I Got the Music in Me

I write the songs that make the whole world sing
I write the songs of love and special things
I write the songs that make the young girls cry
I write the songs I write the songs...

Don't that tune just bring the tears to your eyes? Yeah, me too. Barry may have been a big sellout but he could take baths in hot and cold running cash for years and never see the same $100 bill twice. So what's a struggling musician to do?

Early Days

When I was in the second grade I got my first musical instrument. It was a plastic ukulele, a gift from my Dad's parents. I can still remember my Pop telling me that all ukes were tuned to the song "My Dog Has Fleas". Very short number. I played around with it for a while but eventually it got laid aside with the mythical baseball card collection, first edition Spiderman comic and mint-in-box Original Slinky.

Next up was the piano. My Grams, Mom's mother, had graduated from Julliard School of Music and had played the piano extensively, along with having a passable singing career. So when we got a piano in the house and Grams came to live with us, I started taking lessons. While I enjoyed playing tunes, I simply detested having to learn sight reading sheet music. I also hated the endless finger exercises that sounded like nothing to me. I had no passion for this instrument, though when nobody was around I would open the top and play the strings inside or run my fingers over the keys in random ways, creating strange, discordant melodies. In other words, junk music. But mine nonetheless.

In the sixth grade I got the bug to play again. A friend of mine was in the band, and he said they needed a coronet player. No clue, me. I went in and the band director told me he could teach me how to play. Cool. It got me out of class early twice a week. I started learning the instrument but two things became clear to me pretty quickly: 1) I had to sight read again and 2) Playing this thing hurt! My jaw hinges were sore, my lips got numb and every now and then I'd blow out my eardrums. No fun whatsoever. The final straw came when Mom came to see a performance at school. She noticed that I wasn't moving my fingers like the other horn players and correctly correctly deduced that I wasn't keeping up. While I was out a day or two later she took the horn back to the rental place. I didn't complain.

I was also in the sixth grade chorus. Miss Milford was my teacher and the accompanist. She loved my clear, bell-like voice, singing noted as high as any of the girls in the company. I got a place of honor, right next to the piano. I even got some solos! Then, one dark day, my voice changed. I tried to make it soar, but just crawled out and flopped around like a drunken frog. I thought it was just temporary. I kept saying: "I think it's 80% laryngitis and 20% my voice changing." Two months later it was official: New voice. I was now a Bass, not a Tenor. I was banished to the ranks of the unwashed, far in the back rank of the kids who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Abandoned and forgotten, this Golden Boy. Sucked.

Revelation!

In middle school I was listening to a lot of pop music on the radio. I would stay awake at night, listening to music like the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Black Sabbath and the cool funk and soul so popular in the Washington, DC area in the 60's and 70's. I wanted to be like those guys, Play on the stage, get chicks, travel. First I would need to play something. Enter Mrs. Siemanns, my 7th-grade music teacher. One day she brought a dozen beginner guitars to class and asked us to pair off and learn a song to perform in class. My partner was Tom McGuire, a weird kid who was also in my Boy Scout troop. I wanted to learn This Land is Your Land, by Woodie Guthrie. Tom wanted to do the easier piece, Proud Mary by Creedence. I couldn't get him to change his mind, so we did that one. We practiced in school and at his house and then finally the day came.

I had performed onstage before but this was different. I was actually nervous! Tom and I got our turn and played the thing through. As I performed I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me. Their attention to my performance was palpable, like energy being beamed directly into my bloodstream. I was bit by the showbiz bug. I wanted more.

I went to my parents and told them I wanted my own guitar. Amazingly, they got me one. Nothing fancy but it was a really nice beginner model, Sears Silvertone. I played it for a while, found it not so much fun and gradually abandoned it, letting it sit in its case in the corner of my room. Then one day I came home to find my little sister Lori playing my guitar in her room. Hey, what gives here? "Mom said it was OK for me to play it because you weren't playing it any more." Is that so? Well, I can fix that. I had the Mel Bay Basic Guitar Chords book and I set about learning each and every one. With no real plan outside of that, I sat on my bed night after night, putting my fingers on the strings where Mel told me to. I would strum the chord and listen to the sound of it. I learned to play chords in progression: G to C to D, C to F to G, D to A to E and so forth. By doing this over and over I started to hear those progressions in the music on the radio. "Wait, this sounds familiar..." And it would all fall into place. I started playing with the tunes there and off my sister Leslie's record player. It was official. I was a guitar player.

For Christmas of my freshman year I got an electric guitar and small practice amp. I sat in my room and played along with Abbey Road, Black Sabbath's Paranoid and other LP's. I also experimented with feedback. That lasted until Dad came pounding on the door, shouting at me to knock it off with the God-awful noise.

Journeyman Days

My biggest problem was that I didn't know anyone else who played, so I had to keep pushing myself to learn more. Mom and Dad had had enough of paying for music lessons and Grams was a bit of a snob about guitar players. So my first two years of high school didn't see much progress in my playing. Then came military school.

It wasn't long before I found other guitar guys to play with. A fellow named Stacy Evans invited me to come and jam with him and some other guitar guys. I accepted, and learned quickly the Rules of the Jam:

Bring guitar
Sit Down
Shut Up
Join in whenever you want
Don't ever say: Hold on guys, slow down. I can't keep up!
Bring something to share (songs, drinks, or grass. Preferably all of the above)

My musical sensibilities grew by leaps and bounds with all the different things my classmates brought to the table. I listened to Robin Trower, Todd Rundgren, Frank Zappa, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Wishbone Ash, King Crimson and so many others. I met my friend Jim Lange, another guitar guy who helped shape my view about the mental approach to being a musician. What kind of artist was I? What was my philosophy?

Even with all this experience, I never considered taking my studies further after high school. Why? I still didn't want to read sheet music. Chord charts were easier and those little black dots made my head hurt.

College

The best thing about being a passable musician is that it can get you laid. Play some sweet tunes with genuine feeling and someone will want to boink you. So it was with me in college. Not that I was any Lothario, but I was rarely lacking. My musical talents grew somewhat in that I played with other guys from time to time. Sitting in stairwells, we could imagine ourselves in a huge concert hall only without the screaming, adoring fans.

I met a lovely young lady there named Nicole, and she became the inspiration for my first original song: So In Love.

After a couple of weird years I finally got back on track, studying music with college professors. It was amazing, spending the day exploring my muse and networking with other motivated musicians. We played, sang, got high together. I was the assistant manager for the campus music club, The Glass Cellar. We had various traveling groups in, including Happy the Man.

Meanwhile I had written some more tunes:

Claudia, about yet another girl.

Pamela, ditto.

Death to Disco, about Man's inhumanity to Man.

My sister Lori and I joined a short-lived group, playing cover tunes by the Eagles, Steve Miller, Peter Frampton, etc. Our first gig was our last. After all our practice we thought we were ready to hit the road, but Fate stepped in and on our plans. We were supposed to play at a middle school yearbook signing party. Lori and I picked up the lead guitarist Billy at his high school and met the other guys at the gig. There were about 200 kids there so this looked promising. Then the guitarist realized he'd left both his guitars in the parking lot at his school! My buddy Bill, also in the band, ran him back to get them, if they hadn't been stolen. Meanwhile it was blazing hot, I was wearing my silk shirt and bell bottoms with my platform shoes (oh yeah!), sweating like a pig. "When are you youngsters going to start?" asked the principal. "Oh, our guitarist will be right back..."(we hope).

By the time Bill and Billy got back the crowd had dwindled to about 15 kids and the rest of us were developing heat stroke. We slammed our stuff together and started playing. The sound levels were horrible, we were out of synch and Billy was still pissed about the guitars, even though he got them back. By the middle of the third song the principal had heard enough and literally pulled the plug on us. That was it for The Band that Never Was.

My best gigging experience was at Shakey's Pizza Parlor in Tyson's Corner, Virginia. I was hired at forst to be a pizza guy, then I became a bartender. We had a great house musician named Jay who was a fantastic piano player and showman. He also didn't mind sharing the spotlight with audience members. It was the precursor to karaoke bars! Just bring in some sheet music and Jay would play the tune to accompany you. Not your key? Jay could transpose on the fly.

When he left for greener pastures I saw my chance and took it. I told the manager I would play Friday and Saturday nights for $10 an hour and free beer. He took it and I was a star! I had a regular group who came to hear me and I performed covers plus stuff I had written. It was the best performing experience I ever had. But one day the owner decided to go all Fern Bar, so the old "Gay 90's" decor was out, along with the house musician, me.

I was jonesing to play in front of people, so I put an ad in the classifieds, something like: "Guitar player seeks performance venue. Will travel." I got a couple of calls, including one from a place in Morningside, Maryland. I went out there and spoke to the owner. I was nervous, anticipating the audition. He never even asked me to play. Jusy kept talking about putting my picture in the front window with the notation: "Appearing Friday and Saturday nights 10PM until 2AM" Well, OK. Turned out all he needed me for was to stay open an extra hour. I played that nearly empty room for 6 weeks or so and blew that pop stand.

Dad wasn't happy with my college course choices, and after one too many arguments I moved out. There went my college bankroll. After kicking around the Washington, DC area for a while I got the bug and moved to California. Better luck there, no?

No

I figured that if I hung out and played the guitar on my couch, I would be discovered by a recording exec and make millions playing for the masses. Pretty bad plan. So I got my girlfriend pregnant, married her and started working for a living. I gave music one more shot, though. I went to Ventura College with my heart set on getting into the music biz. I even won a spot in a Master Class in vocal performance! It was just after that performance that I asked my professor the question that had been on my mind for the last five years. I looked him in the eye and said: "Am I good enough to make a living doing this?" Without a pause, Mr. Kenney said, "No, Ed. You have a solid voice and good command, but it would take far more than that to make it in the world of operatic vocal performance. I'm sorry."

I looked at my wife, and she was nodding in agreement. So, there it was. Time to give it up and grow the hell up. I had a kid, a wife and bills to pay. Quit dreaming and wake up, fool.

Part II: Striking a Balance...