The End
"Ring Ring"
It's Dan calling on my cell phone. I pick it up "Hello?"
"Hey Matt! How's it going?" (Dan's one of the only people who can call my "Matt" and live to tell about it.
"Pretty good!" I said. We talked for about 20 minutes, a half hour. He sounded unusually jovial. I asked him how his job was going. He said he hated it, but that didn't matter because something was in the pipeline. He said it was contracted in blood. And then he told me what he was doing.
Dan joined the Navy.
He told me how he was talking to Thad, and Thad, our old bassist, loved it. Dan has been working a lot of dead end jobs with disorganized fuck ups. Those are his words. He sounded so terribly excited about it all. He'll leave in December and be in basic training for four months. He'll be getting schooling. He's on for a minimum of four years. Megan will be going to school for her college degree. Dan will pay off the loans with his G.I. Bill.
And, as he went on about what he was going to do, I started to cry. Sob, almost. I kept it all hidden, but I felt horrible.
In the story of my life, Dan has been one of the most important people I have ever met. I had a dream, when I was 21, 22 years old, to be a musician, who played the clubs in Minneapolis, who had an album and a band. When I met Dan, after I released my album, it was the first time I had someone truly on my team.
He was there for it all. Every bass player, every gig since First Avenue in 2002. Now, five years later, the band is all but nonexistent and Dan is moving on.
He was always so loyal. He was always up for playing a gig. (Not always up for practicing.) He was always there to tell me about how much of a bitch any girl who stopped dating me was. He helped pay for the practice space before I bought my house. He helped train people in on how my songs should sound. He played on stage like a maniac.
He was inside my music like no one else ever was.
And now I'm alone. Alone to think about how little a part of my life music is right now. Alone to see my studio and feel like running the opposite direction because it's so dusty, unkempt. I don't even know if it all works anymore.
What about the days when there was urgency around my music? Getting gigs, putting up posters, practicing at the space? Staying up until 3 AM after a gig?
I wished I never bought a house. I wished I never got frustrated with the band, with music. I wished I never stopped writing. I wished I could go back to the Stillwater Battle of the Bands, to O'Gara's, to The Rock, to Princeton Party House, to the old practice space, to that shithole the Urban Wildlife, to 4th Street Station, to the Terminal and to Fine Line over and over again.
To Pizza Luce before the show.
I don't want him to go. I feel like I haven't appreciated him enough. I feel like we didn't play enough. I didn't write enough songs for him and I to play. No matter how long it had been since our last practice, he was always up for playing again. Now I'm at square one. I really have neglected it to the point of being where I was in 1999.
Is this the end of Stolen By Serious?
"I'm feeling great," he said, "I'm down to a quarter pack a day and I'm running two and a half miles a day, too!"
"That's so awesome," I said. "Hey... When you come to pick your drums up, Dan, do you think we could jam one last time?" I asked.
"I wouldn't want it to go any other way," he said.
Dan needs direction in his life beyond what music could provide. I am happy for him. But my selfish side feels as though I have left a beloved pet in a room for months without food and now I have opened the door to see that it died long ago.
I don't know what to do.
"Ring Ring"
It's Dan calling on my cell phone. I pick it up "Hello?"
"Hey Matt! How's it going?" (Dan's one of the only people who can call my "Matt" and live to tell about it.
"Pretty good!" I said. We talked for about 20 minutes, a half hour. He sounded unusually jovial. I asked him how his job was going. He said he hated it, but that didn't matter because something was in the pipeline. He said it was contracted in blood. And then he told me what he was doing.
Dan joined the Navy.
He told me how he was talking to Thad, and Thad, our old bassist, loved it. Dan has been working a lot of dead end jobs with disorganized fuck ups. Those are his words. He sounded so terribly excited about it all. He'll leave in December and be in basic training for four months. He'll be getting schooling. He's on for a minimum of four years. Megan will be going to school for her college degree. Dan will pay off the loans with his G.I. Bill.
And, as he went on about what he was going to do, I started to cry. Sob, almost. I kept it all hidden, but I felt horrible.
In the story of my life, Dan has been one of the most important people I have ever met. I had a dream, when I was 21, 22 years old, to be a musician, who played the clubs in Minneapolis, who had an album and a band. When I met Dan, after I released my album, it was the first time I had someone truly on my team.
He was there for it all. Every bass player, every gig since First Avenue in 2002. Now, five years later, the band is all but nonexistent and Dan is moving on.
He was always so loyal. He was always up for playing a gig. (Not always up for practicing.) He was always there to tell me about how much of a bitch any girl who stopped dating me was. He helped pay for the practice space before I bought my house. He helped train people in on how my songs should sound. He played on stage like a maniac.
He was inside my music like no one else ever was.
And now I'm alone. Alone to think about how little a part of my life music is right now. Alone to see my studio and feel like running the opposite direction because it's so dusty, unkempt. I don't even know if it all works anymore.
What about the days when there was urgency around my music? Getting gigs, putting up posters, practicing at the space? Staying up until 3 AM after a gig?
I wished I never bought a house. I wished I never got frustrated with the band, with music. I wished I never stopped writing. I wished I could go back to the Stillwater Battle of the Bands, to O'Gara's, to The Rock, to Princeton Party House, to the old practice space, to that shithole the Urban Wildlife, to 4th Street Station, to the Terminal and to Fine Line over and over again.
To Pizza Luce before the show.
I don't want him to go. I feel like I haven't appreciated him enough. I feel like we didn't play enough. I didn't write enough songs for him and I to play. No matter how long it had been since our last practice, he was always up for playing again. Now I'm at square one. I really have neglected it to the point of being where I was in 1999.
Is this the end of Stolen By Serious?
"I'm feeling great," he said, "I'm down to a quarter pack a day and I'm running two and a half miles a day, too!"
"That's so awesome," I said. "Hey... When you come to pick your drums up, Dan, do you think we could jam one last time?" I asked.
"I wouldn't want it to go any other way," he said.
Dan needs direction in his life beyond what music could provide. I am happy for him. But my selfish side feels as though I have left a beloved pet in a room for months without food and now I have opened the door to see that it died long ago.
I don't know what to do.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
xx.