For the better part of 12 years, I’ve been following one
band or another across the south. In college, I would drive hours to see
screamers and punk and emo and acoustic sounds echo out of hole-in-the-wall venues or
church fellowship halls. My closet was a line of black t-shirts. Back then, I could stand
for more than thirty minutes in one place, and I could survive on five hours of sleep. Every week was planned around who was playing
where and which friend was joining me. Twelve years ago, we were all unmarried, my friends were
unsigned, and a midnight trip to IHOP was as sure as the sun setting.
Recently, I read another musician reminisce about former
glory days while adding how natural it felt now to have his bandmate’s child running
around their feet. We're parents now, and aunts, and taxpayers. We have 401k accounts and desk jobs.
Over hot tea and decaffeinated coffee in a pristine, hipster coffee place, the guys talked about
trying to eat healthy on the road. They denied any tantrums, and each texted their wives at least once in the hour. This is rock
and roll?
The truth set in; we're no longer 21. I’ve known Brad for
almost ten years, which seems impossible. He was the first musician who I knew
as a friend before I supported his
music. We were both writers, and we knew that the chances we had to create
art and share it were limited. After all, I’d been watching these guys play music since
college, through all the phases that people and music transpire. In our late twenties, we were both
offered opportunities to change course. The call came, years after we thought it would, and we bought the ticket. We took the ride. I moved to L.A., not to write but to venture out from the only state I had called home. He quit his job and hopped
in a tour van with three other guys, leaving his wife and career.
That night I talked with Brad about the
challenges of living surrounded in concrete, which is my favorite topic after being 18-months deep in this city. At this point, any conversation I have dissolves into the SNL skit about taking the 101 to the 405 to the 10. On a Friday night, I left
early because I had to move my car by 11 p.m. Talking for a few last minutes by my dirty Prius, it was settled. We are no longer rock and roll.
But, what does the rebellion of rock and roll signify if not taking risks, stepping off ledges and not knowing one damn thing about how the story ends?
No matter how it ends, I think this is going to be a good chapter.
