Lessons from my School of Rock

I’m keenly aware of my own talents as a musician. I don’t always sing on key, I can’t always perform without a cheat sheet, and I get stage jitters. This isn’t false modestly, I’ve heard myself recorded without post processing.  I’m an okay musician. I have decent timing, I can deal with complicated chord progressions if the charts are in front of me, sometimes even if they’re not. I’m no showman, either, I am doubtful of my ability to lead or command a room. I’m just an adequate public speaker; I write good material, but I’m a little nervous on stage. Some days I can bring it, some days I can’t.

I was never a closeted musical prodigy waiting to be discovered, but in spite of that, I’ve spent the last three plus years — it would have been four in January — playing with an modestly successful Seattle band. I wanted to learn to play music differently so I answered an ad, auditioned, and then, things happened.  A lot of things happened.

We recorded two CDs, aired on local TV twice, won an award, got interviewed for a radio show, landed repeated gigs at great local venues, played a bunch of summer festivals, got fan mail from far away places, and when ukulele wunderkind Jake Shimabukuro launched his Uke Nation community site, the first of our two videos was front and center. (It still is. Go figure.) I didn’t have a 50th birthday party, instead, I stalled a few weeks and invited everyone to our CD release party.

It’s been fucking awesome and we are, for now, done.

I got what I wanted — I learned a lot of new things about music. But I learned some other stuff, too.

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Give into doing crazy things. I joined The Castaways on a whim. I thought it would be fun to challenge my minimal skills and I wanted to learn some new things about music. What came to me because I said, “Yeah, what the hell, this seems fun,” well… I listed the quantifiable things above, but there’s so much, so very much that I can’t quantify. I’m not a good example of a person who’s creatively stifled by fear, but this, this was a stretch. I think I have new synapses in my brain because of this crazy ride.

Work with people who are better than you, but who believe you can succeed. I’m realistic about my skill level. I don’t suck, but I have absolutely been the weakest link in this project.  On good days, the guys in the band were behind me. “You got this, I know you can bring it. And don’t worry, we’re there for you. Now, unleash it. Go.” Working with people who want everyone to win — not just themselves — makes a big difference in how you feel about tapping into your potential.

Gear is really fun, but it’s no substitute for raw ability. I own a super sexy ukulele, a long necked soprano, a gift from Ko’Aloha. I have some hand-me-down effects boxes and a cheap but functional amp. But if I can’t work the songs out on the 30 dollar thrift store uke I have, none of that gear does me a lick of good. Photographers fall into this trap all the time — it’s the classic “What did you shoot that with?” question. But good photos are about the eye of the photographer, not the device used to capture the image.

Shut up, you are not too old. It was heartbreaking how many people — mostly women, some with a better background in music than I have — told me they’d put away their drum kit, electric guitar, bass, whatever, because they were too old to play rock and roll. I couldn’t decide if there was some indictment in there about how grown humans are supposed to act or if these folks were just defeated. I joined the band shortly before my 47th birthday. Made other choices? Okay. Hands don’t work like they used to? No kidding. Woefully out of practice? Yeah, I know. But too old? Fuck that.

Successful projects aren’t just about the cornerstone skill. I hate admitting to this, because it forces me to concede that to be more successful as a writer, I have to devote more energy to things that are not writing. But the band’s success came only partly from what we did musically. We had great communication skills. Our packaging was top notch, from the photos we used to our artwork to the way we talked about ourselves. We showed up on time, said please, and sent thank you notes.  We were lucky in that we had a team that could deliver off stage, too, and we were the whole package.

Your audience is rooting for you. I was terrified of screwing up when I started, not just because I didn’t want to let the band down, but because I didn’t want to be booed or heckled off the stage. I can’t tell you how many people got up and walked out of our shows, but when they did, they did not shout, “YOU SUCK!” while heading for the door. And even when we noticeably screwed things up — and I was not the only one who did so — if we either kept going or fully acknowledged it and laughed about it, the audience stayed on our side. There’s a lesson about honestly here, and about being yourself, your flawed self, even when performing, that applies to all kinds of creative work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying artists shouldn’t strive to do their very best work. But bringing your human self to that work cements your readers audience to you in ways that finely polished technical accuracy will never replace.

Make the stuff you want to make. I think we played our very best when we were playing the songs that were the most fun for us to work on. The guys laughed and laughed and laughed when we were working on Madonna’s Material Girl, and anyone who knows me knows the hilarious irony of my taking the lead on that song. Every now and then we’d talk about adding songs to our playlist that were popular and we’d always come back to “Screw that, let’s do what’s fun.” Creative work doesn’t have to all come from a place of goofy joy, but if you don’t get some kind of hit off it, you’re wasting your time — and that of your audience. We killed songs from our playlist because they didn’t set us on fire. All meat, no filler, that’s the way to go.

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I don’t know the band is done for good or if we’ll reconvene once winter is over. I don’t know if I’ll join another band; honestly, I don’t know if I want to after this — my expectations are completely out of whack.  I do know that I’ll redirect the cycles in my brain that I’ve been using for music back to writing. I’ll  spend some time in Europe. I will go back to playing jazz standards and pop songs at my kitchen table and singing in my reedy, slightly off key voice. Everything else is up for grabs.

“Play a standing room only CD release party” would never have made my bucket list. Never.

I played a standing room only CD release party. Right after my 50th birthday.

Check.

Check, one, two.

Does everything sound okay out there?

Play us out, Castaways.