I’ve always wished I was musically-inclined.
When I was a kid, I would close my eyes and listen to my favourite bands and picture myself on stage. I picked up a bass guitar at age 15 and practiced every day.
I formed a band with a few friends in high school (unfortunately named Supply and Demand) and we proceeded to harmonize a blend of hardcore-screamo-emo and other bad genres into our songs, which were titled thusly: “Forecast Black,” “Perceptions of a Broken Mind” and “Retribution.”
Not what you would call classics. And though I was the bass player in a high school band in a genre that doesn’t require a lot of musical talent, I was far and away the weak link in the band.
I don’t think I understood what a “bass line” was – still don’t – so I would usually play a lone note, over and over, as my contribution at the various battle of the band events we would enter.
My stage presence left a lot to be desired, too. At one show in a church basement, I was strumming my note and got an idea. I had watched various rock concerts and seen stars like Mick Jagger and Joey Ramone jump into the air and strike poses.
I looked out on the crowd of 15 to 20 and realized this was my chance to really pump up our stage show. I climbed up onto my amplifier – which was a tiny mini-amp, only $60 – looked out on the crowd, and jumped.
Unfortunately, the cord running from the guitar to the amplifier had wrapped itself around my leg and as I jumped, pulled out of its socket, blaring “BRRRTZZZ” throughout the gymnasium. I hit the stage, broke a string, and looked up to see my bandmates and the crowd staring, flabbergasted at what just happened. Even my mom (who, of course, was in the audience) asked later just what I was trying to accomplish.
A couple of years later, after Supply and Demand had disbanded, I was approached by the music teacher at the high school. He had heard I was a bass player, and inquired whether I would be interested in joining the school jazz band.
The previous bass player, a virtuoso student who had music awards lavished upon him, had graduated, leaving them with a hole in the ensemble. I knew these were big shoes to fill – but maybe it was the motivation of the conductor that would bring out my talent, Whiplash-style.
I attended the first practice of the year, guitar bag slung over my shoulder, and took a seat next to the percussion section. The instructor placed two pieces of sheet music in front of me, and I nodded as if I knew how to interpret sheet music.
The drummer began tapping the snare, the trumpeters played the intro and I stared at a piece of paper. The conductor made that circle move with his hand that indicated something about music.
“That’s you, Joel,” he said.
“Gotcha.”
The band started up again, and I locked in. I started strumming, providing that patented one-note treatment of which I was renowned. The conductor did the hand thing.
“Are you on page two?” he asked.
I gave him a look that said he greatly overestimated my ability.
Soon, I was following him to the change room where the band dressed before performances. He set up a music stand.
“Here,” he said, laying a piece of sheet music on the stand. “You practice, and when you’re caught up you can come join us again.”
So ended the heights of my career as a musician. I retired, you might say, at the top of my game – in a dimly-lit high school locker room with a dripping showerhead, squinting at a piece of introductory jazz I couldn’t decipher for the life of me.
