The Accidental Hiding Spot At The Short Rehearsal of Firsts
Since you’re here, I want to let you know my new album “Split Seconds On Earth” is now available for pre-order on Bandcamp & my website. Thank you for your support.
My friend stared at me from the corner of his bedroom. I was fumbling around in the opposite corner, feeling the pressure to get ready. I looked down at my left hand, double checking where my fingers would go, as I wanted desperately to get this right.
I could sense my friend’s stare as he sat across the bedroom, frozen in anticipation. With eyes fixed on me, he slowly raised both his arms in the air, ready to guide us into an unknown void, opening a door to a mysterious world we both dreamt about. I was ready, yet somewhat nervous. It was an awkward moment, and I shuddered with excitement. Those silent seconds hung between us for an eternity, awaiting to unlock something that reverberates in me to this day.
I looked across the room and I could see stacks of comic books and records piled on the dresser behind my friend. Clothes were strewn across the bed and floor. There were Clash posters on the wall, as well as one of Kelly LeBrock, one of Poison Ivy and one of Keith Moon. Though it was mid-afternoon, I could see the light from his cheap stereo too, illuminating the radio dial on the receiver. The turntable cradled the garage punk record we’d listened to only moments before and it remained out of its sleeve, on the deck, ready for another round under the needle.
Though completely unsure of myself, I was fuelled by teenage ignorance and determination. I looked down at my left hand again and shifted my shoulders in an attempt to get comfortable. I could do this. We could do this. The two of us faced each other in opposing corners of the room, like eager first-round boxers awaiting the clang of the bell.
With locked eye contact, I gave my pal a gentle nod. It was a silent cue we’d give ourselves in the future on many stages, in many cities, over many years.
With his hands now high above his head, he clicked two sticks four times with a burst of feverish energy. The clicks echoed around the tiny bedroom. The clicks provided the proposed tempo. And the fourth one was our green flag.
So off we went, into the void. It was go time. It was rock and roll time.
Maybe it was Bad Moon Rising or maybe it was The Kids Are Alright. But I’m sure it was loud and I’m sure it was way out of synch. Incidentally, I’d eventually learn the term for that. It was called: ‘not tight’.
My left hand struggled to keep up with my right, which was strumming down hard on the strings of my crappy black Japanese Les Paul copy. I thought about the speed of the tempo those clicks had provided and I fought my way through, my overstimulated brain telling my left hand these instructions in rapid fire: D formation, then quickly to A formation. Then G. Then back to D again. Repeat. Keep going, left hand, keep going. You’ve gotta keep up with that right hand as the downstrokes were getting harder and faster.
In the frantic messaging from my brain to my fingers and hands, I realized it was time for another key element to this blistering live song we’d unleashed in my friend’s bedroom: I needed to sing something! So I looked up from the fretboard to find the mic I had rigged up. It was taped to a rickety mic stand set up in front of me, so I directed my mouth towards it. I shifted my shoulders feeling the pull of my guitar strap as I tried to get my lips on the mic and keep one eye on my left hand, fumbling over the frets of my cheap Japanese guitar. I was well aware that singing and playing guitar at the same time as standing up was a skill I had yet to hone, but I stumbled into it with the poise of a newborn colt. My mind was screaming at me: YOU CAN DO THIS. DO IT LIKE PAUL STANLEY DOES IT.
My friend kept aggressive time as he bashed his snare drum and kicked a pedal against the booming, large drum sitting on the floor in front of him. His right hand smashed at the hi-hat cymbals, and then alternated between crashing into the crash cymbal and motoring over the ride cymbal, all of which my drummer pal had at his disposal. He was keeping time with the elegance and swagger of Animal from The Muppets.
As I struggled to peek down at my guitar while keeping an eye on the tip of the microphone, I bumped my bottom lip against the mic and it stung. But I didn’t let on or flinch. I was in rock and roll mode now, so I continued to yell out lyrics as best I could above all the noise. The beautiful, glorious, cacophonous noise.
At some point it hit me. We were doing it. We were playing a song live, with reckless teenage abandon. And what a thrill it was. At that moment there was nothing better in the entire world. We were officially in a band. Our band.
As I glanced up for the mic again, the bedroom door swung open in a violent thrust and almost hit the headstock of my guitar. I jumped backwards behind the open door as I pulled my guitar up to my chest and the strings made a discordant “kerr-anngg” sound before going silent. I could see my friend’s eyes grow wide as he stared toward the door. He stopped playing and slunk down on his drum stool. I could hear the cymbals ringing and decaying as the screaming started.
“What the HELL are you doing!” a woman’s voice shrieked a godawful shriek. I pressed myself tighter into the corner behind the open door, grateful for my accidental hiding spot. I could hear a loud hum coming from my amp on the bedroom floor.
“I can hear you all the way across the street! Over at my house! What the hell. Do you think. You’re DOING?!”
My pal shrunk lower in his seat and didn’t make eye contact with me, like he didn’t want to give away my hiding spot. In that moment I was grateful for not having to face whatever wrath this was. He continued to sheepishly look at the mystery woman on the other side of the door, before looking down at the drumsticks in his hands.
“Just playing…some rock and roll,” he said.
“Well STOP!” the woman screamed, as the door in front of me quickly pulled away and slammed shut. A white towel that was hanging on a hook behind the door fell to the floor in a quiet thud.
As a moment of silence passed, the defeated rock and roll boxers stared at each other from their respective corners in disbelief.
It was the end of our practice.
It was the end of The Stand’s very first rehearsal, on March 15th, 1985.
*******
It’s the 40th anniversary of my first band, The Stand (later The Stand GT). I’ll tell some stories over the coming weeks to celebrate. You can stream (and support) our music over on Bandcamp too. 40 years. Who would’ve imagined.
Happy Anniversary. Keep on searching for that D chord.