I still fantasize what it’d be like to live life as a musician.
If you’ve been with me for a little while, you’ll notice this is the third consecutive post incorporating music in some shape or fashion. 3 out of the last 5 posts, in fact, have done just this.
I was talking to my friend David over the weekend at his Saturday (the 14th) show in Waco at Hemingway’s. I hadn’t seen him in quite some time–we had fallen out of touch, though I keep apprised as to his music and follow him on Twitter. It came up in conversation as to why I hadn’t gone the way of music–how I had ventured into law. Frankly, I’ve thought about this a lot. It’s simple; I’ve had to explain it in interviews when people look at my resume.
I realized that there was only the tiniest possibility that I would ever make it in life as a musician. I couldn’t perform or teach music for a living. I loved being around the people that excel in music–the people I consider to be practicing, functioning musicians. But, I couldn’t crack it for myself. I knew that I was destined to be one of the many students of music whose highest hope is to be part of an ensemble on a weekly basis.
And, the conversation continued, David sagely pointed out that music is just as much about the people creating music as it is about the people consuming and supporting music. I’ve known this, and I’ve taken comfort it, but I had never heard the same from a musician that I personally know and respect as both an artist and as a human being.
I’ve known almost innately how important the arts are, how they enhance the experience of the human condition. I’ve been on both sides of the stage. And, I know that I must always be an advocate for the artist and his art. Wherever I may find myself, it’s not the large interests of an industry I’m concerned about. It’s about David carting his guitar around the country with little more than the clothes on his back. He’s got no money because he just spent his last eight dollars on gas, and he’s plugging in wherever there’s a mic and some speakers, hoping to get some free beers, sell some CDs, and maybe land a place to crash on the couch of some kindred spirit.
Anyone who’s ever read Kerouac’s “On The Road” knows just what I’m trying to get at. And, I think if it ever becomes impossible for vagabonds like David to live their craft from place to place, then America has become something irreparably irrecognizable from the romance that Kerouac saw on the roads of my beloved country. And, I think it’s safe to say, when we mark that day that the Davids of America can no longer wayfare about–that day would be a very silent, cool day. One where I wouldn’t even know to shed a tear–because it would be too real of a loss.
