Songwriting Diary: My Turn At The Wheel
Some backstories that led to the creation of this song from my LP "Split Seconds On Earth"
Thank you for being here! I want to let you know my new album “Split Seconds On Earth” is now available to order on Bandcamp & my website, and I’d love it if you are able to support. A simple “follow” on Bandcamp, Spotify, YouTube or where you consume music would be helpful to me as well. Thanks!
Sometimes voluntary. Sometimes by necessity. But almost always without question: When you’re asked to take a turn at the wheel, you take it. At least that’s what I was told growing up. As a result, I’ve taken many turns, some for better, some for worse. And I’ve often reflected on those stories, some of which inspired this song.
**********
Tired From Touring
‘I’ll take a turn at the wheel’ is the most admirable of sentences one can mutter to their best pals and bandmates, emerging from the truck stop washroom, ready to climb into the van, tired from touring and tired from the latest show in a nondescript, any-town nightclub.
We linger and wait in silence. This shift will be hard. It’s close to midnight now and we’ll be driving through the night.
Without much discussion, one friend steps up: I’ll take a turn. Our relieved ears perk up at this news.
I’ll take co-pilot duties with you, another kind soul from our band says, with perceived equal commitment.
The rest of us are grateful. We’ll get some sleep in the van tonight.
It’s not our turn.
Yet.
The Chauffeur At The Wheel
My Dad told me a story about when he was asked to take a turn at the wheel for the very first time. He was put in the role of designated driver, though I highly doubt the DD term meant much in those days. He was hanging out with his older brother one afternoon when they found themselves in a local tavern. My Dad spent long hours on the barstool beside his brother, taking in the chatter between the bartender and local clientele.
When it was time to go, my Dad helped his drunk sibling into the passenger seat of the 1950s sedan, holding the door open and shoving him in with a big push. He then got in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, turned over the V8 engine and took hold of the giant steering wheel. He carefully maneuvered the big car along the tavern driveway and down a steep hill, heading out to the main road.
On their way down, my Dad spotted his brother’s wife marching up the hill with a head of steam. My Dad assumed she was looking for her husband, and appeared not happy about having to make the trip.
“Look, it’s Isabelle!” my Dad pointed out as he navigated the car down the hill. “Should we stop?”
“Jesus Christ, no!” his brother blurted out, while squinting through the windshield, and swaying in the passenger seat. “Keep driving!”
And so the designated driver drove right past his angry sister-in-law and sped out onto the main road, onward to the tavern in the next town.
As my Dad told me this story, I imagined him fish-tailing the big sedan as it sped out onto the open road, tires screeching, amplifying the getaway. In my mind there is a sunset too. And like a ragtag superhero duo, they disappear into it, racing to their next adventure in a nearby bar.
“Didn’t it bother you to be designated driver and not have a beer that entire time?” I asked my Dad.
“Not really,” he replied with a shrug. “I was only 11 years old.”
The Mysterious Northern Ontario Light, From The Shotgun Position
I quickly turn the music off.
Did you see that?
I did. It’s still there.
No, it’s gone.
No, wait, it’s still there.
Look!
The bright light beyond the trees on the driver’s side of the van defied all logic way out here in the middle of nowhere. There was no town on the map anywhere near this part of Northern Ontario. We’d never seen such a bright light.
What the hell was that? What was over there?
The eight cylinder engine of the old van hummed as the tires hugged the jet black trance-Canada highway. It was the middle of a moonless night. The Fastbacks were on the stereo providing a perfect power-pop keep-us-awake soundtrack for this lonely leg of the trip. But now with the violent flash of the bright light out of nowhere, our adrenaline was pumping and I shut off the tunes.
What the hell was that, you say again.
We shake our heads in disbelief as everything goes black again, save for the dashboard glow and the dim headlights counting the yellow dotted lines as they disappear under the van. I turn the stereo back on.
Eventually our discussion moves on from the mysterious light and we focus on the dark road ahead, the hum of the big engine leading the way, along with the sounds of beautifully crafted power-pop.
I sing along to the Fastbacks and perform a well timed drumroll on the dashboard. Not bad for a guitarist, I think to myself.
Who’s turn was it at the wheel tonight anyway? I wasn’t sure, but I was riding shotgun, thankful you offered to drive. The others snored in the back, exhausted after a long day of travel and a big punk rock show. I was exhausted too, but I stepped up to ride shotgun and support your turn at the wheel.
There are four main roles of the late night shotgun rider in a punk rock van.
Number one: lighting the drive team’s cigarettes.
Number two: negotiating the soundtrack with the driver and fumbling in the dark through cassette tapes destined for the dash stereo.
Number three: watching for the eyes of moose reflecting from the headlights in the ditches ahead.
Lastly and most importantly, number four: keeping the driver awake with conversation and passenger seat antics, like well-timed dashboard drumrolls.
We drive on into the night, now very dark and black. The brief blinding light just over the trees to the left of our van was long gone, and slowly fading from our weary memories too.
Northern Ontario has the most beautiful windshield candy. If you’re driving through, you should be sure to soak in those spectacular views through that tempered glass above your steering wheel, even at night. And if you’re able to take the time on this road, stop and get out of the vehicle. Sniff the air. Feel the air. Look around. Take in its majestic force.
Incidentally, I would argue this is where the Blair Witch should’ve been filmed! It would have been a much more terrifying and believable story of truly being lost and pursued by some tent-rattling sorcerer. Afterall, this is Northern Ontario, with eerie evergreen emptiness for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of miles.
Let’s pull over for a bit, you say above the Fastbacks. You steer to the side of the road, turning off the engine. We climb out of the van and quietly shut the doors to not wake the others. The air is mind-numbingly fresh and I feel intoxicated as I breathe it in. The silence out here is numbing too. I note the buzzing in my ears from the loud punk rock show, the remnants now amplified in my head. You say you notice it too.
As we stand there, lit up by the stars in the night sky, I eventually ask you the question: Is it my turn at the wheel?
A couple more hours, you say. You think you can do a couple more hours.
Okay.
Shotgun it is.
A Local Guy’s Advice
My teenage friends and I were in a bar negotiating to ensure we had a designated driver, when a local guy leaned over to interrupt our conversation. He scoffed at us, rolled his eyes and raised his pint glass with a twisted bravado and furrowed brow.
Turn your headlights off, he said with a slurred, lecturing tone. The golden liquid swished around in the glass in his hand as he offered his sage tavern advice.
We all stared at him in disbelief and didn’t respond.
Just roll home that way, he said. Someone else’s turn at the wheel? Pfffft. I’ll just drive home with the headlights off. That way the cops don’t see me. It’s no problem. What? You don’t believe me? I’ve done it many times. It works.
Ha. He’s just joking, we concluded, and looked away from the rambling barfly.
But the idea of a drunk guy driving the country roads where I grew up with no headlights on late at night after last call, haunts me to this day.
A Grandfather’s Trust
“Here, take these.”
My grandfather held up the set of keys he picked up off the kitchen table. I’m standing there in shock, not sure what to say. He senses my concern.
“You’ll do great. C’mon, let’s go.”
I had just came home from school and proudly announced to my grandparents I had big news. They were sitting at the kitchen table with welcoming smiles on their faces, eager to hear whatever their grandson had to say. With my captivated audience, I confidently trumpeted that I had just received my driver’s permit. I was finally 16 and I could now actually drive a car on the road, for real.
The excitement I felt though, quickly turned into mild panic when my grandfather held up his keys and pointed them at me.
“Well alright, let’s go then. I need another bottle of Kelly’s anyway. Let’s see you drive.”
My nerves kicked in. The news I had was wonderful in theory, but now push was quickly coming to shove thanks to my trusting grandfather. He was the first to show confidence in me that I could actually do it. That I could operate a motor vehicle out on the open road. And not just any motor vehicle. His motor vehicle. The one that got him all the way from Montreal to our little kitchen out in the sticks.
“Ah, besides, I’m always driving. Your grandmother doesn’t have her license, you know.”
He giggled knowing my grandmother was across the table from him, well within earshot, so he doubled down on the dig.
“It’s tiring always being the chauffeur.”
For that last comment, he got a severe dirty look from her as he giggled even more and handed me his keys. The two of us walked out the front door and down to the driveway. With my knees shaking, I climbed into the driver’s seat of his 1980 baby blue Volare station wagon.
With his confident encouragement, I started up the car, backed out of the driveway and drove out onto the road. As my palms were sweating on the blue vinyl steering wheel, off we went, heading for the Quebec border to buy wine.
“See, not so hard.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my grandfather smiling proudly as he put on a pair of aviator shades, rolled down the window and lit his pipe, happy to finally be the passenger for a while.
‘My travelling partner’ gets to see the final edit of the video for My Turn At the Wheel. You can find the full video on YouTube here.
These stories made my day! ❤️