Wave Search (Chapter 1ish)

If I’ve learned anything in these past years it’d have to be when opportunity knocks, answer the door. I mean do it right then. Don’t dally, don’t clean house, don’t tidy up or even stop to think, just answer the door. Opportunity is like a spiteful toddler, ill-tempered and impatient. You might say I’m cynical, but I’d have to say I’ve earned the right to say it, and to say it with complete sincerity. You can be the judge of that.1

Everything great has had a beginning and will eventually have an end. The Coliseum went up in 76 AD, the Renaissance began in the 1300’s, and Scientology was begun in the 1950’s, all more or less great things that began at a time in response to stimuli and that will all end at some time in response to a stimuli. My story doesn’t start at a time and this (among other things) prevents it from being great, but it does start; it starts with music. 2

The basis of music is the wave, sine waves, square waves, triangle waves and sawtooth waves all combine like the double helixes that define us. These waves flow through the room in which you sit, through the air that you breathe, pervading your thoughts and affecting your actions. Don’t like the song? Change the track on the CD. Don’t like the bleating of horns and the noisy squabble of traffic? Close your window. As a kid I was introduced to all kinds of music because I was brought up in a half musical family. Ever since I’ve been fascinated with music, fascinated with how it works and how it can affect people. That’s what caused me to take up my talent and head for the road.3

In a stark Midwestern town a lone figure walks between decrepit wooden buildings, back to the sunset, casting an imposing shadow before him. At the sign indicating Shin’s Saloon he turns and opens the white flaking saloon doors. As he walks to the bar the air is thick with tension, rife with unease. He stares down the scruffy barman until he feels his message is conveyed. No one fucks with this guy. He motions to the upright in the corner. Is there anyone here to play that piece of junk his stare seems to say. The bartender shakes his head, “No,” he says in a parched growl, “there ain’t been no one since Lily died in ’56 and we here like it that way.”4

The man looks the bartender up and down, assesses him. He turns to walk out, but before he takes a step he whips back around and knocks the bartender cold. He turns to the room and asks, “Anyone else got a problem?” No one answers, so he takes the rickety stage, sitting on a stool that is rickety and too small and playing at a piano that hasn’t been tuned since the railroads went up. The audience all sit in wondrous amazement as he plays songs so prolific that grown men begin to weep into their beer. The bartender awakens, but forgets to complain because he is too captivated by the spectacle at hand. 5

Hours later after satiating a small portion of his hunger for music, the man dismounts the stage and more weeping ensues. He holds his 10 gallon hat to the barroom and within seconds it is weighed down from coins, gold nuggets, and moneys of all kinds. He walks toward the door and the bartender calls out to him. Wait! But it is too late. He has moved on, he is just a figure in the night walking towards the moon. 6

This is how my life would be if I was in the American Midwest, I was slightly crazy, I was 150 years in the past, and I was that good at the piano. I’d walk in to town empty handed and walk out with two girls and a hatful of money and a town-ful of fans. Sadly I am not like John Wayne and even more sadly I’m not a hat person, so I couldn’t really pull off the tips in a hat thing anyway. Fortunately I have a steed far more trustworthy than a thoroughbred, I ride into town in my Maxima and I ride out the same way, almost penniless and still searching. 7

It was a rainy day as I was heading east on I-90 into Chicago. The rain was sluicing down my windshield and the rhythmic beating of the rain was only interrupted by the occasional unusually collected gout of rain that had been specially gathered by the wind to dump on my poor Maixima. The damn truck doesn’t even close. You’d think that God or whoever would take pity on my crippled steed and avert some of the worse rainfall, but no, someone wants my trunk to become a swimming pool. 8

I was down to 50 miles an hour in a 65 zone and I was clutching nervously at my Frappuccino colored steering wheel and trying fruitlessly to watch the road in front of me. Generally I’d be speeding with the windows rolled down, blasting some band that you’ve never heard of, but the rain made me nervous. Driving at times like those make my wish I had metal gloves to protect my hands. Think of your favorite hobby, soccer for instance, and then think of getting both legs broken. Fingers are infinitely easier to break, and because of this I was afraid of having a wreck, and most anything that put my fingers into jeopardy. 9

In my passenger seat a map was half unfolded and wrinkled. The spot of interstate I was on (or so I hoped) was not to far from the outskirts of town where I could find a place to rest and begin my search again. In the back my faithful keyboards lay in their protective casing. The black leather of the Rhodes case was scratched and marred from years of travel and luggage tickets were attached to the handle like an exotic bouquet. If not for the tickets I’m pretty sure the Rhodes case would be mistaken for a coffin. That would definitely make for an interesting conversation peace or nickname. So you seen that guy that drives around with the coffins in his backseat? We call him Hearsey, but don’t tell him unless you want to end up in one of them.10

I’d like to think that I’d be defended at that statement, like yeah but damn he plays a mean blue bossa. I can’t imagine that would happen though because I am lacking Bobby McFerrin who is definitely a key figure to the only Blue Bossa that I appreciate. The only one that deserves to be capitalized. Underneath my Rhodes, lay my equally large (but not as morbid looking) Yamaha Motif XS8. These two keyboards are the ying and the yang to my act. I can get the soulful sine with my Rhodes and contrast it with the biting square of one of the voicings on my Mo 8. In its ridged aluminum case I could imagine it holding a warhead or a rifle designed to shoot fantastic distances, but that would be my imagination running wild as it often does. Being a fulltime musician/adventurer leaves you with some time to think. Too much in fact.11

As my car went of a particularly vicious bump, I said I silent prayer for my amp which lay in my trunk, wrapped like a plastic mummy within many garbage bags entombed in layers of tarps. Through the rain loomed the ever neutral green interstate sign unabashedly (and inartistically) informing me that Exit 149 was approaching and preceding that would be Exit 148. My internal sarcasm almost brought a remark to my lips, but I decided to stow it so that anyone looking wouldn’t see a person with what seemed to be a coffin in his back seat talking to himself. Plus I didn’t want to disturb the soothing music that came from my speakers. 12

Bose did well when they partnered with Nissan to provide me with my speaker system. I have traveled in many cars and I have listened to music through many different speaker systems, but none carry so clearly and well as mine. The bass is not distorted, the treble is not spiking, the rails are not being hit, the waves are unmolested and pure. Gotta love modern technology. The music was a mix of jazz and rap skillfully assembled and dubbed trip-hop. I’d have to say at the time it was my favorite genre, but not two weeks earlier when I had been in Oklahoma City, I was pumping the loudest angriest hardcore rock through my speakers. The Dillinger Escape Plan will always have a place in my heart, even if that place might be smaller than and not as nice as the others.13

I began to slow so that I could get off the interstate onto the exit ramp and my car did as it always has, it rocked back and forth like a jittery kid trying to dance to a Moby song. My brakes have been worn uneven since before I can remember so every time I slow down, the car undulates like the waves that flow through and around it. It’s an interesting conversation piece when I’m not too embarrassed by it. I should get it fixed, but I have more important things to pay for such as food and the clothes on my back. I’m not the wealthiest man alive and when I say that I mean in monetary regards I am pretty damn close to broke. I wouldn’t trade my “job” for anything though, well almost anything.14

The exit ramp took my to a light that (in accordance with my luck) was red only long enough so that I had to come to a complete stop before it immediately turned green. Hey all you can do is laugh right? I took a right onto N State Road and surveyed my opportunities for wonderful dining. I could go the fast food route with a Wendy’s or a Taco Bell, or I could eat healthier and choose Subway. I pulled into the Taco Bell off the main drag and parked in pole position. A long time ago I knew a guy who said I got porn star parking, but that seemed like another life, eons ago. I stepped out of my car into the chilled night air and shivered. I opened my back door, obscuring my fun-house mirror reflection on my gold paint. I withdrew my trusty sidekick, my navy blue Northface jacket and donned it quickly.15

After checking the trunk to make sure my mummy-amp was still secured and actually in the trunk I went inside and immediately went to the restroom to wash my hands and adjust from the hours of sitting to a more mobile environment. As the warm water ran down my hands I studied the figure I saw in the mirror. I was no John Wayne and I didn’t walk into a town with nothing and walk out with a girl on each arm, but I wasn’t too bad to look at. The reflection of my face was somewhat obscured by a phrase that I won’t repeat because I consider myself somewhat of a gentleman, sometimes. The wavy brown hair was a mess and my t-shirt was torn and ratty, but no news there, so I ventured out. 16

I studied the menu intently trying to decide whether I could afford to get four items or just to be a bit hungry. This decision probably makes you think negatively of my employment situation, but I assure you I was only doing so to be frugal because I knew that I might need the money later in a pinch. I finally decided to go with three things and a woman named Undryka took my order. She was rather large and mean looking so I decided not to jest about the laundry related origins of her name. I withdrew my Nappa Vitello wallet from my ratty jeans and paid. I know what you’re thinking, why buy such an expensive wallet when I have holes in my t-shirt. Wallets speak volumes about a person. Standard leather wallets accompany standard people, reptile skinned wallets accompany ballers, nice leather wallets accompany those of us who are intelligent, and velcro wallets accompany those of us which are not to be laid.17

Judging a man by his wallet is not the same principal as judging a book by its cover; wallets are much more revealing than a picture could ever be. As I leaned against the railing I wondered if this Taco Bell had ever housed enough people to make use of it. Had the line ever been so long that people had to line up in these waist high corals? I scanned the restaurant and decided that no, it had not. The drink machine appeared to have had better days in Frankenstein’s lab and with all the forboding noises it was uttering I was almost afraid to try to get my drink from it. I can see it now Wandering Musician Killed in Freak Accident by Malfunctioning Drink Machine, except I would know (in ghostly hindsight) that it was no accident, but actually a deliberate attack by a malevolent drink machine. 18

The peach-adobe colored wallpaper was beginning to come off the walls, and the posters of the fresh ingredients that were supposedly used in this establishment were yellowed and past prime (probably similar to the ingredients themselves). Before I could turn and flee, Undryka called my number and gave me a stare to suggest that I better get my food before she came over here and gave it to me herself. I didn’t think I’d enjoy that too much, so I went over and took the blue tray from her meaty grasp and retreated to a booth with my back to a wall. I’ll admit it, I read too many spy novels so I often sit so that I can observe both doors and see enemy agents coming from all angles. Even though this precaution has not helped me so far, I have no reason to believe that it won’t help me some time in the future. 19

As soon as I sat down I realized that I had not braved the killer drink machine, and this left me with an interesting decision. Do I forsake my lethargy and my comfortable seat for a drink or do I summon my courage to fight the steaming behemoth across the room. I speak for myself and most of the musicians that I have met when I say this, lethargy generally beats all when given an option. So I sat and at in lonely and occasionally uncomfortably spicy silence. I’ll admit it, when I’m on the road I get lonely, I pine for the company of others, but the rush of the performance clears that all away and makes the search, makes the lifestyle worthwhile. 20

I ended up finding a Motel 6 to stay in and even though it looked like the hotel in every horror movie except The Shining I hauled my pianos and amps inside after I paid my $34.99. I slept soundly that night, enjoying the peaceful quiet like music of its own. After years on the road, all hotels begin to feel like home. What a sad thought. 21