The World is A Vampire, Mon Frère
I was eighteen before my desire to write and play music came about, but sparking that desire is only half the fight. The other half is believing it’s actually something you have the capacity to do. And believe me, when I was eighteen, there was nothing that suggested I had such a capacity.
But as soon as that desire switch flipped, there was no hiccup that said music and songwriting weren’t things I could do. Given my penchant for overanalysis and negative self-talk, it’s curious that I wasn’t paralyzed by such an enormous prospect.
I think the answer as to why I wasn't lies with my older brother, Kevin. He was writing songs at the age of five (some about me!) — huge hits like “Baby, Knock the Wall (Cuz It' Makes A Lot of Noise),” and “Where’s Your Juice?”— and performed a rousing, full backing band rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” at a wedding reception.
The first not-kindergarten-era performance of his I remember was at “Rock School” in Peoria. The program placed several early-teen bands on a bill, gave them some sound and lighting, and sought to offer the rock n’ roll experience to these budding musicians and their video-camera-wielding parents. Kevin’s group assembled a set of three songs —Nirvana’s “Lithium,” Filter’s “Hey Man, Nice Shot,” and the Offspring’s “Self-Esteem.”
Though I don’t remember all the specifics of that night, I remember the overwhelming feeling that my brother, and his friends, were conceptually awesome. It felt similar to going to his basketball games: I just enjoyed being there, not burdened by all the desires and jealousies that sitting in audiences would stir in me in later years. A form of childhood purity, I suppose.
The final band that night was granted permission to play four songs because they knew the organizer. Even at nine years old, I knew this was bullshit of the highest order, and was deeply offended. I didn’t need to hear that stupid band cover “Down on the Corner.” The lesson was clear, as true at nine as at thirty-six: It's all about who you know. Welcome to the Jungle, kid.
There have been several people who claim to be my brother’s biggest fan over the years, but they are all filthy liars. It’s me, and it’s not particularly close. My first memory of fandom was challenging my fourth-grade teacher to let me go to the seventh and eighth grade dance in the school basement where Kevin's band was performing. Though all the other classes were having their own class parties, I demanded to be allowed to attend.
The answer was initially no, and as a kid who was terrified of being anything other than a perfect little pupil, it is retroactively shocking to me that I refused to accept that answer. I pestered until she finally caved, saw the forest for the trees, and thought, “you know, maybe it’s more important that this annoying kid supports his brother than to sit in my homeroom eating candy for the next fort-five minutes.”
And so I went.
I stood on the right side of the stage at about a four-o-clock angle. It provided me the best view of the band and I would not be blocked by kids a foot taller than me. The kids jumped and moshed —in a Catholic-school-permissible sort of way— as I stood silently taking it all in:
“The world is a vampire!” Luke, the lead singer, shouted as they began “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” by the Smashing Pumpkins, choosing to mimic the live rendition where Billy Corgan shouts the opening line instead of gently speaking it as he does on the record. Luke was always so good to me, even as the dorky younger brother, and so I admired him greatly. It all felt so visceral, like a full-blown rock concert except I knew the band. Kevin wasn’t singing yet in those environs, instead mostly playing bass guitar, and dueting on “Daisy” by Stone Temple Pilots. Never for a second did I wish I was upstairs with my classmates; this was where I belonged. And, Luke, I forgive you for accidentally cracking me in the head with a wooden Chicago White Sox baseball bat in the backyard.
I could write a parade of posts on all the shows of his I attended, and all the songs of his I learned how to play, rocked out to, and forced others to listen to, but I bring up these back pages because it illustrates what I believe is a critical ingredient to my successfully becoming a musician: My brother normalized it.
So many of the things we don’t do feel beyond us. How many people have you met (or maybe you’re one of those people) who say things like, “Oh, I could never write a song.” Or, “I could never be a doctor.” Or, more broadly, “Oh, I could never do what you do.” Though my brain will never allow me to think I could ever be better than my brother at writing and playing music — “that’s okay ‘cuz I got no self-esteem” indeed— his presence down the hall for two decades presented the whole thing as something normal people did, and thus I could too.
And so when I penned my first ever lyric of my first ever song —"It’s 2008, and the stage lights begin to fade…”— I had the wild belief that I could do this, and that it would be, in some way and at some time, successful.