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Jan 31, 2004 For your reading pleasure, here’s some Insight into the Male Mind. Every guy wants join a garage band. This is one of four fantasies every male has, along with playing in a major sporting event, owning a TV bigger than Mongolia, and running an orphanage for abandoned “Hooters” waitresses. Garage music it isn’t about fame or money; it’s all about “the music”. Musicians gush about how the music encapsulates them, swallowing them whole, similar to the way a snake gorges on mammal eggs. It’s the kind of job where you can get away with saying that sort of thing. You won’t hear a database administrator say, “Dude…when I get to migrating data from an MS SQL server to Oracle 9i, it’s like I’m floatin’ on a CLOUD, man!” In high school, I asked a number of my classmates if they wanted to start a band. They all refused, using a range of different excuses from “Sorry, I’m already in a band,” to “Get out of here! This is the girl’s change room!” Eventually, I was able to recruit three guys – a guitarist (Dave) who strummed like he was grating rock-hard cheese; a bassist (Ron) who had the temperament of a drill sergeant with a rash; and a drummer (Kyle) who had hair worthy of the “MacGyver” Mullet Hall of Fame. This was my band. Rock on. Our only gig was at a high school talent contest. Our first two songs went off without a hitch; there was generous applause, only sporadic heckling, and best of all, no embarrassing mistakes. Halfway through the third song, I was in “the zone”. It’s that magical place most people only reach through repeated exposure to nitrous oxide. I closed my eyes and let the music encapsulate me. It was one of those moments when I suddenly realized what I was meant to do for the rest of my li— AAUGH! THUMP! When you close your eyes on a four-and-a-half foot stage, the best thing to do is NOT walk around. The worst thing to do is plummet headlong into the first row of spectators, which included the principal, my parents, and an elderly woman I later discovered was Kyle’s grandmother (I should have guessed by her mullet.) I resurrected my music career soon after. Two of my brothers had been collaborating on a CD, and they asked for my help with backup. How cool is that? After all, what do police officers ask for when they’re dodging bullets and cannonballs? Backup! Who comes into the game when the star quarterback has his pelvis shattered in twenty-two places? The backup! I bet even the Apostles had understudies: ST. PETER: Excuse me, Jesus…I hate to bother you, but I won’t be able to attend leper healing today. My wife wants me to take her to a sandal sale in Galilee. But my friend Doug says he’ll step in. He’s a little raw, but you should see what he can do with unleavened bread!” Unfortunately, my “backup” gig was playing the keyboard. This is the musical equivalent of starring in a Pauly Shore movie. At festivals, keyboard players get teased like you wouldn’t believe. “Hey, key head! How about playing some Chopsticks? Ha ha!” The keyboard isn’t very female-friendly, either. What material do you have to work with? “Hey, let’s go back to my place…I’ll play you the theme song to ‘Doctor Who’…” Our first few sessions were a little tense, because my brothers take their music very seriously. They don’t appreciate when their keyboardist switches from “electric organ” to “helicopter” in mid-song. But that’s the advantage of jamming with family. We can get away with things that normally would get us taped to the side of a garbage truck: ME: We should play that new song I wrote. OLDER BROTHER DAN: Are you kidding? It’s a song about a Belgian waffle. We’re not singing any songs about breakfast food. ME: Okay, I’ll just tell mom about the time you used her favourite bra as a slingshot for Pepsi- filled balloons. OLDER BROTHER DAN: *sigh* Fine. But do you have to use “helicopter” for every song you write? ME: Yes. I do. Eventually, the CD was finished, and I received a personal mention in the liner notes: “Thanks to our brother, James, for making this CD far more challenging than it should have been.” I figured it was time to give up my music career right then. I decided to be a writer instead, where the pressures of everyday life are limited to finding comical ways of using the word “intrauterine” in a sentence. If all goes well, I’ll make a little money, and start buying myself the things I’ve always wanted. I can see it now… “The James Bisson Orphanage for Abandoned ‘Hooters’ Waitresses.” Rock on. ------------ About the author: James Bisson is a reporter/editor for Canadian Press in Toronto. So yes, he does have a real job. And no, he's not in a mental institution. Yet. Email James A. Bisson: jbisson@cp.org Comment on this column in the forum. Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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