Fractured

When I was a kid, my dad was really obsessed with my not being gay. He used to tell me, “if you come home with an earring, I’ll call you sonny boy!” After realizing that I found this more humorous than threatening, he changed his tactics. After the barber would give me a lollypop, Dad would slap them out of my mouth because of the implied fellatio involved. Same went for popsicles, the licking sent him into a shuddering rage.

But even before that, he would sneak into my 5 year old room, kneel down near my sleeping head and whisper over and over again, “be a man… be a man…”

As a child, I would constantly get colds, and as such often had problems hearing. Instead of “be a man”, I heard, “be a band”.

Responding to this conditioning, when I was six my mind split into a folk three piece that covered The Carpenters. When I tried to do three part harmonies, it would just fall flat though. I never felt like my band belonged in my body.

In my early teens I became a hard rock, power ballad band. There was a guitarist, a singer, a bass player and a drummer. Eventually the singer and guitarist had a falling out; the singer, according to the guitarist, was a fucking egomaniac and the guitarist, according to the singer, was spending too much time with his girl. Meanwhile, the bass player was developing a drinking problem. The rest of the band tried their best, but he really needed to help himself. The drummer was a cool, laid back cat; I miss him.

Somewhere near college I split big time and became a big band jazz combo. That horn section was smokin’ but man they stayed up late. The clarinet player was flirting with the exact sort of “alternative lifestyle” that my dad would have disapproved of and sax number two was doing a lot of drugs. And frankly, everybody hated the leader, resented him getting all the praise and glory. It was a trying and confusing time.

Lately, I’ve pared myself down to a one man singer/guitarist. He does occasionally jam with others though, and manages to blow off the roof.