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Twenty-eight years ago today, on October 1, 1981, I appeared
on a stage in a high school auditorium with four other musicians.
The name of our band was Leadfoot. We played one song only; our
performance was positioned at the end of the talent show. The
song was a cover called Victim of Changes by Judas Priest.
The auditorium was in Highline High School, in south Seattle. I had graduated the previous year from a different school, and met one of the members of the band where he and I worked, the now defunct Lewis & Clark Theaters. Coincidentally, my graduating class of 1980 at Glacier High School was the last one; they closed the school down afterward. I may be mistaken, but with the exception of the bass player, I think the rest of the band were senior class members of Highline High School. These were the days before the "grunge" sound was pushed by upstart Seattle-based recording label Sub Pop Records, bought by L.A.-based recording labels and then sold back to the world as the official Seattle music scene. Having grown up in Seattle, and having actually been a part of the 80's and 90's Seattle music scene, I can tell you without qualification that at the time the grunge format erupted on the world, the vast majority of bands in Seattle were not playing grunge music, but instead some form of hard or progressive rock. The entire hype was a deliberate alteration of the truth for the sake of selling a sound that only a tiny part of the Seattle music underground cared about at that point. Amazing what smart advertising and slick production can accomplish. Be that as it may, some interesting music did come out of the recording industry's grunge hype, so my intent here is not to deny the popularity of the pre-fab flannel-shirt rock stars of Seattle. It's to provide a personal insight to the pitfalls of seeking celebrity. I'll never forget that auspicious day in 1981. There I was, a singer with no previous live experience, performing a song that I knew few other people could correctly sing note-for-note, to a "sold out" standing-room-only auditorium with 600+ seats, including a balcony. As the first arpeggios came from the guitars, I waited backstage, having no clue what I was going to do. Then, when the entire band was playing the last part of the intro, I walked out from my hiding place. To my amazement, the crowd roared... I surmised it was simply because "the singer" was walking to the front of the stage. The adrenaline was so strong at that moment that my mouth had gone completely dry and I was operating on instinct only, since the experience at this point was simultaneously frightening and exhilarating. I walked to the edge of the stage, turned around so that my back was to the crowd, and waited until my first line arrived. When the time came, I abruptly turned around and sang the line, "Whisky woman don't you know that you are drivin' me insane!" What happened next is what stays with me to this day. Right after I sang the line, the crowd exploded with a roar so intense that I could feel the pressure on my face. At that moment, my stage fright subsided, and our band went on to perform a song that people who attended Highline at that time still remembered years later. To say the experience was like a highly addictive drug is no exaggeration, if everything I've read about drug addiction is accurate. Based on that initial experience of performing in public, I went on for eighteen more years, with various bands, trying to regain that feeling. Through all those years, all of the musicians I worked with, all of the shows I played, and all the fun I had, I never did recapture the thrill of that moment. The reason why I officially "quit music" back in 1998 had nothing to do with the excellent project I was working on at the time. I had finally realized that for some reason, I was given a tiny taste of rock stardom on my very first attempt, and that there were no signs of it ever coming back again. I finally came to grips with the difference between destiny and desire, and between reality and delusion. The unattractive fact I had refused to face for those eighteen years was that certain key factors that caused a person to attain rock stardom were not under my control. I bought the lie that people are sold daily: that merely a strong desire for something is enough to acquire it. I'm a very positive person, but teaching 6,000 children that all of them can be rock stars if they really want it bad enough is inaccurate and cruel, especially when the odds are only one in that 6,000 will achieve such "success." That 6000 number is from 1990, by the way. Time has provided me with the opportunity to look closer at my life, motivations and necessities for happiness. In my case, it turns out I am more content to remain relatively anonymous, as the former desire to be famous has been overpowered by a stronger desire to maintain a simple life, free from complication and stress. Does this mean I no longer wish my thoughts to be heard? No. But the selfish ambition I was once saddled with has been tossed aside for a pursuit of truth, whatever that truth may be. Now, the most gratifying experience for me would not be iconic apotheosis, but instead a simple respect for ideas and accomplishments that somehow lend meaning to whatever this life turns out to be for all of us. I now remember the day in 1981 with fondness, as opposed to longing. Earlier this year, I was reconnected with musicians I played with back in 1992, and we're taking our time working on a CD that went unfinished due to our breakup. It's been an enlightening reminder that for all those years, had I pursued music out of a love for music only, and not as a stepping stone to fame, I probably would have been more satisfied with the results, instead of being constantly frustrated that I wasn't "making it." I don't care about fame and fortune anymore. What I care about now is enjoying whatever time I have left on this earth, without the shackles of media-fed fantasies that contribute more to individual vanity and the bank accounts of media magnates than the uplifting of the human spirit. |