There was a song in the 90’s that I loved. Still love I guess, the feeling it evokes only slightly skewed to my current age. It’s by a North Carolina band called The Connells, composed of two Connells brothers, Mike and Dave and three others. They had two albums that were a part of the fabric of my first 3 years of college, a time when I was becoming a musician and soaking up inspiration and overthinking about everything. A deadly combination that usually produces upper middle class white kid angst. The Connells were far from angst. I’m just saying I decided that would be my resultant expression of the soaking in and regurgitation. 

My first real show was on my 21st birthday. In the first two years of my college career, I managed to align myself with what I felt was the music scene that would get me where I wanted. I made friends with them, pushed other friends to dust off instruments and formed a band named Meantree. There were 2 paths to shows. The behemoth that was Murphy’s, which hosted mid range Southeastern alternative acts like Drivin N Cryin, The Sidewinders, Better than Ezra and The Connells and then there was The Bayou, The Art Bar and a few other smaller venues that were way more indie and grungier. I liked the idea of being edgier and grungier but really, I wasn’t. I was equal parts frat boy and artist. A combo that left me straddled between the two, not quite all in with either. The story of my life. 

In June 26, 1992, Meantree opened up for The Connells and I felt like I had “made it”. Like most accomplishments, 15 mins of space assured me that I hadn’t made anything, but it was a great opportunity and some proof that we had some talent. We would keep getting shows, play around some places outside of town and generally underachieve for the next year and a half before breaking up 3 weeks prior to me graduating from college, a finish line I had marked as the spot where I could really go try and play music. 

This morning I was sitting here trying. Trying to get back to writing. To defining what it is I want to write about. And a line from The Connells song hit my prefrontal cortex. 

“To tell him he's uninspired 

In some weary, absent way 

To tell him he's simply tired...”

30 years later, those words ring the same as when I was 20. Life, inevitably feels like a war against doubt. Against worth and for me against “good enough”.  I say “for me” but I imagine it’s for everyone. This morning, I’m just reminded of how the same battles from 1991 rage on. Don’t get me wrong, when I was 20, this war was like the Cold War, an inevitable Global Thermo-Nuclear war, certain to lay waste to me. Wargames for the soul maybe. Now it’s more like a war against time, “in some weary absent way.”

I’m just happy to keep fighting it. 

#hugsandhi5s