Here’s a story about a guy who only wanted to live his life, surf, play music, for himself and for other people. This story is about a dream. I always wanted to be a singer-songwriter, but I gave up on it. Years went by, then one day I dropped in at Murray’s place where Chris was staying for the summer. It just so happened that Chris and Patricia were having a guitar lesson at the time. I told them, “I used to play guitar.” So I played a couple of songs I had written and they were impressed. And that got me started playing again. Then I met Jack Webb. I was painting a house when he drove by. He told me he also needed his house painted. So while I was painting Jack’s house, we got to talking. I told him I used to play guitar in a band. He told me that he used to be a drummer in a band. So the next time he came down from the North, he brought a set of electronic drums. I put them together for him, got them working, went home to get a guitar and an amp, and a microphone, went back over there, and we started jamming one of my songs. Amazing thing: twenty people came over to Jack’s house that day. It turned into a party. This was the birth of The Lost Dogs. The energy was there, the talent takes time. The road is long, and many people come and go. Everything has its influence. We weren’t very good. But we just kept going. Our second show, we did it at the Pig Roast out at K85. We played our first little set, it went okay. We came back to play our second set, and we were relying on Josh Child for all his musical knowledge. Josh was gone. He did not return to the stage. None of us knew what had happened. So I told the guys, “Follow me,” and we made up five songs right there on the spot, and that moment made us a band. We didn’t know that Josh’s good friend had suffered heat stroke and that Josh had had to take him to the hospital. But that magical moment of believing in each other pulled us together, and that belief lasted for years. At first you’re just trying to learn songs. Everybody had a few. Then you’re just trying to play some parties and have a good time. Sometimes you’re good, sometimes we fought, sometimes you’re horrible, but we just kept going. Being in a band, you don’t make money. You’re not good, you just keep going. Thousands of hours, just for the love of it. You go out to play, something breaks, somebody’s having a bad day, it’s windy, it’s hot, you give it your best, and you’re still no good. But you keep on going. You give it your best, and sometimes it works. Sometimes there’s magic. And that keeps you going. And you get on stage, and all the fear, the lights, the sound, the people, it’s just not the same as practice. It’s out of control, your emotions, your pride, your ego, everything gets mixed up. You make a mistake, everybody’s looking at you. You never felt so small in your life, but you just keep on going. Then you hit a right note, and the energy flows. You look at your brothers on stage, and they’re all alive. You know you’re doing something, you know you’re right, you’re alive. This is what it’s all about, what it’s all meant for, when it all comes together. So few of these moments, and they keep you going. And you strive to get better. Now you’re not just a garage band; you’re trying to be a working band. The band goes through changes; brothers have come and gone. Others have taken their places and you keep moving on. The hardest part is realizing who and what you are. How good you are, how bad you are. Your limitations. Your drive. Your personal commitment to being what you want to be. You record yourself, and you want to throw the recorder through the wall. But you keep going. You start working on those little problems: timing, pitch, tonality, rhythm, vocal accuracy, trying to tell a story, the words, the music, the mood, trying to make it engaging, entertaining. All the time, laying your soul out naked, taking a chance, people always telling you, “this is nice but it would be better if you changed that, maybe you need a better guitar player, maybe you should take singing lessons, maybe somebody else should sing your songs.” The little knives cut deeper than anyone knows, but you keep on going. Then one day, someone says, “Hey, I like your voice.” And then someone else says, “I like that song.” And you start to think there’s a chance, that okay, your music’s alright, maybe you can be entertaining, you start to believe. You record yourself again. And this time you actually like it. You share it with some friends. And you’re proud of it. All the time, the years, the people, the practices, the things you’ve given up, so that maybe, one day, you might make a decent song, sing the right notes, have a crowd appreciate it, and know that all your time hasn’t been wasted. And the dream starts to become solid, real. And you take a chance. And you open another door. And maybe this is the time. And this is the chance that you’ve been working toward. End of chapter one.
Posted on: Wed, 21 Jan 2015 04:10:25 +0000
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