(no subject)
I haven't posted in a while. The longer I go without posting, the harder it gets to do so. I've written on that subject before. Essentially, it becomes daunting. If I neglect to post about hugely important events of my life, it seems silly to write about the little things. Sometimes the small things don't even make sense without pages of context. Regardless, I've wanted to write. This is my effort.
I've been in Wood Burning Cat for almost five years. Most people don't realize that it's been that long. It's hard to believe myself. It was November of 2005 when I played my first solo set at Soma 36 in Orono. It was 2 originals and a Maritime cover. Of all the bands to cover, Maritime, really. It wasn't until April 1st, 2006 that I started answering to the name Wood Burning Cat, at its first real show in Farmington. I took Astra to that show with me, and it was my first time seeing The Rattlesnakes. They covered "Caribou" by the Pixies.
My band is on it's third incarnation now, as a three-piece. A few days ago we moved into a new practice space. I play guitar again. Sometimes we practice and it's horrendous and depressing, but sometimes it's amazing. Sometimes it's so good that it's hard for me to believe I'm a part of it, controlling it in real time. I feel good about it.
I have suffered a few hundred existential breakdowns in the past couple years, relating to the vast silliness of pursuing a music career. The idea is that I don't work hard enough to be taking it as seriously as I like to pretend I am. I am working under the assumption that fame is on the horizon, but not actively pursuing it, or even wanting it. As silly as it is to think about, it's even worse to type it or say it out loud. The problem is all based around the idea that a means must have an end. Life is built on the idea of having goals and some idea about the future. When you think in those terms, you can't reconcile doing something that leads you nowhere.
Today I was thinking about the first show I ever played, back in December 2002. I was playing bass in a band called Lowfive. The show was in Houlton, Maine, at something called Watson hall. We put it on ourselves and it was this big bloated thing with 5 or 6 bands. We showed up far far in advance to set up our ludicrously large PA with 3 stage monitors and a mixing board. Being in the pre-ipod days, and indeed, slightly before laptops were the dominant breed of computer, one of our band members had his desktop computer set up by the mixing board, and was playing his MP3s over the PA. This song came on, by the band The Stereo, called "Please Try to Understand." It was a nice upbeat piano driven number, and a room full of second-wave emo kids sang along happily and loudly. It was one of those moments that forever paints the song associated with it. This song might have been intended to be about something by the dude who wrote it, but for me it will always be about the first show I ever played, and a sense of community that made me feel warm and accepted.
The point is, I suppose, that those moments are the reason it's okay to lead this lifestyle. I don't want there to be a point when I'm old that I look back on my life and think, "What exactly was I doing during that time period?" I want it to be constantly changing and moving forward. Sometimes I worry that it gets harder as one gets older. Nothing seems vital like it once did. The shit that made my life worth living in 2001 was mostly stupid things: Sitting in a freezing cold Ford Escort outside an apartment complex in Portland, on my way to see The Get Up Kids and Alkaline Trio, listening to a bad emo song by a band I now use as a punchline, and feeling like all of reality was tragically fucking beautiful. I worry I'm too smart and I know too much. I can't kid myself into thinking love is the answer and bad lyrics are good lyrics. In the same situation, today, I'd be bitching about the song and thinking the girl was more annoying than beautiful. Maybe time will prove me wrong?
Right now, the only thing I know with certainty is that motion is key. I need to be moving in some direction, no matter what else happens. I want to spend more time alone on buses or with friends I barely know in strange cities I've never been to. I never feel more alive than when I'm vulnerable, and hanging on by the thinnest thread of luck and circumstance. I don't want stability. I want to throw myself into adverse situations, and find out what I'm capable of.
I've been in Wood Burning Cat for almost five years. Most people don't realize that it's been that long. It's hard to believe myself. It was November of 2005 when I played my first solo set at Soma 36 in Orono. It was 2 originals and a Maritime cover. Of all the bands to cover, Maritime, really. It wasn't until April 1st, 2006 that I started answering to the name Wood Burning Cat, at its first real show in Farmington. I took Astra to that show with me, and it was my first time seeing The Rattlesnakes. They covered "Caribou" by the Pixies.
My band is on it's third incarnation now, as a three-piece. A few days ago we moved into a new practice space. I play guitar again. Sometimes we practice and it's horrendous and depressing, but sometimes it's amazing. Sometimes it's so good that it's hard for me to believe I'm a part of it, controlling it in real time. I feel good about it.
I have suffered a few hundred existential breakdowns in the past couple years, relating to the vast silliness of pursuing a music career. The idea is that I don't work hard enough to be taking it as seriously as I like to pretend I am. I am working under the assumption that fame is on the horizon, but not actively pursuing it, or even wanting it. As silly as it is to think about, it's even worse to type it or say it out loud. The problem is all based around the idea that a means must have an end. Life is built on the idea of having goals and some idea about the future. When you think in those terms, you can't reconcile doing something that leads you nowhere.
Today I was thinking about the first show I ever played, back in December 2002. I was playing bass in a band called Lowfive. The show was in Houlton, Maine, at something called Watson hall. We put it on ourselves and it was this big bloated thing with 5 or 6 bands. We showed up far far in advance to set up our ludicrously large PA with 3 stage monitors and a mixing board. Being in the pre-ipod days, and indeed, slightly before laptops were the dominant breed of computer, one of our band members had his desktop computer set up by the mixing board, and was playing his MP3s over the PA. This song came on, by the band The Stereo, called "Please Try to Understand." It was a nice upbeat piano driven number, and a room full of second-wave emo kids sang along happily and loudly. It was one of those moments that forever paints the song associated with it. This song might have been intended to be about something by the dude who wrote it, but for me it will always be about the first show I ever played, and a sense of community that made me feel warm and accepted.
The point is, I suppose, that those moments are the reason it's okay to lead this lifestyle. I don't want there to be a point when I'm old that I look back on my life and think, "What exactly was I doing during that time period?" I want it to be constantly changing and moving forward. Sometimes I worry that it gets harder as one gets older. Nothing seems vital like it once did. The shit that made my life worth living in 2001 was mostly stupid things: Sitting in a freezing cold Ford Escort outside an apartment complex in Portland, on my way to see The Get Up Kids and Alkaline Trio, listening to a bad emo song by a band I now use as a punchline, and feeling like all of reality was tragically fucking beautiful. I worry I'm too smart and I know too much. I can't kid myself into thinking love is the answer and bad lyrics are good lyrics. In the same situation, today, I'd be bitching about the song and thinking the girl was more annoying than beautiful. Maybe time will prove me wrong?
Right now, the only thing I know with certainty is that motion is key. I need to be moving in some direction, no matter what else happens. I want to spend more time alone on buses or with friends I barely know in strange cities I've never been to. I never feel more alive than when I'm vulnerable, and hanging on by the thinnest thread of luck and circumstance. I don't want stability. I want to throw myself into adverse situations, and find out what I'm capable of.