The Fire

It has been too long. I’ll bet you thought this blog was dead, huh? I’ve actually spent the past month losing my mind and participating in the incredibly insane, yet undoubtedly fulfilling NaNoWriMo event. The good news is that I’ve been writing like a madman. The bad news (depending on how you look at it, I guess) is that the project I’ve been working on will take a really long time to be released.

However, amidst a November full of novel-focused literary recklessness, I still had to come up with another short story for Backbeat Magazine (an awesome problem to have, by the way – no complaints here). The deadline for the second entry kind of snuck up on me because I’d been forcing my way through NaNoWriMo, but, after quickly writing and hating a couple of other short stories over a day or two, I came up with something that I think is pretty entertaining.

I’m looking forward to sharing more ideas with you in the coming months and, as always, I appreciate you reading. Also, I have to apologize for the inconsistency of the appearance of these blog posts. I've tried messing with the layout of these entries a dozen times, but the alignment constantly comes out weird when I copy and paste out of Word. Thanks for bearing with it.

Enjoy!

The Fire

I was seventeen years old when I burned my house down.

If you lived here at that time, I’m sure that you read all about it. Its true that we lost everything and, yes, I was severely punished, but I’ll never forget the moment of bizarre fascination and awe that I shared with over a hundred people on my front lawn that night. None of us said anything. We just stood there, mesmerized, as the wail of the fire truck sirens grew louder and louder. There was something strangely satisfying about watching my childhood home disintegrate before my very eyes – I can’t really explain it. By morning, it was all destroyed. The insurance adjuster later told my dad that it was what they call in the industry, “a total loss.” From my point of view, however, it was the perfect ending to an incredible night.

I was born and raised in that house. My forced piano lessons began taking place in the extra bedroom that was just off the kitchen when I was six years old. The asshole instructor that my Julliard alum father enlisted to teach me would show up twice a week expecting to hear perfect renditions of, “Moonlight Sonata,” and, “Clair de Lune.” She, per my father’s insistence, demanded technically precise and proficient performances every month.

All I wanted to do was play the guitar.

By the time I was twelve, I could burn through several Mozart, Chopin, and Beethoven pieces blindfolded. In fact, I actually did that at a recital once to show my father that I was, as he liked to say, “taking advantage of the musical gift I had been given.” He complimented my technique, but couldn’t resist informing me that my performance was, “a little too showy.” Despite his mixed reviews, I figured adhering to his musical expectations would serve as leverage for me to get my first electric guitar. It worked. He told me that I could “play that thing” in my free time as long as my piano playing didn’t suffer.

I played it every day.

When I was fourteen, I joined a punk band. The first few songs we wrote were horrendous. We played power chords over and over through shitty amps, but we didn’t care. It was loud, it was raw, and I loved every minute of it. It felt good to abandon the rigid form of expression to which I had been forcefully accustomed. There was no sheet music or needle-nosed, musical know-it-all peering over my shoulder as I recklessly shredded.

We began playing around town and actually developed a following over the next couple of years. I constantly had to sneak out of the house to go play shows. My piano playing was beginning to slip, but my father’s career was starting to take off and, thankfully, he hadn’t noticed.

The day that he was invited to perform a concert with the New York Philharmonic, I was ecstatic. It meant that I could stay home and put on a “concert” of my own while he was miles away. He was hesitant to leave me home alone, but I assured him that I would spend my time studying and trying to master his old book of Bach preludes. He smiled and said that he expected to hear them when he got back the following week. I returned a sincere smile because I had mastered that book the year before and could easily play any of those pieces from memory.

He left on Thursday and said that he would be returning on Monday.

The turnout was unbelievable. Friends, friends of friends, and complete strangers were crammed into every inch of our ranch style home. I don’t know how that many people fit in my house, but they did. The crowd drank, chatted, and watched in anticipation as we began to set up in the living room.

Over the previous year, our band had become increasingly adventurous with our stage show. We were constantly breaking things, hurting ourselves as we thrashed around, and even getting into fights. We were young and embraced our youth by putting on the loudest and wildest show in town every time we played. The latest addition to the “Oh shit” moments of our performances was lighting our drummer’s cymbals on fire. During the set, I would spray lighter fluid in a circular motion on the top of the gold discs and ignite them with a cheap Bic. The desired result was a steady flame around the edges followed by a vertical fireball of at least three feet when the cymbals were struck. We made club owners nervous, but we knew what we were doing.

Or so we thought…

That night, during our best show to date, I was completely swept up in the frenzied energy of the crowd and accidentally went overboard with the lighter fluid. When the song demanded intense cymbal hits, the fireballs shot up, as usual, but a couple of smaller fireballs that leapt onto the floor near my amp went completely unnoticed. As we launched into the bridge of that closing song, coincidently titled, “Fire Fight,” my amplifier crackled, the drummer stopped playing, and the crowd began pushing and shoving - more out of panic than typical slamming. I turned around to see my amp, along with the floor-to-ceiling oak entertainment center behind it, completely engulfed in flames.

There are no words.

The growing fire was still small enough to allow everyone to get out safely, but just big enough to prevent us from putting it out. In a moment of collective consciousness, the crowd actually settled down and began to march out in a slow orderly fashion. It was as if they were quietly leaving a funeral while I, the dearly departed for whom they would surely be mourning upon my father’s return, unplugged my guitar and followed suit.

I thought about his piano as I walked outside and inspected my unscathed guitar. The thought of the disfigured ivory, snapping wires, and smoldering wood in that little room off the kitchen made me smile. It was surely cosmic justice for the years of my forced appreciation for that instrument – his instrument.

Despite the life changing repercussions that loomed on the horizon, I joyfully basked in the orange-yellow glow that radiated from the rubble that was once my house. When the firemen asked me what happened, I didn’t lie. I simply smiled and told them that I had burned the place down doing what I loved to do.

My father received rave reviews that weekend. I’m sure you read all about it. People still say that it was one of the most memorable concerts of his entire career. That piece in The Times makes me laugh to this day. The reporter decided to use a sports idiom to explain the incredible level on which my father played. She said that my dad “nailed every note of the perfect performance with poise, precision, and passion. To put it quite simply… he was on fire.”

Ritual

It never fails.

Its late on a Friday night, several hours after work, and you find yourself standing in front of a stage at a local music venue that reeks of stale cigarettes. The band you are watching - the band before yours - is loudly blasting through their last song while you nervously nod your head and tap your foot on the beer soaked floor. You’ve enjoyed the band’s set, but are now focused on absorbing their energy in order to play a good show.

That’s when it starts.

Your inner monologue of self-doubt begins describing all of the horrible and embarrassing things that are going to happen tonight: the broken guitar strings, wrong notes, equipment failures, forgotten lyrics, and the number of times your voice will undoubtedly crack when you take the stage. The voice in your head tells you that you are no good and everyone is going to think that your music is mediocre at best. Relentlessly, it informs you that you are just pretending to be a musician and nobody here wants to listen to your songs. It’s wearing you down.

The saboteur inside continues to bang his negative drum by pointing out that you don’t fit the profile for this type of artistic expression. You don’t even look like a musician. You’re standing there, wearing what could best be described as; “business casual,” while everybody else appears to fit in perfectly. They huddle together in their painted-on jeans, perfectly wrinkled vintage button ups, thick black glasses, strategically mussed hair, cool tattoos, and ironic mustaches - appearances that say, ‘unlike you, I belong here.”

The band on stage finishes their set and tells everyone to, “stick around” for your band. A torrent of adrenaline wildly courses through your body.

Your stomach quivers as you wrestle your amp onto the stage. Your hands tremble just enough to give you away as you tune your guitars. Closing your eyes, you briefly run a mental checklist of everything you needed to bring to the show. You are positive that you have forgotten something.

“Two vocals,” you tell the sound guy as he passes by with a microphone and a web of cables clutched to his chest. He grunts a confirmation of understanding and it’s obvious that, after the five bands before yours, he is ready to go home.

You look up from your guitar and notice that the crowd is focused on the bar. The clinking glasses and loud conversations confirm that they couldn’t be less interested in what’s happening on stage as the thump, thump, thump, of the kick drum is sound checked. You swallow hard and barely spit out, “Check,” into your microphone while the silhouette behind the soundboard at the back of the room adjusts the levels.

Okay guys, we’re ready whenever you are…

Settling into your usual spot on stage, you take a deep breath and look at your band mates as your nerves hit their peak. You smile and nod to tell the others, “I’m ready,” then focus on the neck of your guitar. The music that has been pumping through the PA is turned all the way down and the crowd turns in your direction. You’ve reached the point of no return. It is time to ignore the nagging paranoia and insecurity that’s plagued you since you walked in the door and play your music.

As you strum through the introduction of your set and step up to sing your first line, something happens. The fear and self-doubt that you previously manufactured melts away as your voice booms through the tall speakers on either side of the stage. Surprisingly, it is clear, on key, and doesn’t waiver. As your lyrics pour out of you, a strange confidence grabs hold. You suddenly remember all the times that you played and sang your heart out in your bedroom as a kid. Back then you were dying to sonically share your thoughts and feelings with anyone that would listen. You were dreaming of this moment…

The entire band comes together perfectly on the downbeat of the first chorus and you immediately let go. You let go of everything: pride, heartache, judgment, fear, anxiety... all of it is destined to be left on the stage before the night is over. You are miles away from the insecure wallflower that showed up at the club an hour earlier. As you acknowledge this transformation, the atmosphere of the room changes and the crowd slowly begins inching forward.

People sporadically emerge from somewhere beyond the bright lights and reveal their faces as the intensity of your playing increases. You make eye contact with them while you sing and play even harder, inciting a two-way communication. The people that you assumed would write you off for petty reasons are completely engaged in the discussion. Like you, they are aching to feel something. You jump, you dance, you scream at the ceiling and they are right there with you. You are no longer just sonic decoration in some bar. You are a contagious force of musical intensity.

The longer you play, the more you realize that you do belong here. Clothes, cliques, and politics are irrelevant when compared to what truly brings all of you together. The nodding heads and dancing bodies collectively disregard ego for a few short moments as the band on stage - your band - is playing its heart out. Everyone in the place is linked by a passion for this age-old art form and addicted to the meaningful feelings it can invoke. Music, as demonstrated by this moment, is a powerful equalizer.

Before you know it, the show is over. You’ve struck your last chord, sung your last line, connected beautifully with the crowd, and its time to pack up and head home. You are a trembling, sweaty mess. Your shirt is soaked and your legs are shaky. At some point during the set, you cut your cuticles on your guitar strings as you wildly played with no regard for pick/string accuracy. You smile at the little pink flecks of blood splattered on the pickups as you place the guitar into its case.

You go on this intrinsic journey of self-discovery every time you play, but each trip feels more intense than the last. These moments teach you profound truths about yourself, this scene, and the universal power of music – lessons that shed light on what music can do to us.

Tomorrow you will go back to work wishing you had the ability to conjure this feeling at a moment’s notice. The dramatic and revealing nature of the whole process makes you laugh as you tear down the rest of your equipment. You’ve played long enough to know that this shouldn’t happen every time, but acknowledge and appreciate the fact that this same ritual will undoubtedly unfold again at your next show.

It never fails.