The Musical Grind: Installment 1

One should probably never begin a piece of writing by saying, "Where should I begin," but that's where I'm at now.
I've decided that it might be an interesting exercise to keep up a blog chronicling the trials and tribulations of a new musician grinding it out in New York, trying to build from the ground up. DIY, the old-fashioned way.
So back to my opening statement, I suppose I should begin with a brief background.
The indirect inspiration for this series will henceforth be named Randall. Be forewarned that at the time of this entry I am at my pathetic, lovelorn best, and if that seems to be projected a bit too strong- don't worry, I'm not suicidal, just an artist.

Always heartbreak, right? I know, I know. But when your heart is broken, it's time to reassemble it into a new thing, and hopefully in my case said new thing shall be barely recognizable from its original format. He left me for multiple reasons, not least of which being my awful immaturity. And my descent into musical Never-Never Land only served to exacerbate every latent childish tendency within my juvenile little soul and place it flagrantly on display. You see, musicians are a funny bunch- every last one of us trying to escape something. Trying our level best to evade old-age, yet aggressively chasing the Reaper. A lot of us are just messed up people with nowhere to turn but the stage. Therefore a running theme in this saga will be my character's struggle to develop and maintain a mature, adult, functional existence while cavorting with the Lost Boys.

And so, dear reader, you are tuning in to the ramblings of a hero destroyed before the tale has even begun. But our hopes for our hero lie in her ability to take the cold iron of bitter Retribution with which she was rightfully served, and through the use of her Magical Alchemistic Powers, transform it into strong steel, which, forged in the Fiery Furnace of Suffering and Repentance, can become the sharpened two-edged Sword of Redemption that shall cut through the binding Ropes of Failure, Inadequacy and Abject Despair. And maybe someday win back the love of the Fair Randall (but our hero's gonna need some sort of a SUPER weapon for that battle, like a laser beam, 'cause it's an almost impossibly, unreasonably long shot).
Ok, so My Chemical Romance just released an awesome concept album in which they are all super anti-heroes that have special powers and laser beams and wear a lot of neon colors and belong in a 1960's science fiction movie and I just got it last night. So forgive me that last part.

Truth be told, music IS saving my life right now, super-hero style. Losing Randall is not the only heartbreak I've had recently- it was a HECK of a holiday kids, let me tell ya. He ripped my little black heart out on December 10. On December 16th, I woke up in deep mourning around 4am, jolted awake by sorrowful chest pains and emptiness. I was lying there picturing his face as if it could materialize in the black, ruminating on the sound of his breath and the warmth that should have been beside me, thinking life couldn't get any worse. Then at about 5:30am, my mother calls, frantic. "Marron I need you to pray, your dad just went into cardiac arrest." 6:15. "Marron, your dad didn't make it."

...

WTF?

And then it was my birthday.

...

My Love and my real-life super hero. Just GONE. The Bible says that the LORD will not give us more to bear than we can carry. Maybe He's finally calling me out on all the times I'd been fibbing about hitting the gym.

Without music right now, we just might find our hero falling through the cracks. Here in New York City, I have no one. To be fair, there are plenty of people who are happy to call themselves friend, and kindly offer their services as professional Listening Ears and Crying Shoulders. But none of them are Randall. And none of them are Dad. It would take too much time and too many superlative adjectives to describe my relationship with Pop. Suffice it to say he was my rock. And when he rolled away, it really left me hanging. My earthly source of wisdom and guidance are gone. Time to rely on God and Self now. And music has become my life's breath again in different ways than it has before- you see, I am not a "crier." Never have been. In fact, I'm getting a little nervous, because I haven't really cried yet at all. Little squalls here and there, but I feel like I am just waiting for the storm. That will be a rough day. Until then, music is carrying me through... lending validity to a life laid low partially by its own design. Music is the precious blood and living water that is, as we speak, reanimating my dry bones and supplying nourishment to my sunken spiritual flesh.

I am juggling two different musical projects, and they both cost time and money. As I am writing, the other guitar player in my all-female 80's metal tribute band is text messaging me and the others about costs for studio time. Yup, that's right- I play lead guitar in an all-girl Ratt tribute. And it is FUN. The girls in the band are great- nothing like what I expected before our first meeting after we found each other on Craigslist. :) (I will be attempting to refrain from using emoticons, but I believe that within the context of this segment, that one was rightfully placed.) However- my main focus is my solo act, and the band costs time and money that should MAYBE be going towards my individual efforts. But I signed up for this of my own free will, so whaddaya do?

There is an enormous difference between trying to make it happen with my own music, by myself, and what I'm doing with the girls. With the band, it's a structured thing. The ladies are all very professionally-minded, and while it's supposed to be a blast (it IS a Ratt cover-band after all), they take what we're doing veeeerrrry seriously. Which means there is absolutely no room for my usual rock star behavior (and by "rock star" I mean alcoholic, egocentric, childish, inconsiderate, selfish, irresponsible, narcissistic, reckless, oblivious, and the list keeps going) behavior. Let's not go into detail, but I SO almost got fired last week. We practice once or twice a week, shell out mad $$ for studio time, have actual musical cues, set endings, and have to be SUPER tight as a unit. It's interdependent. And even though this is my side project, I'm quickly learning that in a band, everyone has to be responsible for everyone else's sake. There ain't no I in team, kids. No, really. If only I'd reached this full awareness of that concept before I alienated and subsequently lost my Love. Some people don't understand why I joined a Ratt cover band. I don't really even LIKE Ratt (a sentiment that generally applies to anything that came out after 1987 and does not involve W. Axl Rose). But being a part of this band is teaching me discipline and responsibility. It's teaching me how to stop running and put down the scissors. It's also helping me put a halt to eating paste and sniffing glue, as my bandmates seem to actually have the audacity to expect me to show up to rehearsal bright-eyed, clear-headed, and sharp of mind. Egregious. Not only that, but Warren DeMartini is a baaaaad mother trucker on guitar, and I've gotta learn to play his parts. Not easy, but what a fantastic technical exercise as a guitar player.

As for my own stuff, well... Perhaps the reason I so enjoy the metaphor of the ship is that I SO enjoy being Captain. I have been (falsely? Who can say) accused of... megalomania. Not arrogance, big-headedness, or plain ol' big ego- MEGALOMANIA. While I find said accusation slightly humorous, I still have to take into account the implications. Maybe I AM a megalomaniac. After all, my beloved Axl Rose is THE Megalomaniac, and what with me being the next great inheritor to his almighty throne of rock 'n roll glory and power and world-dominance, well... Wow listen to me, maybe Randall was right.

Kidding. A bit. But I do love being in a position where I have full creative control, and when it comes to my material and the performance and promotion thereof, it's absolutely necessary. Not only that, but sometimes it's best for all parties involved when I am accountable to no one but me. This is the best illustration I could possibly come up with to explain the most glaring difference between playing by myself and being in a band: when I play a solo gig, I can get away with, and even recover from, getting WASTED before my show, which I didn't promote enough so none of my friends came, forgetting lyrics, slurring the ones I do remember, stopping songs halfway through, apologizing on stage in between EVERY "song" for how terrible I am, and then standing up at the end of it and... falling on my face. On stage. Drunk. In front of everybody. All strangers. In heels.

But that was then... It's time for a more professional approach, and I'm taking it. Alcohol is being systematically removed from all of my activities, one by one. It's not easy, because like music, drinking is something I have always crutched myself on to mask my insecurities instead of facing them head on. Like if I don't see them, they're not there. I have a problem. But when Randall left me (the man impacted my entire existence, I am TELLING you), it was the slap in the face I needed. My drinking and bad behavior had never cost me anything obvious before, never cost me anything I LOVED. Before my dad died, the last conversation we had was about this particular subject. Actually I was crying to him about Randall and the fact that I was not doing ok. I was seeking reinforcement, which I never got, that people forgive and that I could recover and Randall could love me again. Which was childish and unrealistic, but my efforts facilitated the fateful conversation in which my dad FINALLY got through to me. I'll NEVER forget... "Mick [my pet name- derisive slang for Irish immigrants, i.e. "You filthy Mick"], you CAN'T drink. You need to just WALK AWAY, not even ONE. Just WALK AWAY, I did."
And if my dad, the man who kept Crown Royal in business all through his twenties and thirties, was able to do it- I could too. I am his daughter, and he will be proud.

Let's backtrack a little- I'm doing the Pulp Fiction thing and recounting history out of order. I picked up the guitar when I was 12, fiddled with it all through high school, but had neither the confidence or the outside encouragement to take it anywhere. Playing guitar was just something I did, it wasn't a PART of me like it is now. And there were times when I let it go. This is not the forum to recount every dramatic season in my life, but suffice it to say there were a few in which the daily task of basic survival took precedence over any potential artistic undertakings and guitar fell by the wayside. Such as the United States Army, several trips back and forth around the country on a Greyhound Bus, and a crazy, abusive drug-addled relationship with a boy who for the life of him just WOULD not stay out of jail (however I don't want to put this out there as a slam, in case he reads this, as we are still friendly- no Cody, you are not relegated to an awful footnote in my story).

The first time music really saved me was when John broke my soul. I sat high in my $8,000/mo. Wall Street penthouse tower (again folks, another story for another over-extended web rant), composing rhapsodies of utter despair and solitary heartache, and was purified by singing in the flames. Now, it's happening again. This time, the cross is the circumstances which are forcing me to carry on life without Randall and without my Dad, and my Simon would be my black Epiphone Les Paul. Not that I'm comparing myself to LORD Jesus... look, there's that megalo- thingy again. Anyways, when Randall and I met, I was still just dabbling. Pretending, even. Using my ability to sing and play the instrument as a scaffold to fortify my crumbling self-perception, I still wasn't really... DOING it. Randall didn't take my music seriously, and neither did anyone else. But I wrote and I practiced, and then I wrote and I practiced some more. And it pulled me through.

Ever so very slightly over a year ago, several months into dating Randall and already starting to feel like I was losing him, I worked up the guts to play my first open microphone night. He didn't go. I'm so glad, because I might have never gone back. It was absolutely terrifying. I knew I could sing, I knew I could play, I knew I could do both at the same time- but could I do these things in front of people? And more importantly, would the people tolerate me doing these things in front of them? Well, I tried. And failed absolutely miserably, I was so nervous. But I kept going back, I kept trying harder and doing better. I never quit, even after the bad nights. After everyone I knew looked at me and said, "Yeah ok, kid. Good luck." Even- no, especially- Randall. After a time I started to develop a sense that this is what I was meant to do. Here we are a year later and I have no less than four gigs lined up over the next 5 weeks. Hard work really does pay off...

Every day there is something to do. I have been told, and this has been confirmed by multiple sources, that if one has any aspirations of sustaining a level of functionality in their field of choice (particularly the creative world), one must put ALL of their energy into it. The phrase "You have to eat, drink, and sleep [music, football, creative writing, underwater basket-weaving, etc.]" is a commonly abused one, but it's accurate. In other words, if you have ten seconds of extra time in your day, you had best find some use for it that pertains to reaching your goal. Sometimes said activity's intended effect is more indirect than not, but even if you THINK it's a waste of time, from some angle somewhere it probably isn't.

Like tonight... all I want to do after work (I totally have a 9 to 5, by the way) is GO. HOME. Eat, read, play guitar, relax. But instead, I am going to make a pilgrimage to that Unholy Mecca of Music... the grand NEXUS of Good and Evil... that gorgeously contradictory intersection where all-encompassing, soul-sucking corporate depravity collides like cold fusion with the most vast cornucopia of creative resources this side of... well, the SUN-

Guitar Center.

And to Guitar Center I must go, for two reasons. One, I've got to fix a busted pickup in my electric guitar, which I could probably get away with, IF I wasn't in a band. Two, my completely crazy-yet-VERY-gifted dearest buddy Justin needs help picking out a piano, which, if we ever do start playing as a unit like we've talked about (musicians really like to TALK about collaborating), I might find myself stuck using. Actually I totally plan on being "stuck" using it, because I think J-Freddy and myself might really make a decent musical team in functional reality.
Not only that, but any free time spent with fellow musicians counts as "networking." Justin and I attend each others' shows, bring friends, critique performances, salvage each others' shows entirely (like last week when he got two lines into "Sympathy For the Devil", realized he didn't know the lyrics and had to bring me on stage. Which made it all REALLY great, because I myself totally Googled the lyrics on my outdated iPhone and held them right up to my face. And sang. Gazing into my iPhone), and the like. See, ten seconds of free time, and when music calls- in ANY capacity, be it directly involved with you or be it a peripheral detail that may end up having some effect on your own endeavors- you'd better freakin' answer.