My friend Pete told me a few weeks ago that he is quitting the music business. The main reason for this is because of injuries he sustained in a motorcycle accident back in ‘99 (or ‘00). I don’t remember the details of the accident, but I know his right hand was mangled, his larynx was severed, and he suffered some injury to his back– literally crippling his career as a drummer, keyboardist and vocalist. Between you and me, I think this retirement will be short lived. He’s hung in there for awhile and recovered in unexpected ways. He doesn’t speak with much more than a whisper, his hand is falling apart, but he’s in one piece. Still, the drums may be out of the question, but music is a hard thing to quit.
Pete exudes class and integrity. When I am around him I find myself unconsciously trying to be as reserved, knowledgable and capable as he is, which, of course, is not me at all. It’s hard to explain, but even though he is much older than me, he makes me feel even more like a little kid whenever we hang out, like a straggling younger brother trying to keep up with the rest of the big kids. Pete was a big influence on my decision to go to Berklee.
Pete made Berklee seem like it was where I needed to be. Neither he, nor I, knew how unprepared I really was for that leap, but he encouraged me anyway. Berklee isn’t for everyone, and, more to the point, not everyone needs it. But some people grow up in New York City and have a rich music scene there waiting for them and some people grow up in Norfolk, VA and beat their heads against the wall trying to find good music teachers and musicians to work with. Pete made it seem like Berklee was a way out of Norfolk and, God bless him, he made me feel like I belonged there.
So I went. I struggled and I graduated. Now here I am back in Norfolk and wondering what the heck I did wrong.
Apart from making some awesome friends, realizing that I like teaching (but not teaching in music stores) and playing a few fun shows with Jay and Tripp not much has changed in the two years I’ve been back in Norfolk.
Most people know and accept that Hampton Roads is culturally devoid, but, musically speaking, this town is abyssmal. There are about a dozen “top guys” here hording the four or five halfway decent gigs for themselves. There is no recording scene because there aren’t many artists with the money to record and pay a band, but there’s still those same handful of guys hording those gigs too. The Jazz musicians are kind of the same way: not that many gigs, not that many players, and even fewer who are “electric friendly.” Unlike New England, there is very little work for General Business bands, not counting the unfortunate Shore Drive cover band circuit which has been consistently cranking out Cracker, Jimmy Buffet, Sublime and Weezer songs for drunks in backwards baseball hats lost the fog of a quarter life crisis for a couple of decades now.
You tell me that I am bitter and jaded and I wouldn’t argue with you. But, a few weeks ago when I hung out with Pete, I saw my future. I imagined myself coming out of an accident like Pete’s, and the way I would deal with it:
Refusing to let a doctor tell me what to do, I’d keep playing the bass and maybe after a few years, I’d realize that the doctors were right all along. Now, five years have gone by and I’m back a square one, and for what? To play bass in a few bands that went nowhere and did nothing for me financially or creatively. The difference between me and Pete is that I can’t engineer, produce, write songs, surf, or take photos on a professional level. This would require me into take on a miserable 9 to 5 to pay for the student loans I still have to pay for a music education I can no longer use.
The saving grace is that I don’t have to be hit by a car to to realize that I have no future here. I just don’t know how to get out. So, until then, I’m trying to write some songs for the first time in my life and it’s fucking hard.
