Talkin Shit

In my most anxious of reveries I daydream a comedy in which all of our private texts become public. Where the band you said “nice set” to knows that you think they’re a bunch of “no talent hacks that wear shorts to their gigs and would likely attend an Uncle Kracker show in an Uncle Kracker T-shirt.” I imagine 5 dudes kicking down my door, wielding tire irons and a trident and phrases like “Oh yeah, you think our career headway is a sum of our vests, do ya?”, as the drummer starts to rapidly slap my face, in a perfect rhythm never mustered for shows, while saying “who’s dragging ass now?” I remember my life before bands, back when I thought Spinal Tap was an acceptable comedy rather than a work of absolute genius. I viewed the stage through naïve and rose tinted hippie lenses, assuming that all musicians loved each other and cynicism was a symptom of the non creative. Then I met some dudes who played jazz. I learned how much space a loving heart reserved for hatred and how gripe could be a form of high art. I understood it though, folks possessing strenuous years of music education, playing small rooms in which Warwick Davis could yawn and touch both walls, as the nation sung along to “MOVE BITCH GET OUT THE WAY”. I think the inadvertent goal of every musician is to harvest the hatred of his or her peers. If you get to play that coveted opening slot, every other band that wanted it is gunning for you. When you get to provide the coveted opening slot, you’re the deer in the crosshairs of more, receiving accolades from the sycophants who curse your name. There’s only room for 1% to “make it” so it’s a catfight for that trace space that may or may not exist. Competition at its best is great for the art. At its worst leaves one mired beneath the weight of an ego generally as massive as it is fragile. I know envy is the famine that has made me hungry, sharpened my blade. I write, study, shed and create, my mistakes keeping me up at night, my triumphs letting me hesitantly out of bed, codependent rivals on the seesaw of existence, pushing this machine forward. I miss my pre band days, when music was a simple love. Back when a concert offered escape rather than contemplation, before it cut into the time I could spend working on my own dreams as opposed to watching another live theirs out. I have a reputation for starting new bands and every time I do, it is starting over. History and momentum only follow you if you possess the mass of stadiums. I am a litany of whispers. But I love the beginning, unsure what the future holds, feeling like you are the owner of the world’s best kept secret for a moment in the span of it all. I’m excited share a new record with you. This post is the nervous lament of an ego about to offer a bit of brevity to the world. If you’re a musician, my only hope is that one day you hate us and you turn that hate into something beautiful.