The Greatest Performer on Earth

That 1 Guy plays at the Doug Fir on February 13th. I have recanted my story of how I first came upon That 1 Guy before, and I shall probably do so again on this blog before the show, but in the meantime, know this:

Those moments

There is only one thing greater than that moment: you're working away, just listening to music in the background. This particular playlist is your "upbeat" playlist; the one you play towards the end of a Friday, to give you the energy to keep working until 5:00 at your dead-end job.

Then That Song comes on. It could be one of several, but at that moment it feels like the only song ever written. Your plan to keep working by listening to music backfires in the most wonderful way—you're so captivated by your music, you can't think of anything else. There's nothing in the world that can pull you away from the feeling the song gives you. These songs are usually the "singles" on an album—really catchy, uplifting songs. The ones where you buy the whole album, and it's pretty good, but then that one song plays, the anamoly, that incredible gem that the songwriters themselves couldn't conjecture how the song came to be. Maybe the muses are real, if for only that one song. Finding that song, especially after you've forgotten it, buried deep in your playlist... hearing that song again for the first time is hands down the second-greatest feeling a person could possibly have.

The greatest feeling in the world is when it's a song you wrote.

What the fuck am I doing here? What possible value does this job have to culture? What contribution am I making to anyone in the world by typing addresses into a computer? What strides has our civilization made, in having companies whose sole purpose is to give the richest 5% (that's my client base) a little extra luxury that they don't even need? Could that possibly be more valuable than sharing songs like this with the world?

Some songs I write purely for myself. Introspective songs that mean something personal, something special, to me. This isn't one of those songs. This is a song I pored over for 2½ years, adjusting, altering, stealing from other songs, to make the perfect beast. It's a process I've only gone through 3 or 4 times in my life; most of my songs are written in an afternoon, and only slightly modified over the years. This was an intentional effort, with the express purpose of making something wonderful.

For what? For me? How is that of any value? Even if I tried getting the song out to the world, it would never reach open ears, drowned out by the literally millions of cheap one-off efforts from high school kids who have been deluded into thinking that all you have to do to make it in the music world is to be more persistent and ornery than everyone else. People get so soured to new music that by their 24th birthday, they call it a lifetime and spend the next 50 years listening to all the songs they remember from their youth. They won't open up to new songs. And for the under-24 crowd... well, even if they did still listen to rock music, how would they know that I'm not just another pushy obnoxious kid with a guitar, trying to force myself on them like a pubescent teen in eyeshot of a D cup? One of the most common compliments I get from people is "this is really good... I'm surprised!" The surprise comes from the presumption that it will be terrible, and they listen to it begrudgingly because they figure I won't leave them alone unless I do.

Well, you know what? I'll tell you right now that I have a handful of songs, maybe 5 or 6, that are fucking wonderful. I don't just think so, you think so. You just don't know it. And if you think you're open to listening to them, that you'll give them a shot, well... fuck you. My culture doesn't want me, so I don't want my culture. You can continue your life with your soul a little emptier than mine. Just writing this blog has pissed me off, but I'll be over it in 5 minutes and 13 seconds.

I have the remedy for a darkened soul.

Muzak

Once a friend of mine pointed out a great injustice. We were in a department store, and elevator music was playing over the PA. He turned to me and said, "you know, they pick this music because they're trying to put in music that won't be offensive to anyone. Well, I find this music offensive. Music like this presumes that there is no value to actual feeling or purpose in music, that all people really want is someone blowing into a saxophone. I could understand if they just played some soft jazz, but this music has intentionally had all the emotion and feeling sterilized out of it, because they're afraid people will be uncomfortable if they are made aware of their soul."

Never more did this ring true to me than just now, as I was put on hold with a client, and their hold music was a watered-down version of a Sting song. They were actually afraid that someone would find Sting abrasive. Sure enough, I was offended; I would have found listening to Sting somewhat pleasant, even an instrumental version, but instead I was forced to listen to a droning sterilization of it, only provoking my emotions, knowing that they could be feeling something pleasant but were instead left with an empty void. Ironically, that provoked emotions of their own, none of them pleasant.

The Internet Strikes Again

Every night, without fail, I sing a half hour or more of my songs. To this day, I clear out my living room and put my microphone stand in the middle of the room. The west wall—the one without windows—is my stage. I put together a set list, I announce myself to the wall, and I perform a full set. I thank the wall between songs, I mind the fourth wall with every step, I choreograph my moves in synchronization with the invisible musicians in the room with me. I consider it my aerobic exercise for the day, as I'm always drenched in sweat by the end, after giving my all to the performance. My throat is sore, my arms are tired, my neighbors are irritated by me singing full throttle, full dance moves, thrashing into the ground with the music.

I haven't performed my own material to a real audience in six years. I don't have the hair for it anymore anyway. I don't have real band mates. The only people in this city who have even heard my music are my ex-girlfriends and friends who knew me from back when. My old bandmate lives here, but we don't play together anymore. I don't think his wife has ever heard my music. He sits with me at the bar sometimes and talks about how bored he gets, but he never calls to invite me over.

I manifest myself to the public as an employee for a mid-sized insurance company. I was in a kid's musical this summer—one of my coworkers happened to see me perform- her input was "it's great to have hobbies outside of work," like that shouldn't be a given. Like I don't spend ten hours a day letting my life waste a way, and just half an hour a night reliving the times when it wasn't.

An old groupie found me online the other day. She was my biggest fan ten years ago. She was fourteen, I think. She used to call me and invite me over. She listened to my music every night. Once, online, she gushed to some guy online about what an enormous crush she had on me, only to find out that she was actually talking to me (she got her screen names confused).

She's doing well. She's twenty four, living in Boulder. She's the lead singer of a band. She called me on video chat. I remembered her, referred to her by the name I used to call her, forgetting that it wasn't her real name. She laughed and said she remembered the night I gave her that name, every detail of it. "I was such a girl then," she said. Then she went on about all the things going on in her life, all the music she's playing, the people who come out to see her perform.

When I was her age, I was playing shows, too. In fact, I was just getting ready to move to Portland, ready to show my music to the big city. That year, the band broke up. Over the phone, no less. I was already living in Portland, and was driving back home for a show. I still wanted the band to make it. I'd travel for shows, no sweat. My bandmate, the one who lives here now, called me to see if I was already on the road. The show had been cancelled. I found out later it had never been booked; they just didn't have the nerve to tell me. And anyway, the drummer quit. He said that he didn't feel my heart was in it anymore, or I would have stayed with the band.

I never played with a band again.

Luckily, she didn't ask how I was doing, what I was up to. I mentioned something in passing that I had done a little acting, but I think she just assumed that I had gone on to be a successful Portland musician. Why wouldn't I? I was her hero, after all. I'm the one she looked up to, that made her decide to be a lead singer too. She was living the dream.

What would she say if she knew I'd given up music and got a job at an insurance company? How would she look at me then? Would it scare her? I could tell by her voice, the way she worded her sentences, that although she was grown up now and realized I was just some guy, she still respected me. I don't care about the respect, not from my side of it anyway. I'm just worried about how that would change her life view.

I'm not saying she'll be a successful musician. I'm not even saying her band won't break up soon too. I just want to make sure that she stays onstage long enough to inspire some fourteen year old in the audience, like I inspired her. Eventually, one of us will make it, and one of us will enhance people's lives. It won't be me, but I still want to be a part of that. I don't want to break the chain.

God Help Us All

The "Alternative" genre is now "Adult Alternative" and includes such acts as John Mayer, Jack Johnson, and Lifehouse. Am I the only 29 year-old in this country who hasn't already turned 40? Are they afraid that they're going to get a high blood pressure from listening to musicians who aren't on Oxycotin and Valium?

I've had it

While sitting at my desk today and typing addresses into a computer, I pulled out my iPod as usual. I usually listen to "upbeat mix," for obvious reasons– so much so that I'm starting to get sick of the songs on it. Some of the lists are pretty generic: "singles mix," "on-the-go," "running music," "soft mix." So, really, any of them are a safe bet; if it's anything other than upbeat, I know I'll probably hear something I haven't heard in a while.

So, I put on "killer mix." This is one I actually only listen to on special occasions– the mix of songs that provoke a tangible emotion out of me, every one. So it's not usually what I listen to when I'm trying to do some medial work tasks. But you know what, fuck it. I've got a review coming up where my boss is going to tell me I'm a poor performer. I have supervisors from other departments sending barbed emails about me because they're convinced I'm spying on their department. Let me say that last one again. People in my own company are accusing me for spying on them, because I ask them what they do for a living. Some of my coworkers are afraid of me, others hate me. Others still send me emails saying how blessed they are that I work with them. People I used to work with call and ask me for advice on jobs I've never had. My boss told me it's okay for me to tell people that my coworkers are incompetent. Today, the Vice President from another business unit called to ask me for advice on a case at her desk. So what do I care if I look a bit hot under the collar while I'm working?

And it then occurs to me that it's been too long since I listened to my "killer mix." Evidently, I haven't felt emotions for quite some time, and it was a rude awakening to have them return.

Those who know me will know that I'm a bit melodramatic. Having said that, I felt this afternoon as if I had just woken from a coma and found out that I was 28, bald, fat, acne-ridden and working for an insurance company with a business casual outfit and a decaf coffee at my desk. Why the fuck didn't any of you tell me? 

My apartment's a fucking disaster. I haven't folded my clothes for nearly a year. I haven't had all my dishes clean at the same time since 1998 (that's not a lie; when I move, I always take some dirty dishes to the new place). I drew the window shade, which has been closed since December, to find that a swarm of flies have been living behind the shade. I keep my spaghetti sauce on my living room floor. I've completely given up, and I don't have any accomplishment to have faded from.

I had a band once, but we never made it. You know why? We didn't try. We were exactly like every other college band, except our songs were better and we deluded ourselves into thinking we were taking it seriously. One summer, we played a couple shows in Ontario, Oregon. You know what we called it? A tour. It was the only time we played outside of our home town, and the stress of the travel is what led directly to the breakup of the band.

I moved to Portland after college. I went to a city of opportunity, from a town of stagnation. You know what opportunity I grasped onto? Ten months of unemployment, $15,000 of meaningless debt, a string of superficial relationships with desperate, failed people, a three year alliance with a self-absorbed alcoholic, and a 500 square foot apartment.

Did you know I'm a writer? A couple years ago, I talked to a girl who had a published book out. I said I wrote a bit too, though I'd never sold anything. "Let me guess," she said, "screenplays and short stories?"

So, I guess I'm not all that special in that regard. 

I'm engaged. Yep. To a girl I could have married when I was twenty two, but I didn't do it because I didn't want to deal with the responsibility or investment. In four months she's going to move in with me, into this shithole, and she's going to be expecting to go out there and get a job as a doctor. I haven't done any research on how she could accomplish that, and I haven't sent her any study guides or prep work for her to get her licensure. Actually, aside from proposing, I haven't really done anything for her.

I say this all in optimism. Consider the songs that played on my killer mix: "Letterbomb" by Green Day. "Wait and Bleed" from Slipknot. "Eat You Alive" by Limp Bizkit. "The Perfect Drug" by Nine Inch Nails. "S.S. Recognize" by Alien Ant Farm. "Grind" by me, three years ago. All of those except the last one have something in common: the people performing them are in their thirties. I'm 28. There was no requirement that I die at 20, but I did. And now I realize why those emotions awoke something in me: my emotions kept telling me how mediocre I was. I prefer the voice in my head that tells me how incredible I am.

Look back at my past posts in my blog. I talk about how much better I am than my coworkers. Yet here I am, working with them. I talk about how much smarter I am than all my classmates. Yet I haven't taken advantage of my intelligence since the tenth grade. Hell, I only got a 3.8 in a state uni, and that's with only one honors class. In humanities. I talk about how great I am with language and culture. Yet I only speak two languages, and I work for people who have never heard of the European Union. You know that I work in the city where the headquarters of my old exchange program is located? I was offered a job there, once. I turned it down so I could do data entry at the insurance company. That was four years ago.

So here's the question: I'm going to bed in an hour. Who's going to wake up tomorrow morning– the self-absorbed failure, or the man I claim I could be? Is there a chance that this weekend, I'll meet a man who will clean and care for himself without complaining, who will demand better of himself, who will actually work towards something, even if that means working 80 hours a week? Or am I just typing another fucking fictional narrative?

You know what's playing right now on my mix? "Caterpillar," by me, ten years ago. The guitarist of my old band's favorite part is when I would pound down on the strings and let out a ferocious scream. By the time we recorded the song in 2002, I didn't want to scream at the end anymore. It was too much effort, and kinda hurt my vocal chords.

Update: Tonight, I said goodbye to World of Warcraft. I deleted the porn folder from my computer. I took a shower, cleaned up, shaved, and laid out some clothes for tomorrow. I ordered a new iron so I can put all my clothes in my closet this weekend. I've still got a little time before I go to bed early (so I can get up early and make myself a real lunch instead of paying $7 a day at the deli), so I think I'll pick up my guitar and work on that song I promised I'd have written a week ago. Tomorrow, God help me, I'm going to get caught up at work. I'm too good to fail. I'll be the best fucking employee they've ever had, until I know I've got real, tangible work somewhere else. I'll do everything I have to do so I can be a true professional.

Please, Bob, don't fuck this up for me.

I have five MP3 players.

I've got an old hard-drive MP3 player, a CD MP3 player, an iPod, an iPod shuffle, and an iPod nano. What the fuck? Why in God's name do I have five players? How many hundreds of dollars have I spent so I can listen to music while I'm at work? You know what the bitch of it is? I have iTunes on my work computer. If you really want to be picky about it, I don't need any of them. Well, I need one, for when I'm working out, or in the tub watching TV shows I downloaded off iTunes, or sitting on the MAX.

I, on the other hand, have five.

Two of them are in storage. They're way too outdated. The iPod shuffle is up for bid on eBay; currently, the highest bid is $1.30 (plus shipping). The iPod is the one of the five I actually need. The iPod nano... well, I didn't really mean to buy it, and I tried to change my mind, but my bid was already locked in. I want it because I just got those cool new Nike shoes that track your workout and let you know how you're improving over time, which would be REALLY useful. $130 useful, I don't know, but that's the price I paid.

Ultimately, fuck eBay. I tried it once and ended up with an iPod I don't really want. If I had impulse-bought it from a store, it would come with a return policy. Not eBay. I have to take it, and I didn't even know how much it cost. I thought I was getting it for $50. At the last second, it shot up to $85. Whatever. I'm going to use it for my workout, then I'll give it to my fiancee as a birthday present later this year. She'll love it. Actually, I already told her I got it for her.

For That I owe

Oftentimes I will be hanging out with someone and they’ll just stop and sigh, lost in their thoughts. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Oh,” they say longingly, “this song. Cindy loves this song.” Or whoever their ex might be who ruined a perfectly good song.

Now, I have a litany of music that I own purely because an ex-girlfriend liked that band. I’ve even been sitting at work, toiling away, when a Beck song comes on, and I’d stop and listen, and I’d have to call up my girlfriend and tell her I love her. Just like anyone, I attach music to memories. Moreover, I have a plethora of songs I wrote about girls myself. Not much chance of detaching those songs from ex’s.

I even have songs that have been ruined by bad memories. “I am One” by Smashing Pumpkins is ruined for me– when I first bought Gish, I was playing a lot of this freeware video game some college dude made called “Billy goes Bowling,” which is basically like Shinobi but instead of throwing shiruken you throw a bowling ball. And you have a dog. And now, any time I hear that song, I just picture that stupid game.

But having a song ruined by a relationship? Never. The biggest reason is probably because I don’t really get hurt by breakups. I don’t get some complex that they don’t want me or that I’m worthless– if I were worthless, they wouldn’t have been with me in the first place. Nor do I feel like something is missing in me when I don’t have them as that song plays– I’ve never really been attracted to the kind of woman who dumps me. And I wouldn’t dump them unless I didn’t want to be with them anymore. There’s only one girl I feel empty without, and while I am without her, her old favorite songs only give me hope and inspiration that I will be with her again.

So, if anything, my ex-girlfriends’ favorite bands only enhance my life. So, to all the girls who have been kind enough to share part of their lives with me, I thank you. Not only for all the wonderful times we’ve shared, but for opening my eyes to bands like Green Day, Operation Ivy, Beatles, Blink-182, Manau, Plastelina Mosh, Sting, Clint Black, Moby, Beck, Soul Coughing, and Eve 6. They’re all perfectly fine artists in their own right, but every time I hear their songs, there’s a part of me that comes out, that you gave me, that makes it personal. For that I owe.