Somebody Has To Clap...

So I married a musician.  If you’d have asked me as a young girl, as a teenager, or even as a twenty-something, I never in a million years would have said that would be my future.

I spent my life surrounded by music and the people who make it.  While the three girls in my family missed out on the musical talent gene, all six boys have it in spades.  Some have made their living by making music while it’s a hobby for the rest, but it comes very naturally to all of them.

I tried.  I really did.  When my brother Rick was first getting into Bluegrass, I showed interest so he – somehow, some way, that I still don’t really understand – brought home a fiddle.  I took lessons at one of the finest bluegrass music shops around.  And I failed.  Perhaps if my instructor didn’t eat tuna sandwiches in our tiny little practice room just before my lessons, I’d have stuck it out.  I doubt it.  I got through the basics but it just never felt comfortable.

Later, I took up the flute.  I kind of thought I may want to learn the drums, but my mother told me enough stories about having to carry her sousaphone on the city bus and I witnessed older kids struggling with their bass drums, so I made my decision based on the size of the case.  It was a fine choice.  I enjoyed it and played for years.  I took private lessons, played in the school concert band and felt very proud of myself.  But the reality was, it was always work.  I could play the notes on the page, as they were written, but the natural abilities just weren’t there.  I hung on to that flute for years after I stopped playing, thinking maybe…one day…one day never came and I eventually gave it to a kid who did have talent and interest.

I can’t sing.  I mean, even if I could carry a tune in a basket with a lid on it, I can only remember the words to one song.  There’s just not much call for a girl to sing Purple Haze (and trust me, no one should suffer through that, anyway).  Still, music is a very important part of my life.  I can’t make it, but I can definitely support it.  While the talent is on stage baring their souls, somebody has to clap.  That’s my job.

My oldest brother, Tim, left home at 16 to follow his musical dream.  He was brave, he was determined, and he did it.  I followed his travels with a bulletin board map with push pins at every destination.  In the summers, when we were supposed to be with my dad or other relatives, we almost always chose to be at Tim’s place instead.  I learned to read on R. Crumb comics, I learned how to run lights (badly, but it enabled me to get into the clubs where he played) and I learned the hard way not to stand barefoot on a concrete floor while plugging a guitar into a 60s-era amplifier.  I rode in band vans with day-glo orange fuzz covered dash boards and missing floorboards.    I learned how to pack gear and I learned not to sit next to the guy who ate the convenience store burritos.  I learned the bad jokes and I heard the great stories.  I napped under keyboards in an East St. Louis studio and I napped behind drum cases back stage at festivals.  More than anything, I learned that while people may say they “Play Music” the fact is that music is work.

If you’re lucky enough to have the ability to make music, it can and should be fun.  It should feed your soul and bring you pleasure.  But it’s still work.  It can be heartbreaking.  It can be back breaking.  And, like any other art form, music often attracts people who are already broken.

Knowing this, and knowing that my brothers have always been the exception to the “artists are broken” rule, I never had an interest in romance with a musician.  They can be terrifically entertaining friends, but date one?  No thanks.  Look at me now.  I guess you can’t fight destiny.  I’ve been very happily married to “one of them” for 12 years.  What can I say?  He’s also an extreme exception to the rule.

Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to stay connected with music.  I was a DJ when radio was still fun and I became very involved with the Atlanta Blues Society as a board member.  My husband and I created a great Blues In The Schools program to share the love of the music with kids and encourage them to love it, too.  I’ve run festivals and organized shows but that’s the end of the line for me.

Because everyone knows what my husband does for a living, I’m often expected to know the band’s schedule, who they’re playing with, and what they are thinking.  I’m asked why I’m not at shows and when I am there, I’m asked about band business.  Here’s the thing:  I’m not in the band.  When I’m working, my husband doesn’t come to my office and get into my business.  This is his business.

Obviously, I do go to some of his shows.  I loved the band before I met him, and I love them still.  I take my kids to see their dad at work.  At work.  If he needs my help selling merchandise or some such things, I’ll do that - but I go as a fan, not as a member of the band.  If I get in free because I’m With The Band, fantastic.  I don’t expect it.  If I’m offered backstage hospitality, I’ll accept it but I’ll never demand it.  When he leaves in the evening to go to a gig, our kids know that Dad’s going to Work.  Not “going to play”.  To work.

When I see a woman entering a musician friend’s life, I know almost immediately how it’s going to play out.  I’ve had years of research, observing my brothers and their friends.  Girlfriends who want to manage or promote the band may be useful in the short term, but they’re not going to last.  Those who become jealous because a drunk girl is dancing too close to the stage won’t be around for the long haul and those who can’t understand that weekends and holidays belong to the job should probably find themselves a nice banker or accountant instead.

Am I being harsh?  Maybe.  Probably.  But I also think I’m pretty right on.  I’ve been fortunate to stand on the side lines and develop a clear point of view.  Truthfully, I don’t know how much of my perspective is from life with musicians and how much is from my life with six brothers.   Either way, women are nuts and I doubt too many will argue that point with me.

So I married a professional musician.  Emphasis on the the professional.  He doesn’t need my help with that.   I’m proud of his talent and the show he delivers every time he steps on stage.  That’s his job.  I’ll be in the audience, wearing the t-shirt, enjoying the show.  Because somebody has to clap.