With my right hand convalescing, I decided to take the night off from practicing and work on Part 2 of the ongoing Saga. The bad news is that I cut my hand, the good news is that I did it playing guitar in this sorta band I'm playing in. Bet you didn't know that jamming can be such a dangerous occupation. Well, in the heat of the moment I guess I dug in a little much thus nicking the back of my hand. It's all in a days' work when you're a Slave to the METAL.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. It's time for Part 2.
As mentioned in Part 1, I joined the service. In so doing, I spent 2 months in boot camp, another 7 months in language school, and 4 years overseas. During this stint, I very rarely played the guitar. I had one, but I just never played much. When I did play, it was just hacking away on the few things that I knew. Looking back, this is one of the great disappointments of my life. I had all this time, lots and lots of free time to really sit down and learn... but I didn't. I would occasionally jam with a few guys, but it never amounted to much, mainly because I wasn't much. All told, I probably jammed a grand total of a week during that 5 years. Truly tragic. However, one of the highlights was when my brother, Chris, came for a visit. We jammed quite a bit that week, and the Spanish kids were left clamoring for more. The Chase Boys Rocked Rota Spain.
Following my tour in the Navy I went to college. So, for another 5 years I jammed very little. I didn't have an axe for a great amount of that time as I had sold my stuff because I was living in the abject poverty that only a college student can learn to love.
Finally, college ended, but The Dream had to wait. My fledgeling professional life demanded 12 hours a day for the first couple of years. So again, The Dream was put on hold. All the while, I could feel The Dream slipping away, the Guitar Biological Clock ticking... tick, tick, tick. Metal Superstardom was slipping from my grasp and it was killing me.
Finally, at long last, like an old bear waking from hybernation, like the lifeless evergreen shaking off the winters fall, like Godzilla arising from the deep.... The Dream was resurrected. I finally decided to go for it, I mean really go for it. As soon as I passed my Professional License, I marched on down to the music store and scored a whole new load of LOUD shit. New guitar, new amp. But this time, I signed up for lessons, real lessons, the kind with notes and keys and key changes... all that shit. My teacher was no Lesbian Seagull guy, either. We went back to The Beginning. I devoured everything he gave me, I practiced, and I mean really practiced... two, three hours a night - every night. When Debbie was preggers with Jordan and fast asleep on the couch at 6:00PM, I was in my room practicing till all hours of the night (the guitar you perverts!).
So, a few years ago, feeling that I had finally progressed enough, I answered an ad in the Craig's List for "80s Cover Band." I figured I was a shoe-in. Who the hell knows more about 80s metal than yours truly? My God, I could hardly wait. I figured it was just a matter of time and I would be just lighting this town on fire with my guitar histrionics and fretboard wizardry. I was on my way. What could possibly stop me now?
Reality... that's what.
Okay folks, here's the reality. I have come to the conclusion that there are two types of people still playing the great ol' 80s Metal. The first camp are folks like me, probably 40-something professionals, shredding away in the absolute obscurity of their bedroom, eking out some playing time between career, family, lawn maintenance, poopy diapers and other family obligations. Then there's the other camp: the guys who still think it is the summer of '84 - with all the trappings that go along with. I am in Camp 1 with probably 5 percent of the metalheads. The rest of the 95 percent are in Camp 2.
So, I'm gearing up for this "audition." I call up the drummer. He's stoned, but the conversation goes okay. I figure, no biggie, getting stoned is no real crime - keeps the creative juices flowing I suppose. Then I talk to the other guitar player. He tells me he has two stacks and he's "A God." Now I'm getting a bit worried. For the uninitiated, a "Stack" is a stack of amplifiers and speakers which stands about 6-feet tall. So, this joker's got not one but two. My gear adds up to about a quarter stack. So, I'm feeling a little "stack envy" here and starting to worry since I'm no "God". Hell, I'm not even a minor diety - I'm just this guy who wants to jam.
So, I show up to the audition. To protect the innocent, since they have no jobs and surf the internet all day long, I will call my two bandmates "Mutt" and "Jeff" since they still occasionally call me up. Jeff plays the drums and Mutt plays the guitar. So anyway, I arrive and they are already drunk and/or stoned. It's only about 6:00 in the evening, so this is starting off great I figure. So, we do the introductions, set up the gear, and begin to play. They gave me three songs to learn and I know them front to back. Well, first off, Mutt is no "God." He's not even Knocking on Heaven's Door for that matter. He didn't bring a single stack, neither. We play for awhile, then Mutt and Jeff would retire to the garage for a break, we'd play awhile, and then they'd retire awhile. All the while the wheels are just falling off the train. I mean, it sounds BAD. But, the more they take breaks, the better they think we're sounding. Oy vey. But, by the end of the night, the drummer's pissed about something and tells me I need to "get my shit together" by the next rehearsal.
It is now that the first shoe drops. I'm packing up to leave, and Jeff says to me, "uhhh, Matt, can you, like give Mutt a ride home?"
Okay, we're all 40 here. Turns out Mutt does not have a car, does not have a license, and is not even playing his own guitar. Jeff does not have a car, does not have a license, and we are playing at his pseudo girlfriend's house. Neither Mutt nor Jeff has a job. What Mutt and Jeff do have, however, are illegit kids all over town, an endless supply of 420, and ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD. The following month was hell with these people. First off, Mutt tells me that Jeff is "a crackhead." Then Jeff tells me that Mutt is "a fag." Now, I personally did not believe either. I don't care if Jeff is a crackhead, and frankly, who or what Mutt does in the privacy of his girlfriend's home is his own business, not that there's anything wrong with it. For the next few "rehearsals" it was "don't pay no attention to Jeff, he's a crackhead," or it was, "I can't stand that Mutt, he's a fag, I can't stand fags." But, I'm playing outside of my own bedroom, so I perservere.
Finally, it comes to a head. Jeff "fires" Mutt from the band since he can never make it on time since he has no car. Then, Jeff tells me I need to cancel my vacation so that we can rehearse. That was it for me. Jeff "fired" me too. The odd thing is, I really liked both Mutt and Jeff on a personal level. They were nice enough guys, didn't judge me too harshly, and well it's all Rock and Roll I figure.
So, I retire to the bedroom for the next several months until I get a phone call. It's Mutt and he's "starting another project - no Jeff this time." For those keeping score, Mutt plays the guitar and he's the fag. So, I figure, WTF I'm not doing anything anyway, I'll go over to Mutt's house and jam... and hopefully not get raped. I have boyish good looks you know.
So, I show up, gear in hand. What I encounter next, is something I will never forget. Mutt lives in an old house... in reality Mutt lives in his Mom's old house since Mutt has not job, car, or legal tender of his own. Not that that's a bad thing, but first one must understand that there is very little ventilation in an old house that already smells musty for starters. What I was not prepared for was the fact that Mutt lives with his mother, his girlfriend, his brother, his sister, and about 6 DOGS AND CATS!!!. 6 BIG dogs and cats... and EVERYONE smokes.... with the windows shut. Oh Lord, the smell. I felt like I had just landed head first in a cat box. I shit you not. How could people live this way? Can't you smell yourselves for Chrissakes?!? On the upside, everyone's friendly. On the downside, I have to burn all my clothing once I get home. Everytime I came home from Mutt's Mom's house, I would have to delouse, degausse, and completely clean all my gear. I still have shirts that I wore over there, and when I put them on I can faintly smell a hint of "eau de Mutt's Mom's house." Well, it was fun and all since Mutt liked my playing, I personally liked Mutt since he was genuinely a good guy and was very non-judgemental, but I just had to quit going over there. Male tomcats were starting to follow me around, and seeing with my boyish good looks and all, I was getting scared. On top of that we were starting to sound pretty good, and I just couldn't fathom having to return there for years on end. I would probably come down with feline lieukemia or something. Either that, or start burying my own shit and licking my ass. That kind of behavior probably wouldn't fly at work.
Oh, it's not over. So, about 2 months ago I get a call from Jeff. Ah yes, my good old friend Jeff... the Crackhead. Jeff is having a "jam party" and having some friends over for jam. "Just bring yer shit over and let's jam." Well, by this time I had some all-new shit, expensive shit, top of the line shit, LOUD shit, even LOUDER than before kind of shit, shit that I was just itching to crack the volume knob beyond 2. So, I answer the call - I'm a slave to the METAL after all.
Get to Jeff's house... I mean Jeff's pseudo-girlfriends' house that is. See, Jeff is my age, but has no job and no car, but plenty of weed. So, I get to Jeff's house, and there's no party after all. Just Jeff... and Skippy... and Skippy's son. Well, Skippy is not his real name, but in order to preserve the innocent I will not use his equally ridiculous real name - or at least what he called himself. Skippy brought over his 14 year old son. For fear of saddling up and riding my High Horse into the sunset, I will just stop right here with the 14 year old son at the party business and just say, "No comment." Anyhoo, Skippy and Jeff are stoned to the Bejesus, and Skippy's impressionable young son is just there for the ride. So, we start to jam. Skippy plays the bass, but Skippy forgot his bass in Portland, but Skippy lives in Vancouver. So, here's the score: I'm with Jeff, Jeff is with Skippy, Skippy lives in Vancouver but his bass lives in Portland. Skippy decides he'll just play guitar, but he really can't. The night goes on, and I just end up jamming with Skippy's son since Skippy and Jeff spend most of their time in the garage "taking a break." So, this train-wreck of an evening comes to an end. I start packing to leave, and Jeff is like, "uh Matt, can you like, give Skippy and his son a ride home?" Oh Gawd! Skippy's older than me.
I brought the Soccer MILF mini-van that belongs to my wife, since it's easy to load my Weapons of Mass Destruction in the roomy rear deck. I like the van fine, but Skippy is like, "dude, this is one SWEET van. Man, this is so nice. So much room." On and on about the van, like he's never been in a soccer mom mini-van. Ooops! I forgot, Skippy has no vehicle *slaps forehead*
So I try to make small talk with Skippy on the ride home. What do you say when you have a family, a job, a killer van it turns out... and you're driving Skippy and his son home. I ask him what he does for a living. "I work with glass." So, I'm thinking how cool, this guy blows glass and THAT is pretty damn cool if you ask me. I'm thinking glass bowls, stained glass, real Bellagio kind of shit. So I ask him where his studio is, does he have his own kiln, and how did he learn to blow glass. He says to me, "well, I really work in Pyrex." So, I'm thinking about that neat cookware that doesn't burn anything, and finally Skippy tells me, "I make bongs."
Oh Lord. The other shoe dropped. It was this very moment that I felt The Dream hit rock bottom.
The Dream made sort of a little whimper when it hit, sad really. All this time, all this effort, all this money spent. 25 some odd years of gear, lessons, countless hours of studying music, immersing myself in the music, cultivating The Dream... only to be spending the wee hours of a Sunday morning hurtling down I205 in a Soccer MILF van, shuttling my new friend Skippy the Bong Builder and his son to their humble abode.
Anyone up during those wee hours could, if they listened very carefully, hear a grown man of 41 years... cry.
