It turned out we were all creatives. Musicians. Artists. We carried ourselves with a certain seriousness that you wouldn’t understand. Not the “blather on about our craft “ types, because none of us thought of it that way. Hell, I didn’t  know anyone who did. So not artistically aloof, more like Steph from Pretty in Pink. Rich kid aloof, but none of us rich. Our richness was our music and how we decided it set us apart. 

I considered what I did as different from what some other local bands did. Maybe  I just considered myself as different. I was going to be on the MTV music awards one day. People would discover me. Laud. Worship. Recognize. 

None of this happened of course and I continue to write music. And play and sing. After the practices the thought remains the same. What I’m doing is different. Important. 

The same 1990’s disregard for other’s music sometimes peaks up, like  Punxsutawney Phil. “Six more weeks of disdain for coffee house singer songwriters,” he whispers. Just quieter now. With less disdain. I’ve learned to appreciate what I say I hate. A sign of a grown up I guess. 

I say that it turns out “we were all creatives.” Because all these years later there’s still 8-10 of us writing. Playing. Creating. This is just from my high school crew.  Dozens if you count my college music circles. Maybe more. 

The collective “we” from above were all always technically better than me. More accomplished players and singers, but did they all have the different part?  I still do. I bet to them they do too. I still have a touch of the anger too. Or maybe it’s aggression. I’m not as mad, but when I play it seeps out. Ever the teenager, the collegiate , the lost 27 year old. Drops of musical 90’s that I must have stockpiled. A sense of what I didn’t accomplish the first time out.  Filed away since 2000. Dripping. Flowing. Pouring out. 

I told a friend yesterday that if my only musical options were playing acoustic shows and toning it down I’d likely go ahead and pass on that. That I want loud still. That I only know this way. I wonder if I waited just the right amount of time for the world to want it again. Regardless. I’ll still create it. 

This all comes off as entirely cocky and a-holish but sometimes I’m just documenting. Blurting out how I think or feel about things so maybe one day I’ll look back and remember it, fondly or otherwise. Fascinated by the “why” of things, I constantly question and hope to unearth my motivations. Whether they are soft and cuddly or a little harsh as dickish. 

The beginning“why” of music was always to be something. Someone more than I was. To be recognized and loved. I imagine it was a route to expressing the things I couldn’t as well. But fame and “better than” were the drivers. Some would say that’s sad. I’ll just say I recognize it for what it was(is). There’s less shame in that than in the denying. 

It turns out the “why” has changed. I’m now lucky enough to share music with my daughter. I sit back and watch in awe as somehow the genetics passed down have manifest in actual talent. Like the little strands of deoxyribonucleic acid somehow force multiplied what little I have into something unrecognizable to my talents. I stand back and let her drive her musical wants. Her musical “why” so pure and clean. I play along on her terms and try not to push anything I think. This is hers and I am thankful. If given the choice of loud or acoustic here, I choose whatever she wants and am thankful. 

This is better than any recognition or MTV music awards. It shows that if we are patient sometimes the things we want come, just not in the packaging we requested. 

#hugsandhi5s