 20. Time waits for no man. So, I missed the Gaslight by almost 40 years BUT the Wha? was still going strong. BUT, shit! They have a house band (who are fucking unbelievably amazing, by the way) and rarely host any other music. This could be a problem...

Maybe I'll tell the full story one day, but needless to say I got my buddy Jon (the crazy talented man WHO CAN BE FOUND HERE) and I a spot on an up-and-coming industry talent show night. Let's just say it was not the type of music they were hoping for. No, we weren't supposed to be there anyways, but two guys in boots with acoustic guitars, songs about "rambling" and more harmonica solos than you can shake a stick at, didn't go over well. To Jon's credit, he was good enough to warrant a meeting with the gal (who was affiliated with Sony) who ran the show. I was given no such meeting. Neither Jon nor I had the $10K she wanted to "mentor" us into the business anyways. But needless to say, for one night, and one night only, the Cafe Wha? was filled with folk music in all its glory... And to everyone's dismay...

Anyhow, HERE IS THE VIDEO EVIDENCE (not sure why I decided to play in open D tuning.. Sorry for the flubbed chord as I only learned this song in that key the week of).

#4. Make a Rock N' Roll Record and Release it on Vinyl - DONE

Did that shit, BUY IT HERE. Didn't realize how much of a hassle it is to record to tape and master to vinyl, but Ed Brooks is a genius and I couldn't be happier with how it turned out. Figured if Ed could make R.E.M. sound good, I'd be OK. Just kidding, but Ed is the best Mastering technician in all the land. Still can't believe he's worked on my albums. I'm truly a blessed man to have done what I've done in my life.

#5. Get a "Thriller" Jacket and honor my second biggest hero, Michael Jackson - DONE

Done and done. WATCH THE VIDEO HERE. I will always have the scar on my hand from the injury sustained while rehearsing my shitty versions of "Thriller" moves for this video. I can show it to you if I ever meet you and you give a shit. Some of my earliest memories are of "reenacting" Michael's "Thriller," "Bad," "The Way You Make Me Feel," "Smooth Criminal," etc. Michael was my hero until I learned of Bruce, then he was my second hero; until I learned of Kanye, who was my #3 favorite hero until I finally bumped him above Bob Dylan. Michael settles in at #4 on my all-time list, which, coincidentally, is my favorite number (Brett Favre anyone?). So, he's got that going for him, which is nice...

Well, this list could go on forever, so I'll skip to the part that relates to the intro:

#27. Go to Disney World - Almost Done

Later this week muthafuckers.

(dictated but not read)

Goals, or some shit like that... I'm almost thirty and still chasing music...

Life Goals of a severely disturbed, and severely genius man...

One of the things that has always driven me, one of the things I hope and wish to accomplish before I sign off for the last time, is a deep desire to give, even if to only one other human being, the inspirational gift of music.  No single thing has altered the trajectory of my life in such a distinct and measurable way.  My whole life, as I have mentioned previously, took a significant, inconceivable and wonderfully magnificent turn when I truly embraced music.  And, another way of fleshing out the idea of “truly embraced” is to say “devoted my life,” to music.  Like most people when they are growing up and figuring out what life is and how they might fit into the world around them, I listened to music mostly passively.  That is to say, on the radio in the car or while we were shooting hoops.  Sports were my life, my focus and my thoroughly intense passion back then.  I was going to be the starting shortstop for the Milwaukee Brewers or catch passes from Brett Favre at the tail end of his career.  I also loved basketball, but even at a very young age I was well aware of my limitations in regards to someday playing basketball professionally; which is to say, I knew I was short and white (or rather pink, being half red and half white).  At that time, those were the only things I knew:  football, baseball and basketball, with a little hockey and tennis thrown in for good measure.

As I progressed into the terrifically awkward and self-conscious teenage/middle school years, something started to change.  The world was slowly unveiling itself unto me, with all its splendor and glory suddenly coming sharply into focus.  Girls, music, literature, poetry, art, movies, travel and on and on were right there in front of me when, just the moment before, they were not.  It was all new and unconscionably exciting.  I was being pulled in a thousand directions and my brain could barely contain itself.  Things were coming at me from all angles and my poor Aspergian brain was desperately trying to collect them all, process and file these things neatly away.  Only it wasn’t neat, it was a fucking disaster.  I gobbled it all up as quickly as I could, for fear of missing out on something amazing or awe-inspiring.  My brain is such an archivist and a completist that whenever I found something new, I had to fully immerse myself into it and absorb everything I could as quickly as possible.  It couldn’t have been much more than a couple weeks after first reading “Slaughterhouse-Five” that I obtained copies, sometimes multiple, of every Kurt Vonnegut book.  I remember I got them very cheaply by ordering them off this weird internet thing called “Ebay” which used to offer tremendous deals on used items people no longer had a use for.  I can still feel the joy I had opening box after box which contained anywhere from one or two to ten or twelve new books for my consumption.  And I consumed them all, with vigor.  Again and again, I repeated this process.  I can’t tell you how many times I joined and quit BMG music so I could get 12 cd’s for the price of 1 plus shipping.  All of the sudden I needed every Metallica album, every Guns N’ Roses album, every Bon Jovi album, every “Weird Al” Yankovic cassette tape.

Of all the new mediums and modes of entertainment I had recently discovered, music always held the greatest draw.  There was something about it that just captured me in a more visceral way than movies or books or television.  It’s the sort of thing that happens when I see a Salvador Dali painting.  I am in awe and dumbstruck by the brilliance, but inspired at the same time.  Music had the ability to manipulate my emotions like nothing ever had.  Great movies like “Raging Bull” or “Back to the Future” had the same impact, but it was spread out over a couple hours.  I liked the immediacy of music.  Somehow, these artists could, in a matter of three minutes, change my entire day or week.  I couldn’t understand it.  So for years, music was no more comprehendible in its construction than “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky or “The Leaf of the Artichoke Is an Owl” by Gorky.  I had no idea how or why these things came to exist in the world.  I couldn’t fathom how one would go about the business of creating such wonderful, beautiful, magnificent, awe-inspiring things.  There was no way that I could ever be a part of that world in any other means than as a consumer.  That was my role and I relished it.  There was such a small group of truly brilliant people and I, in no way, was included in that ever-exclusive club.  I longed to be a genius but deep down knew I wasn’t.  I wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with these giants but couldn’t.  Alas, it was my Roxbury.

A great change was headed my way, but I was not to know it until many years later.  Early in my musical awakening, I was a huge fan of Classic Rock, Metal and Hair Metal.  Guns N’ Roses was, for a long time, the epitome of everything I loved about music.  They rocked harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better songs, I thought at the time, than anyone else on the planet.  Then, I found Led Zeppelin, and they rocked harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better songs than Guns N’ Roses!  Then, I found Bob Dylan, and he…wrote better lyrics…than anyone else on the planet.  OK, that didn’t really work in that regard, but Dylan played an enormous role in my musical development, which I’ll get to in just a bit.  I always thought to myself, “if I could ever play music, I would definitely want to be the lead singer of a Rock N’ Roll band.”  But the Led Zeppelins and the Guns N’ Roses-s and the Bon Jovis (my favorite Bon Jovi memory is from when I was 12 or 13.  My best friend in the whole world, at that time, James, decided, with my help of course, that it was a good idea to try and woo a girl he had a huge crush on by singing to her over the phone.  The song he so skillfully, and appropriately, we thought at least, chose was “Livin’ on a Prayer.”  Needless to say, she was mightily unimpressed by his ability to not really hit any of the right notes.  That final chorus was downright brutal with his untrained voice.  Naturally, of course, I and the other boy who bore witness to this, couldn’t control our laughter and endlessly mocked his enthusiasm, impressive though it may have been.  James certainly didn’t fail that day due to lack of confidence…) all had singers that I knew, even then, had way more talent than I could ever hope to attain.  Because, you see, some people are born with the great gift of talent, and the rest are born like me:   with no artistic ability whatsoever.  I’ll never forget arguing with my art teacher who once gave me an “F” on a set of sketches I submitted for an assignment.  She said they were so bad that she was sure that I had pencil-whipped them that morning before class.  I was so mad, and hurt, seeing as I had spent hours upon hours on them that week, diligently working every night, when I could’ve been shooting hoops with my friends. I desperately wanted to be good at art.  But, she was right, the sketches were terrible.  At least I got her to change the “F” to a “B” by staying after school for an hour to draw in front of her so she could see that no matter how hard I focused and tried, the results were equally shitty.

Now, I realize that having a distinct lack of talent is no longer much of a deterrent in music these days.  Just ask Grouplove, the owner of the worst piece of flaming garbage ever referred to as a “song” (check out their song “Shark Attack,” so you can revel in the comfort that comes with no longer wondering where the bottom is.  The seemingly racist music video is a terribleness all its own, which adds bonus shittiness-points to the song).  But, back then, sucking ass and making people want to murder their earballs was not appreciated the way it is today.  We’ve come a long way, baby!  But, this is the point in the story where Bob Dylan comes back.  He was the first person I heard, which I simultaneously loved and respected AND thought “God, I could sing as good as that guy.”  Listening to the, mostly, simplistic acoustic guitar lines and his vocals, registered in my brain as something that I, as terrifically untalented as I may have been, might actually be able to do!  It was the first of many revelations in regards to my musical future, which, at that point, was still not a thought that passed through my 14 or 15 year old brain.  Shortly thereafter, I saved up my lawn-mowing money and bought my first guitar out of the JCPenney’s catalog.  It was a black Harmony dreadnought acoustic guitar.  It was the most magnificent thing in the world.  Only I had no fucking clue what to do with it.  I couldn’t afford lessons, the internet back then was still just for weirdos who wanted to send “email” and look at porn; and no one I knew had any idea how to use one of these strange contraptions.  Well, first things fucking last.  I very quickly learned two things:

1)  I needed to also purchase a tuner in order to successfully use this thing

2) Sam Goody, in the Beaver Dam mall (R.I.P. thanks to Wal-Mart) sold books that would show me how to play anything I wanted.  The first book I bought, of course, was an anthology of Bob Dylan songs.

Dylan’s influence weighed heavily over my early musical career.  From the simple chord progressions and song structures to the poetic, prose-y type lyrics, I tried desperately to be as much like him as possible.  On my first album, “Burn What You Can, Bury the Rest…,” the song “She Will Never Return to Me” is the last vestige of that early songwriting style I adhered to.

By now, if any of you are still reading, I’m sure you’re wondering “What the fuck does any of this shit have to do with giving the inspirational gift of music to someone?  This is just a long, boring wank about your life.”  Well, you’re right.  But, also, I’m getting there assholes; just hang on a minute…

OK, so here’s the fucking tie-in.  About a year after all that shit, I began to wonder what I really wanted to do with this newfound “magic” music shit.  Dylan was nice, but save for songs such as “Like a Rolling Stone” and “One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)” he just didn’t “explode” out of the speakers the way I wanted to.  Elvis had it in spades with “Hound Dog” and “Jailhouse Rock,” but more or less cooled off beyond that.  Billy Joel’s “Glass Houses” slipped just the tip in.  Hell, even Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” (see what I did there… huh, right?) had its moments.  Then, I got my grandma’s old, buffet-style (literally, on Christmas and Thanksgiving) record player.  It was a motherfucking bitch to get up the stairs to my bedroom, but in the end, I don’t know where I would be without it.  Probably would’ve went to college and actually did something with my life.  You know, made money and shit, like an adult.  Flipside, would’ve been boring as fuck.  I lived a lifetime by the time I was 25 and I loved every minute, even the terrible stuff.  Totally worth it, kind of…

Anyhow, let me set the scene:  young “Brad” is 16, sort of mussing around with this “guitar” trying to figure out what he wants to do with this new “music” thing he’s jumped balls-first into.  After lugging this fucking record player up to his room, he’s bound and determined to use it.  He flips slowly through his mother’s old records, which haven’t been touched in years, carefully examining each one, and pulling out his favorites, based on nothing but a gut reaction to the album covers and his limited knowledge of these artists.  After making a few selections, he returns to his room, delighted in his newfound modicum of music consumption.  It’s so pure and simple, he thinks.  They sent the Voyager Gold Record into space believing records to be so simple and wonderful that even aliens could figure out how to sink a needle into the groove and blast “Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground” into the outer realms of space; still somehow annoying their begetters, or whatever they hell they call their parents.  He threads up a records and listens, more intently than he has ever listened before.  The clicks, the pops, the hisses and warbles somehow making it all seem more human, more imperfect.  The drums sound more vibrant, the bass more distinct.  The spacing of all the instruments is more like one would imagine them coming from a stage; the guitars over there, the drums booming from the center, the bass anchoring it all down.  One record, then another, booms from the speakers, with “Brad” listening like he’s never heard music before.  Then, it goes silent, the end of record loop.  “What next?” he thinks and examines the stack he’s brought into his room.  And then he sees it.  It has never particularly struck him, though he’s heard a few of the songs.  “Seems more like adult rock than anything I might like.”  Nevertheless, the cover is quite striking.  Dark, contrasting, black and white images set against nothing but a blindingly white background.  It folds out to reveal the entire photo, which he’s never seen before:  a scraggly, skinny white kid with a beat-up Tele and a large, black man with a saxophone.  There’s a smile on their faces that exudes confidence and fun, but hints that there’s more struggle than one might initially ascertain.  The print is bold and clean.  Each song title sounds like it could be a movie from the 50’s or 60’s, starring Marlon Brando and Grace Kelly.  Well, it’s only eight songs, let’s see what it’s got…

He pulls it out, but, being still new to vinyl, lays it B-side up on the turntable.  He turns it on and carefully lowers the needle onto what turns out to be “Born to Run.”  What happens next is still hazy and dream-like.  No sooner had the warm sounds touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the sound of the drums and guitars, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?

OK, for the nerds out there (or the well-read, I’m not discriminating, I’m joining you), you’ll recognize that passage as Proust’s tea-soaked madeleine incident but the sentiment remains, assholes.  I told you I’d fucking bring this back around and here it is:  if, by some intrusion of fate, heavenly or otherwise, I could somehow impart, no, bestow that very experience unto some young child, henceforth, enlarging their world and their experience and their love of beauty, both of this world and within oneself, then I could die, knowing I fully served my purpose on this earth, as a mortal man in God’s image.  That might seem a bit self-aggrandizing but the sentiment holds true.  Music is truly a gift and should be regarded as such.  It has become the bastard child of art in recent times, degraded and reduced to background noise constructed in such a way as to make us “feel” a particular emotion on cue.  People will gladly pay thousands of dollars for a painting they will look at, perhaps, once a month.  But a song they listen to everyday, albeit probably just to fill space while driving/running/shopping/folding laundry/etc., is worth nary a penny.  People would just rather stream a song than buy it.  I could not possibly quantify the dollar amount of entertainment, enjoyment and personal fulfillment “Born to Run” has given me.  I owe it my life, there’s no doubt about that.  I have purchased it countless times, in one format or another, but no mere dollar amount could balance that debt.  “Born to Run” has shaped my life in such a way that it’s impossible to separate the two.  It’s my R2D2 in the escape pod moment, the seemingly galaxy-altering detail told in the seemingly smallest way possible. Proust understood the gravity of the moment where life suddenly became something new, whether he understood the implications or not.  I knew, but I knew not what was happening, only that it was happening.  It was terrifying and wonderful and my life would never be the same.  I hope I can ruin someone’s life in such a way one day.  Ruin it in the most beautiful way…