The worst thing? It depends on who/what you are, to some degree. For me, it is the gift/curse of perfect pitch. Without it, there would be no sense of duty to keep on playing. I would have never gone and done many things, and might be a happier, more fulfilled person, today.
There have been recent thoughts of liquidating the gear, and getting on with my life, what little there truly is of it, at 47, with a grim economic outlook, and no family to speak of, but just when I think that I may finally be able to do such a thing, the phone rings, and the e-mail jumps. Gig opportunities are like that first hit of your illicit substance of choice; you start to get into the vibe, and you want more. Maybe that is the key to making great art; never being satisfied. You truly do have to suffer for your art.
Music was resented, when young, because it kept me from doing so many other things, like Cub Scouts, and actually living a normal childhood. Music was a chore forced upon me by a devout parent, who saw my raw talent, and wanted it properly channeled. Once I started to take it on my own terms, as an adult, it got better, but was still like a high-maintenance mistress who did not put out enough. I learned how to slap the bitch around, a little (I do not do that to real women; just a metaphor, here). Indeed, she may have even saved my life, 2 years ago, but here I have been hanging, with life sucking more than ever, and she's scarce, despite a willingness towards devotion, on my part.
In 1986, I wrote a song that was a rationalization for taking your own life, but was always unwilling to perform it live, for fear of feeling it too much, and being too in the moment with it. There are no original projects for me, but the fear is gone, now.
If all of this were for a grander purpose, then it would be worth it, but my heart of hearts tells me otherwise. There is no hope, only memory. I seem to recall that being a Level 42 lyric.
Music fills one's head with dreams, and all sorts of other things, but in the end, is so destructive to those who make it, on some level.
Thus, I have bared my soul, hopefully to a population that somehow understands the depths from which these words have come. The frightened little boy inside stands naked, in pouring rain, while the cynical older man hopes that the next lightning flash is the strike that ends his suffering.
If I had it to do over again, I wish that I had never played a note, and was tone-deaf.
