Think about your life as if you were writing your autobiography.

I visualize myself sitting in front of an old black typewriter – solid and steel – so used and worn that the letters are almost unrecognizable. To my right, the wind quietly whistles through a cracked window while the over-cast clouds race each other east and out of sight. 

I close my eyes, lean backwards in the chair and begin to explore the depths of my unconscious in an attempt to recall its earliest memories.  As the front legs of the chair lift from the hard wood floors, I reach forward with one hand and balance my teeter tottering position.  Smugly I grin and think of how disapproving my mother would be of my posture.  Just then it hits me and the light bulb in my head shatters.  Shifting my weight forward, the front legs of the chair come crashing down to the floor.  I stretch my arms far behind my head and slide my fingers together like a puzzle until they reach the palms, flip over and crack. “I’ve got it!”

December 18th, 1982 – I was born.

I don’t remember much of that day.  It was dark, wet, and hot.  There was a lot of screaming, rubber gloves, bright lights, and…who am I kidding, I have no recollection of that day.  To be 100% honest, I don’t really remember much of anything until I was four.  But there is one memory I have vaulted deep in my hippocampus (Wikipedia it…I had to).  As events, people, and experiences have entered an exited my life and mind, this very first memory hasn’t really faded.

If someone were to ask you, What’s your very first memory? Would you be able to provide an answer?  It’s tougher than it sounds, isn’t it?  If you’re like me, you probably question some so of your very own thoughts: Was that a memory or a dream? Did that really happen or am I creating it.  Is this a story I fashioned based on a picture I once saw?  When I rack my brain and search for the real thing, I always come back to this same broken film strip of images, sounds, and smells. It’s as if I’m sitting in a movie theater where only five to ten second long clips are playing.  In between the snapshots are long periods of blank muted screen where I have to use my imagination to fill in the rest of the plot.

I was three years old and my grandpa took me ice skating at the public rink in River Rouge, Michigan. I can still close my eyes and see the large stain glass windows and the orange and brown painted stripes racing down the walls.  I vaguely remember the smell of the now demolished building; a mix of concession popcorn, old rubber mats, and hockey sweat.  More notably however, I remember pain in my feet, wanting it to stop, wanting to not skate anymore.  And that’s about it.  The rest of that story is filled in by my imagination.  And what’s worse, I can’t remember anything else until my 5th birthday.  Where did my life from 0-3 and 3-5 go?  Is it gone forever? Do I get all those memories back when I’m 95 and on my death bed?  Doubtful, but I sure hope so.

When I have kids I’m going to buy an awesome digital video camera and an external drive with a couple hundred terabytes of storage space.  Just because their young minds don’t have the ability to store and recall early events, that doesn’t mean I can’t save them for them.  What a great wedding gift idea for my future son (or daughter).  “Son, here is a flash drive with your entire childhood on it…have fun.”  With my luck, technology will be far past watching movies on a computer or TV screen.  Little Johnny would probably reply with, “Thanks Dad! I’ll have these converted to quantum-dimensional hologram clips where I can interact with myself as a young boy.”  Is it weird that I can already envision the tone of my smart-ass, yet to be born child?

The company I work for put on a mandatory two day sales training seminar for the entire sales group.  Although I’m not part of the official sales group, I felt compelled to attend.  I thought it could be beneficial to-sit in and listen, maybe pick up a thing or two.  Over the past 3-5 months sales has been an area of business that has really interested me and learning the ins and outs of that specific field might be worth my while.

The Client Executive salesman who rounded out the lectures could have been a professional motivational speaker…he was that good.  He shared stories, real-life examples, movies, and music.  He talked about his past and the events that got him where he is today, which is extremely wealthy and powerful.  But despite all of his successes, he was completely humble and extremely appreciative of the disappointments in his life, as he was able to learn and grow from them.

One message he spoke on that really hit home to me was the idea of making the most out of each day. I’m sure that sounds cheesy and very Carpe Diem, but it’s a premise that many of us constantly overlook.  I try not to be an I’ll get to that tomorrow type of person, but sometimes I fall into that trap.  As I get older I am finding that my days are getting shorter and shorter. Not because I’m sleeping in later or lying down before Conan, but instead, because each day is filled with so much damn busy work.  Remember busy work in school?  The teacher’s out sick but still managed to leave directions for the substitute: Have the kids do three multiplication worksheets then read chapter 12 and answer the five questions after the chapter summary.  That’s what my days feel like now: Wake up early, feed the dogs, go to work, oil change over lunch, busy till 5, race home to let the dogs out, heat up leftovers, hockey practice at 7, take out trash, kiss the fiancé, iron clothes for tomorrow, and repeat. Somewhere in that clutter of to-do’s is a life, it’s just sometimes hard to recognize.

The speaker at the sales training told a story of a gentleman who inspired him.  It was a time in the man’s life when he hated waking up in the morning.  He dreaded the start to each day.  If life was a pool, he was the guy who sticks one toe in the water and slowly and painfully sinks in.  As he was telling the story, I couldn’t help but compare myself to this man.  I hate the mornings.  Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a big fan of talking or thinking before 10.  I just ease into everyday as if I have all the time in the world.

One day the man decided to turn things around and attack each day with positivity and excitement.  He started waking up and writing a list of what and who he wants to be that day: I want to be polite, charming, and understanding.  I want to be a great husband, a wonderful father, and an energetic salesman.  Then he’d splash water on his face, take a step back from the mirror, extend his arms to his side and say “IT’S SHOWTIME!”

I loved the image that story planted in my mind.  The idea that someone can cold-turkey morning gloom and find a way to motivate themselves.  But I also think that it applies to more than just mornings.  Changing the way we attack life can affect our entire day, the people around us, and the events that shape our future.  In order for it to happen, we have to make it habitual and create new routines.  Like the man from the story – I’m sure there are going to be days when he didn’t sleep well, feels ill, and just doesn’t want to be all peppy and energetic.  But aren’t those the exact days he absolutely needs to force himself into a different mindset?  Maybe it’s as simple as sticking to his routine that jumpstarts his attitude and leads him to getting the most out of the day.

The world is our stage and the curtains open every morning when we walk out our front door.  I don’t know about you, but today I’m going to be great.  IT’S SHOWTIME!

“PLAY SOME SKYNYRD!”

“How it stings when we kiss and she opens her eyes…”

“SKYNYRD! FREE BIRD! PLAY IT!”

I used to play a lot of what I affectionately refer to as cover gigs. In most instances, a cover gig is a 3-4 hour performance at a bar or restaurant where people aren’t specifically attending to listen to the performer.  People attend cover gigs because they want to hear live music, which sometimes feels categorized as a glorified jukebox.  They want to dance, sing along, and just have a grand old time.

Cover gigs are a far cry from musical performances.  In my assessment, a musical performance is a gig where listeners attend in order to catch a specific artist(s), pick up a CD, hear the latest releases, etc. Listening to the music, lyrics, the artists’ crowd banter, and watching the performance typically overrides the desire to sing along and dance.

I have nothing bad to say about cover gigs.  They pay great, the material is already written, everyone sings along and has a blast, and there’s little pressure on the performer.  But there was a time in my life I didn’t realize there was a big difference between cover gigs and musical performances.  I viewed every gig as a combination of both.  I would try to incorporate my own songs in a set filled with the billboard top 40.  The only problem with that logic is that the more people drink, the more they want to hear the songs they recognize.  They don’t want to listen to an introspective tale loaded with metaphors and deep intimate reflection. They don’t have the patience to sit quietly and ask, “I wonder what was going on in his life when he wrote that song.”  What I have experienced is that they’ll wait for about half the song, and then start yelling what they want me to play next.

“DO YOU KNOW ANY GARTH!?!”

“My heart is breaking. My soul is gone…”
(Eyes glaring up at a titer tottering college kid with a backwards hat and a Busch Light in each hand)

“Can you please play Friends in Low Places next?”

“Yep – now go sit down”

I shouldn’t get frustrated over things like that.  It comes with the territory.  If I’m going to play a cover gig, I have to accept the fact that people are there to see me. They are there to experience live music.  But instances like that really did discourage me for awhile.  I’d come home and say, “Why do I even write music?  No one wants to hear it.”  It took some growing up (as a person and as a musician) that allowed me to step back, understand, and appreciate the difference between the cover gig and the musical performance.

I’ll still play a cover gig every now and then.  More often than not, the cover gig is the back deck of a friend’s house.  But I get much more satisfaction and enjoyment out of playing original music shows.  As a musician, playing a cover song is like a painter painting someone else’s masterpiece.  Like Ann Hamilton (a famous American artist known for her sculptures) being asked to remake Michelangelo’s The Pieta. What’s the significance in redoing something that it already perfect?

There is however, something to be said about taking a cover song and making it your own.  By that I mean, not just mimicking the words, tempo, and pitches of a song, but instead taking the shell of the song (usually words and chords) and altering them into a different version.  For example, take a listen to Ryan Adam’s version of Oasis’s hit song Wonderwall . Sure it’s the same lyrics and overall chord progression, but it’s a completely different song.  A friend of mine has asked me to create my own version of Guns N’ Roses song Sweet Child of Mine for his daughter’s baptism. I have been fiddling around with it on the piano, and I have a slower more classical version in mind.  I think it’s going to sound great. Once it’s done, I’ll record it and post it on the media page.

No matter how you slice it, the songwriter in all of us longs to be creative and expressive.  We want to create something fresh and new, something that inspires others or at least provokes them to think.  Covering other musician’s masterpieces can be fun, rewarding, and challenging, but it will never scratch my artistic itch.

Check out the below pic of my very first cover gig.  My friend Ian (left) and I were invited to play a couple hours of music at Trenton, MI bar Mr. Nicks.  It must have been the year 2000 or 2001.