Age-Induced-Micro-Rant

Here’s a micro-rant for you:

(By the way, the uncontrollable urge to micro-rant is a sure sign that you’re getting old)

“Independent” used to mean something.  Not just from a business I’m-not-with-a-major-label standpoint, but musically.  Indy meant “This is how I see the world. This is how I express myself”, for better or for worse.  Now Indy means “This is how cool people see that world.  This is what Indy sounds like”.

Let’s build an Indy band together, shall we?  First, the look.  All clothes from boutique second-hand stores, of course.  Tight grey pants and a bunch of flannel.  Pointy leather shoes.  Now grow some stubble.  Girls, that goes for you too.  Let’s see… oh yeah, the glasses.  Thick frames.  Lenses optional.

Now for a catchy name.  Something with a vintage hipness that evokes a flair for the sardonic.  Let’s go with “The Dapper Pandas”.  That ought to stick.

Buy a ukulele, find a glockenspiel player, and work out some short, jerky movements for when things get really intense on stage.

There you go!  Wait, one last thing: make some posters with 1950’s blocky test, hand-drawn animals, and don’t be shy with the pastels and turquoise colorings.

(DISCLOSURE PARAGRAPH:  I own a uke.  I own flannel.  I’ve recorded with glockenspiels.  I’m blind as a bat, so when I wear glasses, lenses are a must.  I dance like I have epilepsy on stage.  I actually think “The Dapper Pandas” is a cool band name.  I’ve been signed to major labels - I think it’s cooler to not be.  If a gig in an “Indy” band opened up, I’d jump on it.  Just know that every time I say “Indy”, it totally has air-quotes around it, even if my hands are full.)

Eat. Sleep. Rock. Repeat.

When you’re me, there’s a real trick to answering the question “What do you do?”

 

Short version?  I’m a musician.  Or, “I’m in the music business”.  Whatever that means.  Most people, after hearing that, say “Oh.  How interesting…” (which either means they don’t know what that means or (more likely) don’t think it’s interesting at all.

“Wait!” my mind screams out.  “You don’t understand!”  Let me help you understand:

Being a musicians isn’t just eat/sleep/rock-out/repeat.  When I write “musician” on my resume, I’m implying qualifications for about 37 other job descriptions, some of which I’ll mention below.

 

Truck driver.  You think 18-hour hauls in a mega-van pulling a trailer through the most desolate parts of the country doesn’t qualify you?  At least a little?

 

Psychologist.  You think spending weeks locked in a car with 4 guys you spend more time with than your own family doesn’t give you some mad psycho-analytical skills?  At least a few?

 

Electrician.  I know stupid amounts of useless knowledge about amperes, ohms, watts, volts, impedance, and soldering.  Not by choice, mind you.

 

Flight attendant/Airline Check-In Counter Agent.  Seriously.  At this point, I could even give the little “exits fore and aft” in my sleep.  And do I know more about the rules and regulations about the sizes and weights of what can and cannot be checked than the guy behind the counter?  Yes.  Yes, I do.

 

Dietician.  OK, whatever the opposite of that is, I could be.  I can tell you exactly which combinations of fast-foot restaurants can make the afore-mentioned confined van travel a veritable death-sentence.  I can also tell you my pre-determined orders at any of the major chains that are guaranteed to keep you alive for $4 or less.

 

Multi-Level-Marketing Consultant.  I have performed for and received gift baskets from every soap/oil/juice/jewlry/spray/shoe/balm/scent/magnet/make-up/spice/clothing/candle/book/berry/scrapbook/kitchen-accesory business in the network-marketing world.  I’ve tried them all.  All I’ve gained from the experience is the bumper sticker idea “I don’t need friends; I have a down-line”.

 

Paralegal.  If there’s a way to cheat a contract, I’ve seen it, argued it, and usually won.  Yes, banjo players can read.  Small words, at least.

 

I could go on, but at 360 words, I’ve already exceeded the average Americans attention span.  In fact, I’m bored myself.