Capital-O Obsessed

Last Wednesday evening our harmonica player left his diary behind...and I found myself in a difficult position. Rain was lashing on the windows, and it was very dim lighting in the room so I felt hidden under the blanket of darkness. It was sitting so innocently on the living room sofa. I thought I’d open to one random page and maybe read a couple words just to see what was on our very quiet harmonica player’s mind.

Entry No. 28:

Dear diary,

Today I went to a football game. Mrs. Nash said that I could write a journal entry about it to get two extra gold stars on my Writing Chart.

‘Football’ is the English way of saying ‘soccer.’ In different countries people have different words they use...

I skipped through the next few sentences of fourth-grade-book-report drivel.

...After viewing my first Manchester United game in person, I’m concerned that the team isn’t going to be able to win again if they keep losing possession of the ball to Arsenal. Arsenal isn’t a very good team. In 1976 Manchester United beat them 4-0 which is a very good score. Also, in that match Manchester United had possession of the ball the 73% of the time during the game. These statistics are very similar to those in the next few decades after. It’s only up until recently that Manchester United has been doing not as good against teams like Arsenal.

I looked through the diary a little more carefully. It was 500 +pages, not including all the magazine cut-outs, filled entirely with facts and figures on Manchester United.

I turned a few more pages and found an impressive series of portraits of each Manchester United team member. He’d clearly spent a lot of time on each one because, although they were the immature scribblings of a nine-year-old, I noticed he’d included details like the goal-keeper’s mole and the intricate designs on each player’s t-shirt. In terms of factual accuracy, these details were emmaculate.

Hot anger was bubbling through me as I began to search through the diary for any small mention of our band. Phrases like, “best team ever”, “they’ve hired a new manager,” and “stayed up till 10pm in secret watching Leicester City vs. Man United” jumped out at me as I searched, but there wasn’t any reference to our band, let alone music. I was searching so desperately that I didn’t notice our drummer enter the living room, and I had only time to briefly glimpse at the heartbreaking/heartwarming drawing he’d created before I noticed him standing in the doorway. The last entry was a picture of the entire Manchester United team with a little self-portrait of himself standing amongst them in the corner as though he was one of the players.

When our drummer spotted me leafing through our new friend’s secrets unashamedly, he was shocked. With the speed and determination of a stampede of horses, he charged at me and snatched it out of my hands. “No” he said, his eyes blazing. But it was too late - I now knew the truth: our new harmonica player was capital-O Obsessed with Manchester United.

Before our drummer could dive into what was going to be a proper telling off, I hurried outside and walked to the neon supermarket.

We’ve been playing music with him for over two months now - how hadn’t I suspected his secret obsession? I thought to myself as I walked. Why Manchester United? Why soccer at all?

I knew that he was part of the jv synchronized swim team and I knew he was president of a whole host of clubs I can’t remember the names of, but this was different somehow. I thought that his two passions - Manchester United and music - would eventually collide and he’d end up choosing soccer over music. I was aware I was getting irrational about this, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

The days building up to our next practice session, the hot bubbling angry seemed to rise in temperature each day.

We sat down round the dinner table that Wednesday for what was going to be a normal Practice Session, but what turned into a Confrontation Session.

A couple of songs in (which sounded much more strained than usual, what with all the strain in the air), I brought up the topic that was bursting to escape me the whole practice session. “So...do you play any sports?” I asked our harmonica player, pretending to be nonchalant. Our drummer who’d been tap-tapping on his bongos, practicing to the build-up to the bridge of the song we’d just finished, abruptly quit his tapping and gave me a sharp look.

Our harmonica player looked from me to our drummer, and I could tell by the way he dropped his harmonica onto the table that he realized the atmosphere in the room was very far from nonchalant.

“You read it didn’t you.” he said shrewdly.

I couldn’t read his expression properly. Now, this wasn’t because he had an incredible poker face, I’d forgotten my glasses upstairs. I’m as blind as a bat and as forgetful as a frog which isn’t a good combination.

I paused. The room was now as quiet as a socket wrench. If I’m going to confront him, I thought. I better be up front about it.

“Yes, I did. And not on purpose, mind you. But I tell you what, you’ll do no good here with us if you’ve got your heart set on soccer.”

“Woah woah woah,” the drummer cut in. “He’s just a kid - of course his heart is set on other things besides music.”

“Well if he wants to spend his youth memorizing meaningless facts rather than dedicate his life to music, that’s his business. I just don’t want to be part of it.” I turned to our harmonica player and looked at him as directly as I could without my glasses. “You can go your own way” I said, referencing a lyric from Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors album.

Knock Knock

I’ll tell you why it’s been ages and ages since we last updated our blog: we’ve been lazy. I mean, it’s not as though we’ve been sitting around being couch potatoes - we’re very busy writing songs, riding our bikes, and picking up milk from the grocery store, etc. - but we’ve been lazy in making time to write down our adventures.

The newest member of our band doesn’t feel new anymore. The little tyke fits in with our crew like a hand in glove. 

Here’s how the first practice session went:

We invited him to a practice session on Wednesday night - the only night of the week he wasn’t busy with school activities (that kid seems to be in every darn club the school offers: fencing, the book club, jv synchronised swimming, jv soccer... The list goes on).

So on Wednesday we sat around the dinner table strumming mindlessly, waiting for the little yellow car to pull up front our porch. I tried hard not to look up every time a car drove past, but it was tough because you see I was just over the moon with excitement. When the little yellow car finally came zooming up to our house, all three of us jumped up out our seats as though they’d been simultaneously electrocuted. Then there was this awkward few seconds where we were all standing in silence waiting for the knock on the door.

*Knock knock knock*

For no particular reason I always count the number of times people knock on the door. Three.

I reached the door first and invited him and his mother in for a cup a tea. His mother was a sweet lady but she needed to zoom off in her zoomy yellow car to her knitting club, so it was straight to our practice session. 

“Alrighty, so normally we just jam for a little bit before we get stuck in the complicated business that is songwriting. Are you happy to jam with us?”

Our new friend nodded but didn’t say a word. If only he had known how nervous the rest of us had been in that moment - perhaps we all would’ve relaxed a little if we’d admitted our true feelings.

We all resumed our positions at the dinner table only this time pulling up a new chair next to me.

“Okie doke friends. Let’s just do the Classic. A-one, a-two, a-one, two three, four.”

We had a nice steady beat going with a slight rock-a-billy thing going. Later I’d write in my diary about how easily we play together after having known each other for so long. We were in our own world playing as though we didn’t have a new nervous member to the band, until I remembered that we had a new nervous member of the band. I looked up at him and I was so sorry to see that he hadn’t a clue where to come in or what to do with his harmonica. So I smiled at him encouragingly and said that he was welcome to play a little solo whenever the time felt right. He nodded and I could’ve sworn he gave the faintest smile back. A few moments later he played the sweetest little melody we could’ve imagined.

A few songs later it was time to have a cup of tea (and one glass of milk for the youngin’) and to say goodbye. We sat round the table and chatted about our band, how excited we were to have such a lovely harmonica player in our midst, and the importance of music. I have to say he had much more to contribute after we played than before. I suppose his nerves eased up a bit - I know mine did.

We were so deep in conversation we didn’t notice the little yellow car zooming up to our front porch. 

*Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.*

Five knocks, I noted. His mother let herself in this time and gave us a pair of socks she’d been knitting for the past two weeks.

“Here are some socks. They are blue because I think you guys are True Blue. Taking my son in like this and showing him the beautiful world of music. Plus, now I get to knit on Wednesday evenings with the knitting crew.”

I can hardly wait for our next practice session.
 

The Kid

It’s amazing what I can achieve with a full night’s sleep on my shoulders. I’ve been spending most my time writing these dreadful mopey songs, and I thought it was because of something real deep but it’s just so hard to be positive without a full night of sleep. With a full night of sleep my fast-working brain decided we should really consider adding a new player to the band to help us write some fresh new beats.

We put posters up all round the town square but the joke’s on everyone who shows up: we didn’t say on the fliers what instrument we wanted. 

We held the auditions in the local high school’s theater and set up a plastic table in front of the stage, auditioning the folks as if it was a high school play.

Three people showed up. The first one thought our band needed another guitar. We told her ‘no’ before she could even strum the first note: obviously she hadn’t listened to a single one of our songs because we’ve just about got guitars pouring out our ears. 

Then a little boy - must of been nine - stumbled onstage and muttered nervously into the microphone that he was a well-renowned harmonica-player. When the three of us told him (a little rudely perhaps) we’d never heard of him before, he merely shrugged his shoulders and brought the harmonica to his lips. It was gorgeous. He played In A Sentimental Mood as if it was a slow funeral march, the last note swelling and ringing out in the room long after he’d bowed awkwardly and stumbled off-stage again, leaving us absolutely stunned. 

Third time was not the charm because we really didn’t need a new bass player so we politely kicked the third guy out. 

Well, obviously, we decided we just had to invite this nine-year-old harmonica superstar to join us. So we marched up to him and his parents - who had accompanied him to the audition - that he was In, and we all agreed that practices would be held before his hot bedtime of 7:30 pm.

Our first practice is tomorrow and to tell you the whole truth the band is very nervous about playing with such a good musician. It’s kind of dumb to be intimidated by a kid, but you didn’t hear him play. It was truly tremendous. 

We’ll let you know how it goes.

If I had one more fallen eyelash to wish upon...

Sometimes the five of us sit round the kitchen table strumming out guitars and drinking our drinks long after dinner. The best songs we’ve written have come about in these evenings, yet most get lost in the thick of loud stories, conversation, and the starts of another song. Not one of us there bothers to write any chords or lyrics down: remembering details never captures much.

I like lots of people all at once. Last night I watched an eyelash flutter down like a feather from my eyelid to the table, picked it up with the sweat from my finger and wished as my friends strummed and strummed that these nights would be everlasting in some form or another. I like lots of people at once because with so many of us together, knowing exactly what the others are up to that night, and having it known what I’m up to as well, it doesn’t feel as though the night existed in space on a planet that no one’s watching.

Now this morning, with all that music still ringing in my ears, I’m thinking my wish was wasted because I’ve always known in a way that things can’t be everlasting. This morning I feel old enough to admit it. And I’m hoping one day I’ll be old enough to not mind.

If I had one more fallen eyelash to wish upon, I’d hold it up to my lips and picture the five of us sitting round the kitchen table strumming our guitars and drinking our drinks; only this time with more wrinkles, less relatable stories, and maybe a few extra people. And I’d at first picture Nostalgia sitting, sickly sweet as she is, peering over us from her levitating throne, then watch as she sighs a little too softly for us to hear and rises from her chair, leaving us free to sing a new tune.

Maybe It Starts Here

I want to explain my first musical experience so you can understand why Seaside Attraction means the world to me. So please allow me to digress back to when I was a freshman in high school - back to that significant moonlit evening.

***

The first time I heard the drums - I mean really heard them - was in the moonlight.

Oh that sweet syncopation! It had my heart beat-beating in time like a metronome of passion, it had my foot tap-tapping on two and four, it had me jiving like none other brother.

I was sitting in an endless hallway of lockers, back against the wall, listening to someone practicing long after sunset and I was of course dying with curiosity to find out who it was, but being only fourteen at the time I found it embarrassing to admit to whoever it was that I'd been swooning in the hallway for nearly two hours. So instead I cooked up a cunning plan: I'll just knock on the door and ask whoever's in there if they're planning on joining us for Mr. Felina's afterschool movie night.

Cut to:

I knock-knocked on the door - loudly so it could be heard above the beats - and the drumming stopped abruptly. Trepid footsteps approached and a tentative hand turned the doorknob - the door opened and my jaw dropped: it was April.

I promptly stammered over my lame excuse for interrupting her practice session: "Oh hey April... well...er...well I just...er...just wanted to ask...er...if you're going to th-that movie tonight." She looked me straight in the eye as I threw these words up on her. She considered me for a moment before saying, "I wasn't planning on it...but I suppose I could do with a break. What time does it start?" Now, I hadn't thought this far in my plan - I had no idea April was in there (let alone that April even played the drums) and I also wasn't expecting whoever was in there to join us film nerds in our viewing of Every Man Should Care About Time (an incredibly sexist movie about a speechwriter who by day writes speeches for the governor of Ohio and who by night writes secret speeches with titles such as: Why Men Are More In Tune to Time than Women and The Tremendous Time-Flaw in Women-kind).

"Okay. Well..er..it starts at seven." She eyed me suspiciously and nodded. "We've got a bit of time then. You can come in and watch me practice if you'd like - I know you were out there listening in." I gulped. How had she known?  "Oh okay." Completely blown away by the fact that April (of all the people!) was a drummer and still completely breathless due to her stunning drumming skills I could do nothing but surrender to her right there and then: the ball was utterly in her park. We were going to do whatever she wanted.

She stood back to let me into the practice room and sat down behind the drum set. I settled myself in seat in the corner of the room and she went right back to practicing as though nothing had interrupted her.

My heart swelled into a million balloons all blown up and then they blew away into the moonlit night. As I listened to her play a million starlit images burst through my mind of her and me together: us together in a playground in the middle of the night and me asking her 'do you like los cumplios?' Us together flying through the sky and me asking her 'do you believe in the Good Life?' Us together holding hands in a ghost town and me asking her 'do you believe in los fantasmas?' These starlit images flashed upon the outward eye as I listened. There were so many images, each one stronger than the last, that it got to the point where the classroom completely faded from my vision...

'I think he's stirring.'

'Look. His eyes are fluttering open.'

I woke to find myself lying on the classroom floor with April and Mr. Felina hunched over my helpless form. April took my hand (not in a flashing starlit image, but in real actual life) and said to me the words that have stayed in my heart to this day:

"The life of the song is in my heart."

***

And this is why April and that moonlit night means the world to me. It was the first time I understood why people dedicate their lives to one thing only. That night I found my one thing in April's drumming.

I don't believe "Harold" is "Harold's" real name

Let's take a walk to appreciate the beautiful day. Have you been on this walk before? No? Well, it's beautiful like the day. Take my arm. I've got a few words to say about what happened yesterday, and after that it'll be my turn to listen and yours to speak.

Now, I don't want to give off the air that I'm correct about this - most times I'm wrong - but I don't believe "Harold" is "Harold's" real name.

Before we get into this, there are two types of names: given and chosen. Most people choose their given name, but other people see a self outside of their given name, feeling they have no choice but to change it. But they do have a choice - well, we all have a choice really, about what we'd like to be called. Anyhow, I don't think this "Harold" falls under either category - given or chosen.

I know "Harold". I mean, it makes sense since I'm his roommate, but what really reveals his personality is his drumming - light, but with secret strength. He guides the band without us knowing it and rarely takes credit for it. Autographing his "name" and everyone else's on our fans, announcing his "name" for the world to hear, going against the band's rules...gosh, it was so unlike his consistent drumming style it makes me think he's going through some big changes.

Hey, mind that mud. On this walk I nearly always slip in the mud the day after a big rain.

What was I saying...? Oh right. Yes, I think "Harold" is going through something big.

I've been having these bizarre dreams for the past two weeks and each dream is so different from the last that at first I didn't notice the subtle trend underlying them all - until last night. When I woke up I noted that in each dream I've been sitting in someone else's perspective, watching the wild events from someone else's eyes. I wake up from these dreams with my sheets wet with

sweat, pillows at my feet rather than at my head, and really bad headaches. Now, here's the funny thing: "Harold", who as I mentioned before is my roommate, well he's been waking up in the night in a similar state. But unlike me, he's been waking up like this for much longer than me. For about two months. And it's got me thinking, and I've told my buddy Clarence this too - and he agrees with me - it's got me thinking that "Harold" and I are having the same sorts of dreams.

You're very welcome to disagree with me, but I think dreams in someone else's perspective and a change in name are related. I predict "Harold's" drumming style is going to become inconsistent pretty soon. He may even change his name again. I believe he's having a crisis of the self - doesn't know who he is anymore. And, it's scary to admit this to myself... but I also predict - if my dreams continue in the fashion that they have - I predict my bass playing is going to become inconsistent too. Oh lord, I may even change my name.

This trail is a loop and we've reached the beginning again. Shall we walk it again? Only this time you'll talk and I'll listen.

I had to start it Somewhere, So it started there

"I dig your groovy tunes, man."

"Hey, thanks, but I can't take complete credit for the groove - I owe it to my crew."

"And whose that...?" He tried to sound casual, but I could see right through his sordid attempt. "Think it's that easy, huh? Folks have come up with a lot better."

It's rude to treat fans with disrespect, but it's the means to the end of keeping up the band's mystique. I got it down to some basic rules: Never mention another bandmate's name, let alone your own; never tell a stranger you're in a band, let alone a friend; and for god's sake, never play a live performance, let alone sign any merchandise. But one bandmate, who will obviously remain nameless, signed us up for a live performance which under normal circumstances would've heralded his removal from the band, but under the unusual circumstance of each of us being broke, it heralded us to let it slide.

The curtain had long since closed, and the dregs of the audience were milling around the lobby supposedly waiting for their autographs, but the joke was on them, for like the curtains, the band had long since left. Now that I thought about it, it was very odd that these folk were still here because after the performance's last note we immediately told the audience to "clear out."  It was all seeming very fishy until I spotted a bandmate signing our names - my name included! - onto the arms and legs of other men in thick permanent ink. The ink sunk into the pours of their skin at about the same speed that I sunk into a pit of fear. I creeped through the sparse crowd with my head bent down, sliding up behind him to whisper "how could you" softly in his ear as he jovially scribbled his initials onto a retired forestry professor's left elbow. I saw the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the weight of my soft words punctuated his heart, giving me an enormous sense of satisfaction because I, unlike him, made the rules, and I, unlike him, have never broken the rules, and I! Unlike him! caught him breaking the rules. As he turned around I set my face in an annoying "I'm right and you're wrong" expression, but the expression quickly evaporated when I saw the blazing look in his eyes.

"I'll show you how I could." And with the air of a man who'd recently fought out his docile tendencies, he raised his pen to the sky and said in a great booming voice: "My name is Harold. I play the drums. And no one can stop me from identifying myself." The fans, now adorned with Harold's magnificent loopy signatures, wooped and cheered at his words. My heart swelled with shame for myself and pride for my friend. I raised an invisible glass into the sky so that Harold and I stood side by side, fists jutted into the air - one with a pen and one with an invisible glass -and said, "To Harold: drummer of drummers and star of stars!"