As a younger lad, the original vocation that captured my attention was one of a rock star. I had taken the time to think through every aspect and was confident I would find my place in the limelight. Armed with all the necessities (i.e., instruments, amplifiers, drums, P.A. and the personnel, including myself) to play, vocalize, and operate sound equipment, I set out.
Now, when beginning a musical career in the rock star arena, it is a hard and fast law to start in a garage–hence, the title, ‘Garage Band.’ After months of rehearsals, these practice sessions upset the neighbors and provided numerous appearances by the police for disturbing the peace. At this level you earn the right to play your local low-class establishment (AKA “a dump”) for nothing but exposure.
Eventually, you work your way up to playing higher class dumps, and from there to the club circuit in the nearest city to where you reside.
The first time I stepped into a recording studio, I knew I had it made, although the enjoyment was outweighed by the heavy tug on the pocketbook. This monetary hardship is in turn lightened by the finished product. It’s the circle of music and the price of fame, which still eludes me today.
I finally retired from the music biz after my son was born. I came out pretty much like I went in. Playing the gambit from dump to class and making enough money to afford strings and pay my bar tab each weekend.
A bit of time has passed since I pounded out power cords and lead riffs. Though I derive more pleasure writing sci-fi fantasy novels and listening to my hard rock favorites through the speakers in my writer’s room . . . thinking back on my short lived music career– the stages, comradery, music, and a beer or twelve . . . it had its moments.