"WHEN THE MUSIC'S OVER"

This is by no means finished. For me, this is a very long and complicated part of my soul. There are very limited items in my life that are more important to me than music and with even greater limits are the one's that have been more involved for me. With that in mind, please, note that this story will continue becuase there is so much more to say about it. So much more!

PART 1
A short time after my 30th birthday, I was watching a football game. They were showing a graphic on the average age and number of playing years for a professional football player. Having past those ages, I realized that I would never play for the Denver Broncos or any other team in the NFL. It was just like when I had to get glasses, I realized I would never become an astronaut. However, I was already 25 at that time and I had never actively pursued being an astronaut. This still meant that the dream was no longer a possibility. Although I played football in junior high school, I did not in high school. Somewhere in between those school years, everyone else grew but not me. Of course, there are some guys my size that play pro football, but I have grown some since then. I made no attempt at being a pro football player, either, or a pro anything, except a pro beer drinker when I was a teen on through my twenties. There was one dream that I did make an attempt to be, though: a rock star.
My dream was not much different than anyone who dreamt of being a rock star, but I did not become serious about it until I was over thirty. I was not married, but I had a kid and lots of financial and moral obligations. It was always in the back of my mind wondering when the day would come that I would have to chose between my son and the dream. I worked hard at it for a while and of course, like most dreams that are actively pursued, it started to become a reality. I bought lots of equipment and formed a band with my friend, Mike, and practiced and played almost everyday. We wrote lots of songs. Some of which even had potential, but being in a band takes a lot of time and energy. There is no time for family or girl friends or even jobs. Plus, all of the other issues.
We played gigs for free just for practice and exposure. We funded parties, as well. Band members come and go so quickly. Not being a drinker any more made it very difficult to find those who wanted to have fun, yet be serious enough about playing. Most of the time, they could not stay sober long enough to practice more than one or two songs, let alone learn new ones. Somehow, the bands always ended up the same, then they would just end.
Mike and I had a long dry spell at one time of no drummer and no practicing which gave me a lot of time to think about my future and a career. After awhile, I could not tell if God was telling me to move on to something else or testing me to see if I would keep pushing on. So I got serious about college again. I tried to work in more band time, but time and money would end that as well. Plus, it was still the same thing, more partiers than musicians. My head was telling me to let go of the rock star part. To let go of trying to get signed and all of that, but my heart was not buying. Playing a few paying gigs once in awhile was all I wanted, that, having fun and expressing that need to create. Eventually, Mike and I found another drummer, Eric. He was a very good drummer and a person who had that had quite drinking and felt the same way about music as Mike and I. Then, within a few short months, this ended as well.
We had been playing covers and had aspirations of playing parties and those sort of gigs. Being signed and all that was no longer a concern. However, Eric moved to Pittsburgh, then Mike got a divorce and moved to Kansas. Mike, the band thing, all of the good times were gone, but I did gain a very close friend in Eric. The music was over, but the dream was still in my heart.
College became a very important aspect of my life. The drive towards a degree moved me, as it does most students, into a very tight money dilemma. On this last Christmas, my financial situation got to an all time low. I had moved to Laramie, Wyoming the January before to finish my B.A. in psychology. All of my financial aid resources had dried up and I had sold nearly every thing I could sell. Working more hours would only interfere with school. I was struggling enough as it was just trying to maintain C's and B's. Just one more semester before I got my degree; I could not stop now. Thank God, I had a girl friend, Kerry, that I lived with who understood. She really helped me out, but it was Christmas and I needed money for gifts. About all I had left to sell was my bass guitar. So, with a clear mind and clear intent, I took it to the pawn shop.
I left the pawn shop that Saturday morning with $130 dollars cash in my pocket and began an hour long drive on the highway with my son and Kerry. "That bass just wasn't me anymore, " I stated flatly to Kerry about five minutes into the drive. It was an all black 5 string Fender Squire. I had modified it slightly to get that special heavy metal sound with MPG pick-ups and Blue Steel strings. Lately, whenever I picked it up, it just did not feel right. I had lost touch with it, which became a huge distraction for me when I tried to play. Kerry understood what I meant having been around other musicians, so I felt I did not have to explain this to her.
"I suppose I could have just taken out a loan on it, " I thought to myself. "The people at the pawn shop kept asking me if I wanted to, but I kept saying no. I would just have to buy it back anyway and with what money?” Yet, it may have worked out fro me to get it back. “It's just not me anymore." On this much, I was pretty convinced.
We had the radio on while we were driving to Cheyenne. There was some slow sappy song on that I was not in the mood for, so I changed the station. On the next station, The J. Geils Band was doing the song, "Center Fold." One of the lines to the chorus caught my attention: "My memories have just been sold."
Suddenly, I felt cheap and violated. "I gave up my memories and dreams for a lousy $130," I thought. Then it hit me in the stomach like a ten ton locomotive going 200 miles an hour, “I'm never going to be a rock star.” A million tears came storming into my eyes that I felt I could no longer hold back.
"Are you all right?" Kerry asked as she took my hand, but I could not answer. It was all I could do to keep from completely breaking down and drive at the same time. It felt like once the tears started, they would never stop. I wanted to tell her, but I could not right then. I wanted to tell her that every time I hear certain kinds of music that I imagine myself playing it. Or when I hear certain songs that I remember the notes and often finger them on the steering wheel. Or how I sometimes fantasize that I am playing for a small audience as they dance and forgot about their troubles for awhile. Somehow, it just felt like the dream was gone. The music was over for me, forever. It became a strong reality that I would never be in a band and never play again. Eventually, though, after some miles and time, I was able to discuss my feelings about that bass, which made me feel better.
"Do you want to go get it back," she asked.
"No. It's not mine anymore." I paused for a moment of reflection. "I guess I could always get another one. It doesn't mean that I won't ever play again." The words were just as much for me as for Kerry. "Maybe when schools over I can get hooked up with some people who feel the same about playing as I do." I told her again about how the bands never seemed to work out. How it was just an excuse for them to drink and not about the music. To me, it was not about chicks and getting laid and big bucks and drugs and wild parties. It is not about fame and fortune, it is about creating. We talked about how that maybe God was asking me to move on to something else.
"It's more about the memories than the bass itself," I thought aloud. "If I'm supposed to have another one, it will be there for me."
Hopes and dreams keep us motivated to continue on with our life's even when times are bad. They help us in so many different ways. Perceiving them as not being realistic is not always healthy because it limits us. When we limit ourselves, we will never see those dreams come true. When we limit our dreams, we can not reach our full potential. Sometimes, though, we wake up one day and realize that a certain dream will not come true. That is when it is time to dream new ones. If we stop dreaming, then we stop living. This dream had ended years before this day, but it was time for me to come to an understanding with it and reach for my other dreams.
________________________________________________________________________
PART 2
Five days latter, I went back to that pawn shop. While we were there before, selling my memories, my son, Trevor, saw something that he wanted. They had their TV's hooked up to a VCR that they were using to show movies. That way they could not only advertise the TV's and VCR's they had for sale, but the video tapes as well. Now that I had a little money, I could buy it for him as a Christmas gift.
Trevor had been watching one of those videos when we were there that day. It was a movie that he had not seen before called "Willow." He had asked to take it that day, but I had said no, thinking that I would pick it up latter. So, after class this day, I went back to get it.
I was concerned about seeing my bass there again. I did not want to see it
hanging on the wall waiting for a home. However, I was curious to see how much they were asking for it. As I walked through the shop's front door, I told myself not to look. Keeping my eyes focused on the videos, I walked straight toward them. After a few moments, I found "Willow." As I took it from the shelf and walked toward the register, I noticed they had one of their stereos playing.
There were two male clerks over by the guitar section talking with each other about the guitars. I listened to the Doors playing "When the Music's Over" as I waited for one of them to come over and take some of their money back. Impatience was knocking at my door. I began to struggle with keeping my composure and fought back the urge to holler at one of them. As I calmed myself, I over heard one of them say, “We’ll never sell this one.” Finally, one of them noticed I was waiting at the cash register.
"Is this going to do, it for you?" he asked while typing information into the computer.
"Yeah, that's gonna to do it, " I answered impatiently. As I took a deep breath, relaxing, not wanting to vent my frustration on this person, the music become louder. The melodies started to flow through me. I found myself swaying slightly back and forth, fingering the bass lines.
"Dunnn...Dun Dun Dun. Dun... Dunnn...Dun Dun Dunnn...," the bass lines boldly proclaimed as they marched through my head. "Dunnn...Dun Dun Dun. Dun... Dunnn...Dun Dun Dunnn..." While the bass lines flowed on, I quietly began singing along with Jim Morrison, "...Music is your only friend until the End."
The clerk was having some problem with the computer. Calmly and patiently I thought, "He's new, " not noticing that I was glancing over his shoulder at the guitar section. All I could hear now was that sweat bass line Ray Manzarek was playing. "Dunnn... Dun Dun Dun. Dun... Dunnn... Dun Dun Dunt Dunt Dunn." It became even more prominent inside me, consuming my thoughts. Quickly, without a thought of what I was doing, I scanned the walls with innocent curiosity, looking at their basses.
There has been a certain bass that I have wanted for quit a while now, even before I sold the black one. It is not one specific bass or a certain brand name, but a certain look that I had in mind. I have always liked the natural look, with a nice stain on the wood, instead of paint, that showed the natural grains, colors, and beauty of the wood. The hardware would be old school: big and bulky and chrome platted just like the hardware on the guitars from the 60's and 70's. That small, colored plastic stuff they use today just does not do it for me. A few times I had seen one that I liked, but they were old ones. Very, very expensive, more of a collectors item than a daily usage kind of thing. It seems like I always looked when ever I was in a pawn shop or someplace where they sold musical instruments and equipment. Thankfully, my old bass was not insight. I looked down to see if the clerk was done yet.
"Dunnn...Dun Dun Dun. Dun. Dunnn... Dun Dun Dunt Dunt Dunn."
While that bass line flowed through me, something on the floor beneath the guitars caught my eye. There, staring me in the face, was one of those basses. It stood there in a guitar stand on the floor proudly displaying all of the features I wanted, waving to me and pulling me in.
The clerk told me how much I owed for "Willow" and I handed him the exact amount. Picking up the video, I moved around the counter. As I walked toward the bass, the Doors marched louder than ever through my body. Absorbing it's features, the bass began speaking to me.
"Yes, I'm everything you want," it boldly announced.
"It will cost to much," I thought and unconsciously wished. As I reached were it stood, my defenses suddenly built several walls, telling me that there was many things wrong with it.
"It's just not right for you, " proclaimed the writing on the walls, "This isn't the one. Besides, didn't we let go of that dream?" They argued with every point the bass made, strongly encouraging me to find things to dissuade me from wanting it.
Standing before it now, this close, it become even more beautiful. The brand name proudly announced "Peavey," a name more known for amplifiers than quality guitars, but a well known name just the same.
"What brand did you have in mind, " the bass asked rhetorically. One wall broken down, but many more to go.
"Okay," I responded, unconfined, "but what about the price?" I picked up the price tag and turned it over, exposing the price.
"Dun Dun...Dun Dun... (We want the World and we want it now) Dun Dun...Dun Dun..."
"$195!" it yelled. Not what I wanted to hear. Another wall gone. So, I picked it up and removed it from the loose confines of it's stand.
It was heavier than my old one, thus one of the reasons for plastic. It was in great shape, no big or major scratches. "Not even any minor ones," it whispered to me. All of the knobs were there. "And in good shape I might add." The strings were used, but not wore out. "They have plenty of miles left on them," the bass proudly announced. "Come on, Dude, I'm just right!"
"Would you like me to plug it in?" the other clerk asked as he reached for a cable.
Subconsciously, my hand went to my pocket and produced my pick. The walls yelled "No, what are you doing?! We don't have money to buy this. Why do you still have that pick in your pocket? You're not even sure you want another one, anyway." But before I could speak aloud to the clerk to tell him no, he had it hooked up to the amp and we were live. My fingers started playing along with the Doors, even though I do not know how to play this song. It felt so right.
"I'll turn down the stereo," the clerk told me as he walked away.
"No...That's okay," I tried to say with some enthusiasm. We all, the walls, the bass, myself, really wanted to listen to it still, but he had it turned down already.
"Feels pretty good, eh," the bass said, or maybe it was really me.
The walls tried in vain to find something wrong with it. I tried to accommodate them, but I could find nothing wrong. Every knob, every switch, I picked every string, but the walls keep crumpling down. Finally, I came to a huge wall and I stopped playing with it. Unplugging the bass, I replaced it back into it's stand and wrapped the cord up. Placing the cord on top of the amp and shutting it off, I stood there for a short time, looking at the bass guitar. The moment of truth was upon me.
"It's not for you," the walls told me in a triumphant voice.
"Well, maybe," I answered as I turned and walked toward the register, "But let's just make certain." And I asked the clerk again about the price.
"Well," he began telling me as he picked up a calculator, "it's on sell. It would be $130."
"Ouch!" the bass laughed from behind me, “that knocks down that wall a notch or two.”
The walls struggle for supremacy was failing. In vain, they pleaded their case. More questions for the clerk, but there was no answers that would help their cause. It was not completely in vain because after all, I only had $124 to last me until mid January and I had only bought one Christmas gift. The walls had finally won the battle. I left the shop without the bass, but with that wonderful bass line marching through my heart and my mind.
"Dunnn... Dun Dun Dun. Dun. Dunnn... Dun Dun Dunt Dunt Dunnn."
As I drove home, the excitement began to beat through me faster than those bass lines. The walls keep telling me that I had no money, no matter how badly I wanted it. "Maybe if it's still there after Christmas when I get my student loan money," I told myself. “Ah, that’ll never do. That money’s not enough as it is.” Every possibility I could conjure up only put another brick in the wall. The closer I got to home, the farther away that bass went from me.
After I got home, my excitement returned until I could no longer hold it back. So, I called Kerry at work. I told her all about it, but the walls keep telling me to drop it. I explained to her how much it was and how beautiful it was and that it was what I wanted in a bass, but the walls reminded me about the lack of money. It hung between every line and explanation, that and the loss of my dream. What did need it for, anyway? The walls really had won and I finally gave into them. Just as I had given up on the idea of getting it, just as I told her all of the maybe-laters, I heard her sweet compassionate voice.
"Well, if you want, you can have it as your Christmas gift."
"Take that, walls!"
________________________________________________________________________
PART 3
Two Christmas' and some other holidays latter, there is no Kerry, no band, little playing, but there is a nice Peavey bass. It feels good, but not great. It sounds good, but not great. There is playing, practicing, learning, but very little creating. There is still an intense desire being held back, but no opportunities, not at this point, anyway.
So, where did this desire come from? How did it all begin?
About thirty-five years ago, I was living in a small Wyoming town, Torrington. There was a little drive-up restaurant owned by the A&W franchise. It was one of those old car- hop style hamburger joints where you pulled up in your car under the awning. There was a small reader board hanging from a pole that housed the list of food items; burgers, shakes, fries, chicken, and the thick, frosty, glass mugs that contained the best, most excellent root beer ever. The board had a speaker system that you just pushed a button, spoke your order into a little gray box, and moments latter came your meal. Even more prominent in my memory than the great fried chicken and the wonderful root beer was the other little gray boxes hanging from the pole.
Back in the day, jukeboxes were a major part of the music scene. Drop in a dime down at the pool hall, the malt shop, even the school lunch room, and you could hear your favorite songs. The A&W's had outside speakers from the jukebox hanging from the poles next to your car. Roll the window down a bit and there was musical entertainment to go along with your grub.
There is two songs that I remember most from those days. Whenever I hear "Don't Sleep in the Subway" and "Downtown," I can still see myself scarfing on a corndog and onion rings in the back seat of my parents car. Thank God I can still go to A&W for a frosty mug of root beer! Sometimes, while I'm drinking one, I can hear those old songs.
Along with those songs, came the another part of my parental musical influence. My parents would often get out their records in those days and play them on our big Montgomery Wards stereo in the living room, and dance. They would do a jig just like the people on the old "American Bandstand" shows from the fifties. Elvis, Fats Domino, and Ricky Nelson would keep my parents dancing for hours. My favorite songs from then came from my dad's Buddy Holly forty-fives. I know all of those songs so well. Whenever I hear them now, I can see my parents dancing and having fun. It is still such a huge treat for me to see them dance now. These days, though, Buddy Holly gives way to "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress" by the Hollies, "Long Train Running" by the Dobbie Brothers, or "Old Time Rock and Roll" by Bob Seger. I think it is pretty cool that they have kept up with some of the newer rock and roll.
When I was a youngster in grade school, my parents would stay up late playing cards. Usually on the weekends in the winter when we were not ice fishing because summer weekends we went camping. They had some close friends that had three kids of their own who were very close to mine and my siblings ages. They would come over, or us at their house, listen to old country music records, drink, and play cards until the early morning hours. They played the old stuff, not this new stuff, but the yodeling stuff, and stuff like Mural Haggard. Traditional country they call it now. I got used to falling asleep listen to that stuff. Still puts me to sleep. Never really acquired a taste for it, but I can appreciate it much more than the new stuff. I bet I can sing along with it better than most of the younger country music fans.
We used to have an old couch down in our basement back when I was in grade school, back before we became trailer trash. My parents would let us jump on it. Dad hooked-up an external speaker from the Monkey Wards into the basement. We would put the spindle at the half way point so the record would keep repeating. “Johnny Horton's Greatest Hits” got played over and over for hours while we jumped on that old couch. It was a sad day for me when Johnny Horton died in 1994.
TV was a huge part of my daily activities back in those days, as well. Music was a big part of television programs in the mid sixties. The Monkeys, the Banana Splits, Jose and the Pussycats, to name just a few. On Christmas morning during my fifth grade year, I received a small, white plastic, record player and the Archies' Greatest Hits album (I still have that very same album). From primetime shows to Saturday morning cartoons to "American Bandstand," music was everywhere.
Then a one day, my father brought home a Beatles LP. As he took the album, "Hey, Jude," out of it's cover, he told the family his Beatles theory and put the album on the old stereo, playing side two.
"It's like having a beautiful poem screamed into your ears," her proclaimed as the song, "Hey, Jude" played. His theory was that they wrote beautiful song lyrics, but they way they played it was not appropriate.
I would latter take that album back to my room in our small trailer house in Casper,
Wyoming. My dad was right, it was beautiful poetry. For me, though, the way they presented it only added to the beauty (still have that very same album, too). Soon, it would no longer be just music for me, but a way of life. My beliefs, my ideas about love and life, my spiritual convictions, how to be a loving caring human being, current events, love for nature and life, all came from the words of John, Paul, Ringo, and George. Not just from their music, but from published articles in magazines and newspapers, television and radio interviews.
Back in that old trailer court, back in the very early 70's, back in my fifth and sixth grade years, back when girls became not so yucky any more, the Beatles were more than music and spirituality. Two of my friends and I would pretend we were the Beatles. We would invite the girls over for shows, usually in my bedroom. They would sit on the bottom bunk bed (my younger brother's) while we would lip sink to the albums. Donnie was Paul McCartney, because Paul was supposed to be the leader and, of course, Donnie had to be in charge. Glenn was George Harrison and I was John Lennon. We never really had a Ringo Star, but the girls did not seem to mind. I do not really remember how the girls reacted to our shows or what they would say about us. They must have enjoyed it or maybe they just wanted to hang out with us, because they never said no to coming over. I remember sometimes wanting to actually be playing, to be performing, bring a little happiness into their day. It was not that I wanted to actually be John Lennon. I did, however, want to be what he represented to me: an Enlightened human of God, spreading Love to all.
I am not the only person in the World to have rock stars as their idols, but I did not knew any back then. To Donnie, it was about getting laid and being in charge, for Glenn, it was just following along with Donnie.
However, after those two short years, we moved to Douglas and music evolved for me. Music became a main stay in my life. It was everywhere and in everything I was doing. It gave me as the new kid in town a small something in common with all the others. The Beatles were not the only Enlightenment around. Elton John, Alice Cooper, Uriah Heep, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, just to name a few. Many model cars were built to Alice Cooper and Elton John. I even wanted to be Alice Cooper for a short time, then. The radio was played every night as I went to sleep. Just before our move to Douglas, came my cousin Bruce.
The summer between my sixth and seventh grade year, my two cousins, Bruce, Russell, came out from Des Moines, Iowa to stay for a month at my Grandmother’s house in Guernsey, Wyoming. We slept out in a big tent in the back yard. Bruce bought a record player, some of his records, and his acoustic guitar. He would play all of this wonderful rock and roll, what we call classic rock now, and play along. My first introduction to Led Zeppelin was Bruce trying repeatedly to play "Stairway to Heaven."
"How does he do that," he would say in frustration as he got up and started the song over. Bruce could play anything just from listening to it. Well, except for Jimmy Page on that song, but Jimmy was using a twelve string. I wanted to be like Bruce, but not for his playing ability.
Three summers latter, I would visit them in Des Moines. Bruce had this huge record collection, well, huge for anyone I knew at the time. He easily had over a hundred. I was so impressed that I made it my life's goal to have a bigger collection than his. Thus began my music collecting career. Today, in just my LP's alone, I have nearly two thousand. I have got over three hundred 45's, twenty or so 78's, over four hundred CD's, hundreds of cassettes, and yes, I still have eight-tracks, over two hundred. I am not sure, but I think I might have passed Bruce, but I have met others with at least double my numbers.
In the mid 70's and a move to Cheyenne, Wyoming, came my Kiss phase. By 1976, my bedroom walls were covered in Kiss posters. I had Kiss T-shirts, belt buckles, all of their albums on vinyl and tape. Many Halloween's were spent as Gene Simmons. I even painted my face like Gene's a few times and wore it to school for no reason at all. Yes, I even got to see them in concert, in make-up, with the original line-up in 1976.
During all this time, music, the notes, the words, were all very important to me, as they are now. Music lifts me up when I am feeling down. It helps me through all the good and bad times. It helps with anger, depression, low self-esteem, or whatever ails me. Just listening gives me a sense of empowerment, a deep gratifying feeling of not only self-help, but to help all. As Uriah Heep has sang, I feel "a deep desire to free the World or It’s fear and pain." All of the injustices, all of the pain in the World can be solved through music. Just give it a chance, is all I am saying.
Music, for me, has always been more than just listening. So, much more than just relaxing and enjoying Pink Floyd or Fleetwood Mac. More than philosophizing with Ozzy. There is singing along in the car, learning to play, and dancing. There, also, are concerts and live music.
For a time, I went to see every heavy metal band that came near this area. Over one hundred-thirty shows in my life time, and over a hundred and sixty bands, many I have seen more than once, some more than twice. Anything from big outdoor shows with seven bands lasting all day to small clubs.
Music is in my heart and in my soul. Music taught me spirituality. It taught me love. It taught me to care, to hope, to dream, to live and let live. It has always been there for me, through all of the good and all of the bad. Always.