And while other kids were picking up the guitar and drums, I picked up the pen.
My songwriting habits solidified as I opened up to new sounds. My heroes were always the singers, as I was naïve enough to believe that s they sang the words, they wrote the words.
I grew my internal world by moving beyond the sad boy songs into something more gothic and suggestive. I wrote horror movie scripts with kickin’ choruses. I wrote in cheap rock and roll clichés, practically the traditional folk of white suburban boys.
So when a gang of friends started to take it more seriously , they needed a singer, I said ‘I’m a singer.’
To me, singing was always an act of courage more than a skill. Considering the quality of voice that littered modern music, not everyone who sings should sing. The goal was to get them into writing original compositions as I had pads of material ready to go.
Off to the practice room, like our fathers and forefathers before us.
My first live gig was a personal revelation. I was fat, morbidly so. As wide as anyone was tall. Decked out in denim vest with patches and spikes, we played a Battle of The Bands against kids far more popular than we were. That suited us. We were filled with rage. We played covers from obscure bands no one ever heard of. Every other band had at least one Van Halen cover.
Impossible to say whether we were good or bad but we were assuredly loud and ugly. So we lost. Of course. This isn’t a movie.
Right after the cool kids were crowned, I stood back a grimy sweaty massive mess. A girl approached me. Maybe the first.
And time slowed as she intentionally walked toward me. She was a vision. Thin, blonde, smiling at me…looking at me. Everything dropped to a slow motion crawl as I noted the stage lights glinting off her silver choker…
Something is happening. I think something is happening.
I was lost in the tapping of half recovered memory when I saw a black shadow cross my hood.