Rock Opera Trilogy, Pt. I: A Power Ballad
I’ve loved music my entire life. And you probably have, too, right? Ten bucks says you have. With hearts and minds like hard-drives, we all move through our lives constantly shuffling through thousands of songs that trigger memories and faces, a particular season, or even just the way the light at sunset highlighted all the right features of a former lover. Perhaps some songs trigger memories of a small, cluttered apartment in Lincoln Park where a woman you used to date would routinely break your personal belongings, then later take to the habit of selling off her Adderall prescription throughout DePaul’s campus to make that month’s rent. Maybe that song is Hanni El Khatib’s You Rascal You. Or not, I don’t know. Maybe I’m kind of doing what therapist refers to as “projecting.”
Anyways, the point is this: our lives are filled with music, and as years go by we continue to amass a catalog of songs that permanently score some of the biggest moments and memories of our lives; we have this in common, no matter who we are.
I remember my dad teaching me a variety of songs when I was 10 years old. As he drove me back to my mom’s, this ninety-foot-tall superhero with workingman-tanned forearms and biceps would look over at me with a grin and sing along with me to the likes of Stone Temple Pilots, Sublime, and The Smashing Pumpkins. To this day, these are my favorite memories of him. And my way of excitedly repaying him for these Sunday night drives down Lake Shore Drive that I will keep dear in my heart for the rest of time was to wake the poor man up with seizure-like drumming at around seven in the morning on weekends; one pot and wooden spoon, just marching and pounding. First, the length of the hallway in front of his bedroom a couple times, then the perimeter of the living room; a pounding and marching that was at once obsessive-compulsive, extremely punctual, and eerily, calmly emphatic—like a new recruit to the naval drum corps honoring the dead. Sometimes my technique was a little more raw, akin to Dave Grohl’s drumming on In Utero. If that weren’t enough, I’d bothered him relentlessly for rides to Toys-R-Us out by North Riverside Mall, where I would stare at toy drum sets and guitars in total daydream silence while he hit on moms. Then it was right back home to stare at the CD or cassette inserts of Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Pearl Jam with the same wide-eyed quiet trance.
Over time, my focus shifted from drums to rock stars, especially the likes Scott Weiland, Julian Casablancas, and Josh Homme. I respected the spectacle that these men were on stage, the experience of it all. And if you listen to any of these respective bands’ records at an early enough age, you turn the volume up and picture yourself being in that band, impressing your female classmates and their cute friends. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that, like a lot of other 21, 213, 745 grade-school kids that the census bureau says were living in the US in the nineties, my early love of music led to daydreaming that maybe one day I’d be a rock star myself. Maybe you were doing this sort of daydreaming, too. Your resume may even look a lot like my own. Here, a brief review:
Second grade: Several fake concerts in my father’s apartment while he was sleeping. I’d change the channel to a Cubs game and imagine I was playing to the audience in attendance. I’d put Smashing Pumpkins’ Siamese Dream in his stereo and make sure to plug a set of headphones in and place them on. You see, my concerts only came in one volume: MAX, and I wasn’t about to turn it down for the one sleeping attendee.
Third grade: I started my own lip-syncing cover band. We were called Revolution. We rehearsed and mimed the bittersweet radio songs of the 90’s in my grandparents’ garage. We played brooms and garden tools and our set lists were basically whatever song was on Q101 at that moment. Most of these songs were mid-tempo odes to lost loves written by men who I had imagined to be bearded, tanned, and wearing white slacks and maroon silk shirts with the first four buttons undone. I don’t know why I have referred to Revolution as “we,” when it was actually just me in the band. Apologies for any confusion there.
Fourth grade: Nearly flawless gig with Revolution in the living room. The only real glitch coming when my cousins walked in on me as I was trying to hit Chris Cornell’s high notes during Soundgarden’s Spoonman. I had practiced this song plenty of times before and, for reasons I won’t go into now, thought I was totally capable of nailing this particular note. (I wasn’t.)
Eleven-year hiatus after the “Cornell Incident.” Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever want to work with music again.
Fast-forward to 2010, a time that saw me settle surprisingly comfortably into a lackluster job in Education, an industry I had no genuine interest in, when I get a phone call. A marketing company with a job offer to work a series of festivals. I very calmly loaded my belongings into my backpack, walked slowly the exit of my office building, politely closed the door behind me, and sprinted home to print the offer letter.
By the time this job had rolled around, I had become honest enough with myself to admit that I had been in one band my entire life and that my band did not once use real instruments. So, sure, maybe the music thing never panned out, but this job sounded pretty sweet. Little did I know, this would be like working behind the scenes of real-life rock and roll. So, after 11 or so years of fake concerts in my father’s apartment, I finally broke into the biz.
I have never told anyone this, but the day before I started that job in 2010, I had a dream about my dad. We were playing catch as I filled him in on the new gig. I remember asking him if he thought I could’ve had a shot at the big time if my mom had only encouraged my ambitions a little more when I was younger. His reply made me feel loved beyond measure, but it also confirmed my worst suspicions and fears:
“Your mother worked two jobs, went to school, and made your Halloween costumes from scratch every year. You were terrified to perform in front of people and sang only to yourself when you thought she couldn’t hear. Your mom bought you a guitar and some lessons when you were a teenager. Frankly, I don’t know what more she could’ve done.”
Come on, it’s time to go to the office.