Prior to this section, I have done my best to delve into a moment and get as specific as possible. I really want to do my best to cover every moment of my life as it pertains to academia and forming the identity that I have today. With exception to the first entry that filled in the Pre-K gaps, I have honored that idea rather closely. However, today will probably be the biggest exception in the entire series. It is a period that may actually cover 20 years but has no easier way to succinctly place in a smaller context. Today, I will be talking about my career as a musician.
As of this publication, I am celebrating my 10th anniversary since I stopped playing bass in a way that could be viewed as “productive.” I have only ever been in a band for an afternoon and, despite pushes to get it going again, I failed to find any drive. My focus began to shift towards being a writer/journalist and soon it became difficult to constantly practice and have that dream of standing on a stage while yelling “How are you feeling tonight Long Beach?” It wasn’t exactly THE dream for me, but it was an idea of being like those musicians I saw at clubs around Southern California. If they could get up and bang out a 40-minute set, I’m sure I could throw something together with a few guys.
But, before we get to all that, I feel like we need to go back to a life before I even wanted to play bass. I want to focus on my even shorter career as a pianist.
It was the late 90s. My parents had an older piano, the kind you’d often see in a cowboy saloon, that was sitting in the garage. Because I was mostly familiar with the Jerry Lee Lewis style of playing, I thought the height of playing was to hit high and low keys in tandem without concern for any greater rhythm. It’s probably the one thing that kids know best. I wasn’t sure that I ever played something that could qualify as a classic melody. At no point was I ambidextrous in a way that allowed for the complicated melodies that I now swoon over. All I had was the high-low-high-low-high-low-high-low as I imagined myself being someone like Jerry Lee Lewis just going wild.
Now here’s the thing. Every kid will bang on an instrument no matter what it is. Had there been a drum kit out there, I would’ve slapped my hand against it and become amused by the cymbal crashing. A piano seemed to be fate and soon we were looking to purchase what would become mine. It’s one that I still own and keep in my room. Every few months I will grow curious enough to set things up and play a few acquired melodies. However, it’s a far cry from where the original trajectory had intended. I want to believe everybody saw me more like those prodigies on the news who could play classical music while discussing trigonometry mid yawn.
Because of my age, the idea was still that playing an instrument was fun. I think there’s the notion that introducing your child to something allows them to express creativity in a meaningful manner. I fully condone that behavior and, of all instruments, is a far better use of your time than what the school system felt was ideal. I don’t know if it’s still a thing, but recorders were popular when I was in the lower grades and we even held lessons. Given that my mother played flute, there was some hope that it would get me into wind instruments. But, if you’re anyone who has an ear, you’ll know that recorders have some of the worst sounds when you fail to play it right. We were kids with no rhythm. It sort of breaks my heart that I can’t get my very young nieces to try and play it right, but then again, they’d also probably be doing the high-low-high-low-high-low-high-low if given the chance.
I’m still not sure why piano was the instrument that stuck, but it convinced my parents to drive us out to this place an hour away in the hills. We were at some guy’s house and, from what I can recall, was a friendly man. In hindsight, he must’ve been some sort of studio musician because he owned a handful of pianos and had a specialized room for them. As we picked up this old rink-a-dink electric piano, he welcomed me into a side room and said those tempting words, “Do you want to see something cool?” Inevitably I stood there and watched as he turned on this large electric piano. Along with playing whatever notes he played, there was a section that projected sound effects. I clearly remember him playing helicopter noises and being amused.
But the piano was mine. For the longest time, I had it set up on the proper stand. I’d go over and play whenever I felt the itch. My parents would get me a beginner’s guide to piano that I never fully read, but would often cut around to the different practice pieces. We had placed a handful of note stickers over respective keys, so I was able to follow along. The one that comes most to mind is the ascending scale of the Andrew Lloyd Webber composition for “Memory” from Cats. It may be why I have a soft spot for that song in particular, especially as it’s the only non-scale song from my childhood that I can sort of still play if prompted.
If we were to determine what lead to my downfall, it was my music teacher. While I didn’t suspect anything of this man, my parents would suggest that he eventually had to quit giving lessons because he was an alcoholic. He had a dozen or so students lined up in a room and he would teach us scales. We started slowly, doing our best to understand the basics. A great issue is that I never felt comfortable using both hands, which resulted in a lifelong jealousy of those who could. I could see people playing those harmonies, but my instinct was always to play both synchronously. I needed to break that habit, but instead I would end up playing minimalist pieces if and when I was called upon.
I forgot how long the lessons actually lasted. Something tells me that it was probably a month, but as a child I couldn’t confirm. The only thing that I do know is that my days of learning piano were coming quickly to a close. In its place was this instrument that sat in the corner of my room that I’d occasionally dabble with, still not any closer to playing anything but high-low-high-low-high-low-high-low. Sure, I now knew the basic scale, but that’s the equivalent of flexing your fingers. As I write this, there is a part of me that feels inadequate that I can’t read basic sheet music as more than rhythm signatures.
This is all to say that I think what followed was a better use of my talent. Even then, I still find myself growing older and experiencing jealousy of those who know how to play piano. Much like skateboarding, I admire those who so effortlessly achieved what I couldn’t. It’s maybe why I have a strong soft spot for artists like Fiona Apple who are doing truly innovative things with those keys.
So the years pass and suddenly I find myself as a child in Las Vegas. The question comes back up about if I want to play any instrument. Maybe it’s because I was into Sugar Ray at the time, but my mind directly went to bass. It wasn’t because of the sound, but instead the placement within the band. I know most kids would say guitar because it’s flashy and you’re going to do the solo on your knees at center stage, but for me I always suspected bass was my deal. I think that Sugar Ray was doing a live concert for some Disney program or something, but I enjoyed how he hung around in the background. He was a meaningful member of the group, but he wasn’t the focal point. More than the sound, that aspect spoke to me.
I want to believe that I’ve only been to Guitar World twice in my lifetime and both were to buy basses. In reality, both purchased instruments still work to the best of a 20+ year old model. I think the only difference is that they’re different styles.
But to me, Guitar World is very much like that scene in Wayne’s World (1992) where he walks into a guitar store and there’s an endless array of instruments hanging on the wall. It’s an overwhelming sight. I don’t know if you’ve smelled well kept carpeting, but there was also that wafting through every corner. If I was more of a gear nerd, I’m sure it would all mean anything to me. However, as a child who hadn’t really played before, I would go to different rows and simply look. My dad would say, “That one look good?” and I had to decide if I agreed. Sure, there was the hierarchy of models, and you didn’t want to crap out on bad ones, even if they were for beginners on the cheap. I had an idea that Fender was THE model to go for, but I can’t say that I came to that decision organically.
And so we left with my first Fender bass. It was red. Looking at pictures in magazines, I started seeing myself turning into those cool guys who rocked the pages of Rolling Stone magazine. Given that I was skewering towards a punk sound, I was curious to put stickers on it and give it an authentic look. However, my dad was so against it that I never tried. Instead, I would get to put whatever on the case, which has its perks but the stickers often peeled after a few months. I’d put over clear tape hoping to maintain some aesthetic, but it would often seem tacky by the time I was doing it for every fifth or sixth one.
And now, let’s get into the real heart of the piece. If there’s one part of this journey that is worth preserving, it’s my years at Morey’s Music. As far as I know, it’s still a nice little music shop where you can go for more convenient service and instrument purchasing. They also gave lessons for different instruments, which is how I came to meet Dave.
Outside of any personal bad moods that I likely experienced over our time together, I have almost zero bad things to say about him. In the realm of teachers, he was one that I appreciated being around so much that there was something tragic about cutting things off in 2014. I’m sure he was aware at the time that I was burned out, but even then I wanted to hold onto those lessons because they meant so much to me. He was great company and a great excuse to free myself from whatever worries I had elsewhere. Given how meandering my early 20s were, it was nice to have this one consistency with the belief that it would cheer me up. Music would slowly move from a goal to a hobby, and I think those hours ceased to mean as much as they used to. However, I can never say that I had a bad time because of Dave. To me, he remains (thanks to social media) one of best guys I’ve met.
I think it all stems from his general work mentality. Outside of teaching bass, he was a regular working musician. While he had a few groups that would have longer existences, I got the impression that he was taking freelance gigs. He’d come in with his practice material and we’d work it out together and, in one of my favorite examples, he talked about how he had a New Year’s Eve gig that he absolutely was loathing. He especially hated that he had to learn how to play K.C. and the Sunshine Band, whose opening piano riff he mocked as having no actual sensible melody. In some way, I think he liked me too because he could be casually dismissive of things that annoyed him. We would just joke about everything in-between lessons and realize that more than learning bass, we just enjoyed seeing each other.
I can’t really speak to the early days of taking bass, but we started in a smaller room. It felt like three walk-in closets stacked next to each other which, as you can guess, means that practicing often came with some invasive elements. Sometimes you’d just stop and be amused by the neighboring conversations. Every now and then there would be a horn instrument playing next door so you’d hear the teacher going “Down up down up down up down!” in a way that always amused me. We would eventually move into the big room that was probably four times as large and often used as a storage closet for other instruments. Even with the distance from the small room, we could still hear the teacher go “Down up down up down up down.”
I suppose that I start so sporadically because it’s hard to really summarize what learning bass meant to me. I think on some level I look back more fondly on my time with Dave than anything that permanently exists in my playing technique. He had so many stories about playing gigs that really expanded my awareness of what the profession would entail. I saw him go through good and bad days, and on one occasion he even told me about how he lost one of his teeth before comically pulling his denture out.
There was also a short-lived relationship I had with the boy who had lessons before me. In my mind, he had a Napoleon Dynamite look, but with a trench coat. He was tall and gawky. I’m not fully sure if we were ever “friends” especially given that we only ever saw each other for five minutes at a time, but I liked to make fun of him for being a big fan of Rush. I’m sure I thought I was clever, but probably was just annoying. Those came to a close one day when I remember Dave escorting him out of Morey’s Music as he was crying. Dave gave that head wave to say “Don’t say anything.” I want to assume somebody close to him died, but I never got the real story.
Another side story that always amuses me is that one day I came in wearing a t-shirt that was some interpolation of Weezer with The Muppets during the “Keep Fishin’” music video. It’s a very innocent-looking shirt. However, there was something funny to Dave that the guy who came in afterward wore the equivalent of an “I hate everyone” message shirt.
Finally, before I shift to actual lessons talk, I want to mention that there was a time that I was hanging around Morey’s Music and picked up a banjo. I played the riff from Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” and made one of the employees laugh.
While it’s easy to read Dave as more of a tangential and fun loving type, he was a great and patient teacher. He taught me the scales, slowly working into complicated patterns that worked up the beck until I was in the nether regions that are very difficult to sound like anything. He’d apply metronome and see if I could play in time. Everything was disciplined and eventually I got a good handle of everything. We started our lessons with more “serious” craft in that way. As we listened to the metronome, we’d do the notes slowly. I did my best to stay with the clicks. Sometimes it would take a few beats to get the pacing down, but now and then I jumped in and made the most of it. Sure, this came with errors but we worked on the mistakes and eventually I got the craft down. Later on when it became a discussion point, he tried to teach me to read music, though I mostly only came to know what the notes meant. I still am not able to read sheets too well or tell you the difference between an A and a C.
But the real fun of bass lessons was when we’d get into the second half. At a point, we had exhausted learning technique to the point we would make the whole hour just playing music. However, it was fun to discover what Dave wanted to introduce me to. One of the first things that he played for me was Devo’s “Mongoloid.” I think it was because it was a straightforward four chord pattern. Also, it was a kooky track full of these weird lyrics that just amused both of us. As things became complicated, he would introduce me to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” album and, in return, I would bring in “Stadium Arcadium” which became a months long obsession. We’d burn albums for each other and soon we were expanding each other’s tastes. I’d give him The Black Keys and in return he gave me Andrew Bird.
Most of all, he was a major fan of Amy Winehouse. Given the timeline of events, I got to watch him fall in love with her music for years before her overdose. There was so much hope and promise when listening to her. The funniest part was his annoyance that one of the songs on the album was censored. Then, on the day that she passed, he sat in silence and pressed play on his iPod for “Back to Black.” We listened to the song together before he finally gave a quick eulogy about how much he wished better for her. He had been emotional before, but I don’t think I had seen him be that way since about a musician. I’m sure if I had stuck around another 10 years I would’ve, but nothing spoke to me how well Winehouse transcended than Dave’s infatuation with her music.
Years would carry on. They started with my father driving me to the lessons before hanging out at the next-door McDonald’s. When we’d come out, there was a random chance that we’d end up talking for up to a half hour about nonsense depending on if the next student showed up (or existed). Dave was a lot of fun to be around and I enjoyed that he was amused by whatever dumb jokes that I was coming up with. At one point I came up with the memorization of bass strings as “God Dammit Albert Einstein,” which he considered to be fairly innovative.
And then at some point, I would begin driving myself. Because I had a job, my dad would disappear from the picture and I’d have to communicate updates on him. With that said, I do think there’s this weird subliminal impact that Dave had on my first car. Because he drove a station wagon to transport equipment, I thought that I would need one in order to do the same. Don’t get me wrong. It came in handy for things other than carrying amplifiers and instruments. However, I don’t think I ever got to use it for the full ideal vision of what I had. In fact, the only real irony of driving similar styled cars was that I related to how much this old, out of date car was always running into mechanical troubles. He was always going on about his mechanic and the value of finding someone who you trust and knows what they’re talking about.
At some point I would come into possession of a full bass amplifier set. Again, the idea was I would one day be able to set it up and rock the house. I did it a few times, but it was never worth the hassle because I was only ever playing for myself. I was fine with my small practice amp. Because I bought it from Morey’s Music, Dave was there when I bought it and decided to strike up a bargain with me. I would get discounted lessons if I could borrow the head piece for his gigs. To date, he has used it way more than I ever did and it’s for the best. I think one of my parting gifts to him was the head piece because by 2014 I realized that particular dream was dying quickly and thought it would be too disadvantageous to keep it from someone who was making the most of it.
One of the final things that I will bring up is that he was very encouraging of my career as an artist. When I was in high school, he would encourage me to bring in poetry and he’d read it aloud. At the time I was writing more comedic pieces and would enjoy watching him land on the punchlines. There was a time where I talked about werewolves shaving the following morning. Other times I wrote about the recent news that Pluto wasn’t considered a planet. For some reason, I wrote about it being at jury duty and somebody saying, “Pluto? Never heard of it.” Something about that line cracked up Dave to the point he referenced it for several months. I will say that while he liked most of them, I’d occasionally try more experimental stuff that made no sense, and logically he turned it down. Having that tough critic was helpful.
It's difficult to shift away from Dave because he’s someone who hasn’t fully gone away yet. We still talk to each other on Facebook here and there. I’ve seen him perform randomly in public, notably at The Aquarium of the Pacific accompanied by a dancing otter. However, I think the conflict with Dave being around in such a specific position for as long as he was is that you can only have so many stories before it feels like a meandering highlight reel. There were a lot of amazing days together and he definitely knew when to be a friend and when to be closer to a mentor type.
I think it was especially evident towards 2014 that things were coming to an end. For reasons that I’ll get into in a later piece about my job, I was really struggling to figure out what I wanted from life as I reached 25. Some would call it a quarter-life crisis. I had celebrated my fifth anniversary at my job and when looking at my celebratory pin, I felt unenthusiastic about it. I think there was a sense of stagnation that upset me. Along with the fact that my school career was tanking fast, everything in 2014 was approaching a feeling of burnout. I needed to restart everything as soon as possible.
I never wanted to lose Dave, but it is the inevitable side effect of quitting your job. Are you going to put up $100 a month just to have someone talk to you? I guess on some level that would describe a therapist, but I just liked Dave for reasons beyond what we could or couldn’t say to each other. We just related over silly things and had bass as this excuse to get together. I think part of it was clear that our time was ending because I didn’t have that enthusiasm. I wasn’t exactly respecting his more nuanced moments as much as I used to. We were there and doing fine, but some days felt more like obligation than fun.
It was why the eventual breaking of the news was painful. I did it over text. To show you how little I knew about the pay system outside of giving him money when he said so, our last lesson actually came after when the final pay day would’ve covered. I only know this because I had brought my bass. However, in a jarring turn of events, he told me not to play. I guess there was some legality in his mind that doing so would disrespect his teaching ethics. That was the final blow that hurt most.
I remember when that final day was less because we talked about anything meaningful, but that I had brought in The Black Keys’ “Turn Blue.” Together we sat and listened to them as we had through “Brothers” and “El Camino.” He would provide commentary and that component went as naturally as ever. However, I still struggle to want to listen to “Turn Blue” ever again because of how much it reminds me of those final moments. There was also some painful irony in having the last song be called “Gotta Get Away.”
When that moment ended, he gave some advice and hope for the road ahead. He claimed that because of where my career was heading that I would need music more than ever. He was right about that much. Even if my career has taken me more in the profession of writing, I still find so much creativity in music and find that it influences a lot of my decisions. He’s still out there playing gigs. I can’t be sure if he’s still at Morey’s Music, especially since it felt like students were dwindling even in 2014. He was especially critical of the idea that people were teaching themselves online. I don’t know if he’s still as skeptical.
The good news is that this won’t be the last time that I talk about Dave in this series. However, he’ll be more of a supporting character compared to this section. I felt the need to highlight this part of my life because even if it didn’t count towards my academic credits, it was an education unto itself. I learned the value of practice and finding my own style. It was the stories of playing gigs and the random antics they got up to. I don’t know if I ever fully appreciated Dave’s more mature stories at the time, but things as simple as being nice to your bandmates resonate now with me more than they did at the time.
I am unsure how to go from here because the events are less meaningful but just as crucial to understanding me as a bass player.
Outside of Dave, I was trying to learn how to play bass through tabs. Because it was mostly punk, I would pick them up and do what I could to attach the numbers to the strings. Songs like Pennywise’s “Bro Hymn” were especially fun because they were quick runs. I would apply it to piano as well when I learned My Chemical Romance’s “The Black Parade” or Beastie Boys’ “Girls.” All in all, I liked to try and learn different riffs, but never enough to form a substantial repertoire. I tried my hand at guitar, but I noticed quickly that nobody cared at me trying to play riffs. I stuck to bass and grew envious whenever Alex came over and played Green Day behind his head.
There was some push to be a bass player that permeated through high school. Somebody on campus had a guitar club, and I’d take my bass there to play around with. My dad would meet me at the gate and take my stuff when it was over. Or at least, that was most days. There were others where I had to lug it around to different classrooms. Once I became friends with Glose, she let me store it in the back of her classroom. She admired my stickers in part because she was in a punk band that played dingy clubs downtown. If you want any context for what type of music she was into and what stickers I had on my case, I had a sophomore yearbook quote from her that says “Butt Trumpet rocks.” She’s cool, but it’s premature to talk about her here.
What I will say about the guitar club is that I didn’t get far with it. The most we got was this random guy who played all seven minutes of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” We stood and watched him play it without interruption. Once it was done, we said it wasn’t good just to mess with him.
Finally, I was in a band for a day. We didn’t even have a name, but what we had was that naïve ambition. I remember it was around the time that Angels and Airwaves’ “I Origins” came out, so I was playing that when the message came that Tim wanted to meet up and discuss potentially doing something. Billy played drums, so we sat in the bedroom for a few hours and tried to riff. Were we good? Not really, but there was that idea that maybe we could get better if we tried.
I did what I could to get their attention in the weeks after, but nobody would bite. Billy actually was bothered that I had his number – which Tim gave me – which suggested that he wasn’t game for it. Alas, after some unsuccessful haranguing, the band went the direction of a lot of other activities and disappeared abruptly.
Because of all this, I tend to say that I am an unsuccessful bass player. I have had various run-ins since, but nothing that could amount to a meaningful story. Even in college, I found that a band had set up their instruments in our journalism room and I picked up the bass to play. Someone asked me to play the Seinfeld line, which I’ve come to accept as condescending, but was quickly shut down. Apparently musicians are very picky about others playing their instruments. I probably would get it if I played more.
I know that I didn’t really touch on bands that I saw live, but I feel like that’s not where that story fits. Given that this is sandwiched as a prelude to the high school entries, I hope to get into those as they fit into the greater social atmosphere of education and friendships. With that said, there’s no denying that going to those shows, you looked at them and imagined that you could do what they did in your own way. Along with any typical greats that I was excited to see, I want to give a quick shoutout to the one bass player for an obscure band that I saw open for Mest that I never got to congratulate. I don’t know where Maxeen wound up, but it’s one of those moments where I watched him play and think, “He’s got it.”
To be honest, I don’t know that my heroes as a bass player were all that unexpected. For example, I fully agree that Flea of Red Hot Chili Peppers is one of the best in mainstream rock. I also am a fan of Matt Freeman of Rancid even though his patterns tend to be way too complicated (“Maxwell Murder” is amazing, though). I also liked Fat Mike of NOFX, Mike Dirnt of Green Day, and Roger of Less Than Jake. I’m sure if you gave me time, I’d find more recent ones, but during the time frame that I’m talking about, these were the ones that stood out the most.
But yeah, it’s one of those youthful dreams that was incredible to have. I do wonder if my callouses have healed too much and I have to start over at this point. Otherwise, now and then I wonder what would happen if I sat down and played again for a long period of time. While I mentioned playing other people’s instruments in college, I have been self-conscious of my nieces playing mine in part because they’re too small to have it sit on their lap, but also their instinct is to mess with the tuning knobs. Given that I had them tuned, it becomes heartbreaking to try and remember what the right sound was.
There’s very little that ties me to the type of music that interested me at that age. I still like the songs, but the drive to learn how to play and sing has dwindled. However, I have an online friend who has provided me some small bit of comfort. She’s not going anywhere career-wise with her playing, but hearing her sing songs that matter to her always makes me smile. I wish I felt more confident to do that. This could partially be because I recorded two videos of me attempting to do improvisational bass from high school days. The irony is that while my father was capable of ignoring me any other time, he managed to show up during the recording of both. Were they good? No. However, reading so many complaints from YouTube commentors about how I screwed up James Browns’ “Night Train” didn’t exactly encourage me. Looking to today and the potential restart, I feel even worse about my voice and less limber in my fingers. Then again, as a bass player you don’t have a lot of options for playing acoustic and being picked up by a cell phone. Still, I love the idea that she is able to make it feel therapeutic and bring her joy.
So here I am, collector of instruments. I have some skill, but not enough to mount a career. I like to think that my fascination with music stems from this element of myself. While I think that I was a halfway decent bass player and probably could’ve been consistent if I kept playing, it was not where my life took me. As for now, I find myself listening to other bands and enjoying those that are doing something ambitious on a musical scale. To me, I like to think I’d be doing stuff like that, even if I never had the drive to make truly weird art. Maybe I just never met the right people. Who knows. Just know when I say I’m a failed bass player, it’s coming from a place of love. I’m glad to have played, but hopefully it will come back as a useful hobby somewhere down the line.
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