Driving Away

I sat in my car flipping through the radio stations. Each one was pretty garbage to listen to. The first one I scanned to happened to be religious talk. I just can’t generally believe anyone who has a radio show is terribly pious. Next up classic rock, songs your suburban friends father would listen to while drinking a light nondescript American beer. Followed up quickly by top forty, to me this is just the bottom of the bottoms of music. Artists that have no idea how to sing or play their instruments, being electronically fixed to the music written by someone who has algorithms for what sells and basically is mass producing fast food music that everyone finds easy to consume but lacks all the essential nutrients that people need to grow and have meaning.

I ended up just turning the radio off. I had been driving for hours. Just following where my heart was telling me to go. Generally south and west. I don’t know why these directions were what was working, but every time I came to a decision point in the road, I would sort of just keep aiming for where the sun was going. It seemed to be working well until the sun was completely out of sight, and now I had absolutely no idea where I was.

How did I get here? No idea. I remember a few words with Clara, but something snapped, my vision sort of blurred and I know a lot of yelling happened. It almost felt like I just exited my body from the back and watched a movie that you don’t remember, just some pieces and parts scattered around your memory. She had been talking about my brother and how he had been living on our couch. I remember that. And I was defending him as he is family, and well you don’t really have a choice.

Brent had come on hard times a few months back. He was laid off of his job due to the CEO of his company wanting a pool installed at his house, and need Brent’s paycheck to get there. Some people are the absolute worst. It really wasn’t his fault, but they also found a way to make it look like negligence on the job and now he had no way of covering the gap until he found something new to pay the bills.

Clara just couldn’t deal with one more person in the house and I don’t blame her. It’s always had to work with extra people in your space. But this argument was just too much. He’s family for christ sakes. I think the last thing I said before I slammed the door shut behind me was, “Fine! well now there will be one less person in the house!” Then I got in the car and just drove. I let all the thoughts in my mind drift away and let the sound of the tires on the road drift up into my ears and sooth away the fight.

I suppose it was time to head back, as soon as I could figure out where back was. I have a long conversation to have with Brent, and some apologies to give to Clara. I know everything will work out though, it always does.

-V-

After the Show

After thanking the audience a final time for their show of appreciation. We exit the stage with our gear and do our regular self-deprecation session that the common show-goers never see. Each of us replays the entire show back in our own head, we pick apart each and every note we played, and we question our every action. Did it work? Was I late on the last refrain? Why was there lackluster applause after that song? The best we can hope for is genuine love of our craft. But as artists we can never be completely satisfied with it. I felt if I ever had the feeling of completeness with my music it would be time to move onto something else. That little bit of longing and missing piece is what I strive for, knowing in the back of my head it is not possible to reach. A labor of love if you will.

After a while all these shows start running into each other. Some have highlights that stick out in your mind, but for the most part they all seem to be one long journey. You start questioning if you are even getting better at playing music, writing new songs, being able to convey feeling across the gap that is created by the floor monitors in front of you. The notes and chords all seem to be the same patterns over and over again. Is it really anything new?

I polish my bass guitar with the rag a good friend gave to me once after a particularly good show. The sweat and dust around the frets always bothers me. I find it best to focus on small things one has control over or else you will easily become overwhelmed with the massiveness of what cannot be controlled. After I get my guitar cleaned up and put away in its hard case I walk out into the front of house and look around. It’s my time to feed on the audience directly. I’m not going to lie; it feels good to have people congratulate you, even if you know they are lying. But all too often what one expected and what one gets differ greatly. The adoration and applause received on stage is melted and you become a no name face again. I can’t describe it fully. Not that anyone owes me anything, I mean they probably already paid their tax to be here and they applauded after each song, why should they have to keep on praising what I just did.

Dejected I sidle up to the bar and order a beer. At least that will never fail me after a performance. Usually cold and always accepting, I’m sure I have a friend at the bottom of the bottle if I look hard enough, I’ll find them. And hey, if I don’t find them, I usually don’t care too much after searching a while. The next day can suck, but with a little more searching even that can be rectified.

-V-

Reasons

Back arched, arms behind me, seated on the Victorian reproduction settee I await the photographer’s next instruction. It has been a trying shoot to say the least. Twice now I have had to fend off his requests to remove parts of my clothes. He’s tried plying me with various alcoholic drinks and the usual set of maneuvers and language they all use. But I know every trick in the bag and have yet to see one yet that has worked on me.

“Could you tilt your head down and to the left,” he says soothingly, too close to my ear.

“Like this?” I ask as I adjust my pose.

“Yes, just like that. Hold it a moment.” He seems to like this pose a lot as I can hear the shutter clicking away and the lights flash a strobe like cadence into my retinas. “It’s wonderful, but I wish we could get you to look a little more comfortable. Is it a bit hot in here, under the lights? Do you mind if I unbutton my shirt a little?”

I’ve played this game many times. I’m almost sure he has adjusted the thermostat to bring up the heat and purposefully pointed the floodlights on me to make me sweat. I’m a pro too, I think to myself, the extra antiperspirant should hold to the end of the shoot and all I really need to do is think of nice cool places like the arctic. The amazing power the mind can have over the body.

“No. I don’t mind, but you do know I have to be going in a few minutes. I have to get across town for another shoot.” It’s my usual line I give when I get to the point where I figure the photographer is just trying to get into my pants and I might get one or two usable snaps out of it.

“Oh that’s sad, yeah. I think I have enough to work with here.” He says playing a wounded animal. “I wish I could get you back soon to try some new ideas I have, when would you be available?”

“I’ll check my calendar and get back to you,” I say, as I really have no intention of ever seeing this guy in person again. I’ll get him to send me the edited photos through the net. I collect my things and quickly exit his studio. The cover story of another shoot was just to get out without too much cajoling on my part.

People ask me why I do this? And by this, I mean stand on the other side of the camera for all to see. It could be that I’m good at being a model. It could be that I’m deathly afraid of getting older, losing my looks. It could be that I just enjoy seeing myself, in magazines, on billboards, being recognized. But the truth is only for me, I have my reasons, and that’s all you need to know.

-V-