There are days where I miss being in a band, loading a van to the brim with music equipment, and going somewhere to play. I miss the sound of an audience, the faint hum before showtime, and the feeling I got in my fingertips just as the concert began. There are times that I miss the ringing in my ears, the blisters on my palms, even how exhausted and sweaty I was after a set.
There are also times that I don’t miss it at all. I don’t miss practicing the same ten songs over and over and over again, until I couldn’t fucking stand them anymore. I don’t miss breaking drum heads, sticks, and cymbals every time I’d get slightly rambunctious during a show. I don’t miss fighting with band members over stupid shit. I don’t miss creative differences. I don’t miss driving two-hundred miles away, only to arrive at an empty bar. I don’t miss playing for free. I don’t miss paying venues to let my band play.
I’m constantly torn. With everything. On one hand, I have this fire raging inside me to write my own stuff, music I’m really proud of. In my life, this has happened maybe three times so far. On the other hand, I can’t see myself ever being in another real band. I’m too hard to work with. I get bored too easily. I don’t like compromising my ideas. I’m the worst kind of musician, because I have to lead or it just doesn’t work. I’m a musical fascist.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I’m stuck in between thirty flavors of philosophy, and I don’t know where I actually stand on anything. It’s frustrating.