Who’s to say what’s a good voice and not a good voice?
I have never been one to collect “stuff,” I do collect moments.
To really see America, you need to drive it mile by mile. Because you not only begin to grasp the immensity of this beautiful country, you see the climate and geography change with every state line. These are indeed things that cannot be learned from an old school book under the cold classroom lights. They must be seen, heard, and felt in person to be truly appreciated.
When I was seventeen years old, music had become my counselor when I needed guidance, my friend when I felt alone, my father when I needed love, my preacher when I needed hope, and my partner when I needed to belong.
Trust me, the sweet sting of a love refused is powerful enough to send any scribe scrambling for pen and paper.
I was a bit of a misfit, longing to feel understood, waiting for someone to accept the real me.
Punk rock became my professor in a school with no rules, only teaching the lesson that you need no lessons and that every person has a voice to be heard, no matter the sound.
That I would celebrate the ensuing years by embracing the toll they’d take on me.
To me, it is god. A divine mystery in whose power I will forever hold an unconditional trust. And it is moments like these that cement my faith. So, when you hear that parade coming down the street, spreading joy and love with every note, don’t just listen; join in the march. You never know where it may lead you.
We never had much, but we always had enough.
It seems that everywhere I turn there is a reminder to be found, and I have come to a place where they no longer break my heart; they make me smile.
I could always tell when a chorus was coming by watching Kurt’s dirty Converse sneaker as it moved closer and closer to the distortion pedal, and just before he stomped on the button, I would blast into a single-stroke snare roll with all of my might, like a fuse burning fast into the heart of a bomb, signaling the change. The subsequent eruption would often send chills up my neck, as the undeniable power of our collective sound was becoming almost too big for that tiny little space.
It’s not always the kid that fails the school. Sometimes it’s the school that fails the kid.
In a way, I cherish my numerous heartbreaks almost more than the actual love that preceded them, because the heartbreak has always proven to me that I can feel.
I knew deep down that nothing would ever compare to what Nirvana had gifted to the world. That dort of thing only happens once in a lifetime.
I have always measured my life in musical increments rather than months or years. My mind faithfully relies on songs, albums, and bands to remember a particular time and place.
Sometimes I forget that I’ve aged.
But beyond any biological information, there is love. Something that defies all science and reason. And that I am most fortunate to have been given. It maybe the most defining factor in anyone’s life. Surely an artist greatest muse. And there is no love like a mother’s love. It is life’s greatest song. We are all indebted to the women who has given us life. For without them, there would be no music.
So, when you hear that parade coming down the street, spreading joy and love with every note, don’t just listen; join in the march. You never know where it may lead you.
I was learning about languages and cultures I never would have experienced in school. The physicality of actually being in these places deepened my understanding of the world as a community, which is much smaller than most imagine.
This band, born from the heartbreak and tragedy of our broken past, was a celebration of love, and life, and the dedication to finding happiness in every next day.