Music for Grown-Ups

Wow.  It's been a long time since I've written anything.  It's been a long few months.

What the hell am I doing in Afghanistan?

Here's something I wrote this morning.  It's unedited, stream-of-consciousness, and maybe a bit rambling, but oh well.

Music is raw emotion.  Music expresses feelings and thoughts that words alone can't.  I think so much music is geared towards teens is because that's when all these feelings make their first appearance, and music gives shape and form to them.  These feelings are pretty much universal.  Everyone goes through these times, everyone feels like this.  Everyone feels like they're the only one.  Music lets them know that they're not alone.  Not just in an intellectual way, but in a more real, raw, visceral way.  

Growing up, I must have heard a hundred youth pastors and rally speakers tell me that I wasn't alone, that people knew what I felt, what I was going through.  I never really believed them.  I believed the music.  I believed groups like FIF.  Their music connected with me in that raw, emotional way that counts.  In their music, I heard the struggles, hurts, small victories, successes, failures, and overall confusion that I experienced.  I knew - REALLY knew - that I wasn't alone.

I could write a whole piece on FIF alone.  Their music let me know that it was okay to be uncool, geeky, nerdy, clumsy, bad at sports, socially awkward, and have no friends.  God still loved me.  He made me and he loved me.  I knew it, not because some youth pastor who "had it all together" told me so in some lecture.  I knew it because they were the same way and they managed to distill those experiences and feelings into music.

Then I got older.  FIF broke up, my friends started careers, started families of their own, and I still had no clue how life was supposed to work.  Guess what?  Those feelings of loneliness, isolation, desire, confusion, frustration, anger, excitement, and everything else I felt in the music never went away.  I always looked at adults as people who had outgrown these things, who had learned what it all meant, who had everything figured out.  Was I wrong.

I think a lot of people my age are in denial.  They deny that they still have the same questions and feelings that they had as teenagers.  That's why there's so much pressure to "grow up".  People want to appear as though they have it all together.  Maybe they do it out of good intentions.  Maybe they want to turn around and give young people the hope the inspirational speakers of their generation failed to give them.  But they're giving them a false hope.  I'll be perfectly honest and say that I don't have it all figured out.  If anything, I feel more lonely, isolated, and wistful than I did when I was a teenager.  I can definitely elucidate it better than I could back then. 

Maybe that's the reason for what I've heard described as "adultolescence."  As teenagers, people felt hope, optimism, and a certain naivete that they lose once they reach adulthood.  They're just trying in some small way to hold on to that.  I can't fault them for it.  This world will make you jaded, bitter and cynical.  I can speak from experience.  While their actions might be missing the point, I think it comes from an honest place.  Instead of berating grown men for playing too many video games and trying to be rock stars, why don't we address the real underlying issues? 

Honesty.  It all boils down to honesty.  Our parents' generation was able to succeed through diligence and hard work.  Our economy is collapsing.  That simply isn't the case anymore.  We've seen people who dedicated their lives to a company or career have it all disappear overnight.  We've seen people who were supposed to have it all together get caught in crimes and scandals.  We've seen people who supposedly "won the game" - had material wealth and happiness - disintegrate into nothingness because of crippling insecurities and loneliness.

So we're not buying it anymore.

Clearly, there's something wrong.  There's something they're not telling us.  They keep telling us to grow up, be responsible, etc.  But we've seen where it's led, and we don't like it.  We'd rather be irresponsible and happy than successful and miserable. 

Tell kids the truth.  Be honest with them about the fact that while you're chronologically an adult, inside you there's a teenager who just wants to understand what the hell's going on around you.

That's why there's so much music geared towards teenagers.  Why isn't there more music geared towards adults?  Because so many musicians, as they age, are pressured by their families to "get a real job".  They give in to the lie that grown ups have it all together, and they don't want to seem like they're in a state of "arrested development." 

The older I get, the more selective I am about the music I choose to listen to.  I tend to listen to artists older than me, because the fact that they're still making music means that they've stood their ground and (hopefully) have something to say about life.  Maybe, just maybe, they can offer me some insight into what life is, into what these feelings mean.  Maybe, through their music, I can still know - REALLY know - that I'm not alone.

Or maybe I just need to "grow up."

So there it is.  Whatever.  I feel like I'm vacillating between apathy and fanaticism lately.  I still love music.  I'll always love music.  Few things make me angrier than music that's used to mislead and manipulate people.  Just be honest.  Find something good, make something good, be something good.

Prigione Folsom

This is new to me.

This is in response to a challenge issued to me by my friend Pam Elmore.  This is the first time I've ever tried translating a song into another language, and it was definitely a challenge, but I had a lot of fun.  It's more difficult to do than you might think; to be effective, the new lyrics have to fit the meter and the rhyme scheme and still convey the ideas and feelings of the original.  A word-for-word translation is impossible, because apparently the English language values brevity above all else.  What may take us five syllables to say may take the Italians ten or more.

Anyway, let me know what you think.  Any feedback is appreciated.  And hey, if you speak Italian, feel free to give me some grammatical pointers.  Let me rephrase that: If you speak Italian, please give me all of your grammatical insights.

Ain't No Rest For The Wicked

 I woke up at 4 am in an existential quandary.

It probably doesn't help that I've spent the last four days in a stupor of valium, percocet, and ibuprofen.  I just got me some o' that newfangled laser eye surgery last week and only just now able to look at a computer screen for more than 30 seconds without my corneas erupting in a revolution of Guevaran proportions.  So yeah, let's chalk it up to the drugs.

I was bolt awake at 4 am, unable to go back to sleep or even pretend to try.  The kind of stare-at-your-clock, look-at-the-annoying-light-outside-your-window, envy-the-sleeping-cat-at-the-foot-of-the-bed sleeplessness.  The kind where you can either lay there play the alarm countdown game, or get up and try to do something productive.  And by productive, I mean something that starts out with good intentions but quickly devolves into an easy distraction.  That's why I'm typing this at 4:27 am instead of sitting on the couch playing Borderlands.  Although that does sound tempting… no, no, gotta focus.

Focus.  *Sigh*

Where was I?  Oh yeah, existential quandary.  Right.  Four days of inactivity is plenty of time to get distracted.  But when your usual distractions (read: computer and Xbox) are unavailable to you, you're eventually forced to deal with reality.  Reality bites.  (Hey, that would make a catchy movie title.)  There's also no more depressing time than 4 am, at least when you know you need to be asleep but you can't and your alarm goes off at 7 and you're not happy with your life to begin with.

It's never a good time of day to take stock of your life and ponder the future.

So here I am.  I'm a 30-year-old (essentially) failed musician with a head full of knowledge, a heart still full of dreams, and nowhere closer to achieving them or putting that knowledge to use than I was ten years ago.  I've got a lot more knowledge and a lot more experience now than I did then, but it hasn't done me much good.  I rashly signed up for six years in the Army, which means that when I get out, I'll be 35 with no more prospects than I have now. 

All I ever wanted to do was to make music.

I don't want to be a rock star, I don't want to be a celebrity, I just want to be a musician.  I want to be somebody who makes good music.  Is that so much to ask?

I have some regrets.  I wish I had only signed up for three years instead of six.  I wish I hadn't gone back to college after that semester I spent out on Martha's Vineyard and just gone straight to LA or Nashville.  A degree means nothing in this business.  Nothing.  In fact, it's sometimes a hindrance more than a help because the people you end up playing for don't have degrees and they're often intimidated by it.  They think you're some kind of highfalutin' snob who's secretly judging their music, and by extension, them.  I wish I had started playing music - real music, not just high school band music - at an earlier age.  I wish I had been aware of real music at an earlier age.

It's a little late for could've's, Marge.

When my enlistment is up, I'll be 35.  What do I do then?  If I get out, do I go back to Nashville and make another go at it?  Who wants a 35-year-old on stage with them?  Do I try to do the whole singer-songwriter thing?  Again, age is definitely against me.  I'd like to start a family.  How am I supposed to support them?  I can't wait too much longer to start.  I'm already gonna be the creepy old guy at the park, where all the other parents are going, "Is he the dad? Is he the granddad? Is he the granddad's dad?"  What if the only option I have is to stay in the Army for 20 years, get that pension, and then have some sort of steady income to "do what I want"?  By that time, I'll definitely be too old to start.  Like it or not, age is important in the music business.  I can't bear the thought of staying in the Army one second longer than I have to.

A wise friend of mine once said, "If it were up to me, I'd issue a restraining order stating that business must keep at least 500 yards away from music at all times.  But it isn't." 

I recently started reading Brennan Manning's excellent book, "The Ragamuffin Gospel".  I haven't finished it yet, but it's already challenged me and comforted me at the same time.  I cannot say enough good things about this book.  For anyone who has struggled to reconcile the God of the Bible with the hypocrisy and pain of a strict religious upbringing, this book is for you. 

There's a line in there that hit me in a strange way.  He mentioned "a young person feeling the fire in the belly begin to fade".  I had to stop and reread that line about 5 times.  That's exactly where I'm at right now.  Those of you who know me know that I'm nothing if not opinionated and passionate.  But I've always tried to direct my passion into things that were worth being passionate about.  Like music.  I believe that music is a powerful thing that is worth more than we consciously know.  I believe that it's useful for more that getting the party started or expressing admiration for a female's ample posterior, which is why those things bother me so easily. 

Parenthetically, to all you Bono haters out there, this is why I'll take his inflated ego and political grandstanding over shlock like Lady Gaga any day of the week.  At least he's trying to do something lasting and meaningful.

But I digress.  I don't want to lose the "fire in my belly".  I'm just trying to reconcile what I want to do with the options I have left at this point. 

And then there's faith.  Faith in a religious sense.  30 years into it, and I'm still trying to reconcile what I believe with what I was raised with.  I know this is a struggle that everyone has to go through, but I think it would be easier in a way if I was raised in a completely different religious tradition.  Actually, I think it would be easiest if I was raised in a home that was completely indifferent to faith and religion at all.  But as it was, my upbringing was painfully strict.  Fundamentalist strict.  Baptist strict. 

Being the pastor's kid, everything I did was put under the electron microscope of the scrutiny of the church.  I was raised to believe that God loves good little boys who never do anything wrong and always reflect well upon their parents, because if the child does anything wrong, then the parents must be terrible people, godless heathens, and unfit to shepherd a flock. 

I'm still learning that God is love, forgiveness, mercy, and grace.  I'm still trying to keep the good things I learned as a kid and get rid of all the extraneous junk that came along with it.  I don't think I'll be done for a long time.

But where does that leave me now?  A musician who's got 4 years, 9 months, and 9 days left in the most creatively stifling environment in the country.  A believer in Christ who's in a place filled with churches that either want to put on a big, fluffy production like the fluffiest of megachurches or are still spewing the same hate-filled, hyper-fundamentalist garbage that gives all Christians a bad name.  A guy who just wants to do what he's good at and live a simple life doing it.

Where does it end?  When does it end?  What's the goal?  I don't know.  I just don't know.

But hey, I've got 4 years, 9 months, and 9 days to figure it out. 

Time to go play Borderlands.

Sound and Fury

Today was the hardest day I have ever lived.

I didn't wake up this morning expecting to have to put one of my pets to sleep.  I didn't wake up expecting to have to look into my wife's eyes and tell her that we just don't have the money to pay to keep our cat alive.  I didn't wake up expecting to carry a cardboard box and a shovel out into the woods.

And then the drive home.  Oh God, the drive home.

I know what you're thinking.  It's just a cat, it's not like your mom or dad died.  You know what?  You're right.  But it still hurts.

Louie had been losing weight for a while, at least a couple of months.  He hadn't been eating for a couple of days.  He started vomiting on Saturday.  We wanted to take him to the vet much earlier, but Bekah had been without a job for more than six months and our finances were just stretched too thin.  We finally got enough together to take him in today.  After running a lot of tests, the vet told me that Louie had FIV.  That's the feline version of HIV.  His weakened immune system had led to total renal failure.  There were treatments available, but they were at best a stall, and we just don't have upwards of $1500.

What made this all so difficult is that Louie is more than just a cat.  He was Bekah's cat.

We got our cats back in October of 2004 when we were living in Florida.  I was a student at Full Sail at the time.  Since then, I've held six different jobs, lived in seven different apartments, gone to four different churches, and lived in three different states.  Through all that, one of the few constants in our lives was our wonderful kittens.  They brought so much fun and joy into our lives.

When you get a new pet, you know it's temporary.  In the back of your mind when you're taking that baby animal home is that in a few years, they're going to leave you.  Responsible pet ownership is about realizing this and making the most of the time you have with that animal.  The average lifespan of a house cat is about 15 years.  Louie was 6.

Like I said, I didn't expect to go through this today.  We were supposed to have 9 or 10 more years with him.

Like I said, he was Bekah's cat.  He picked her out as his favorite from day one.  He snuggled between her legs at night.  He walked around the dining room meowing to himself until she acknowledged him.  He sat in her lap and fell asleep watching TV.  He kept her company when I was in basic training.  He was her cat, and she was his human.  I miss him, but not even close to how much Bekah misses him.

We named him 'Louie' because he liked to walk around meowing to himself.  His little kitty voice had a sort of gravelly-gurgley quality to it, so we named him after Louis Armstrong.  He and his sister both were black and white 'tuxedo' kittys, so we named them Louie and Ella.  He would snuggle up against the back of Bekah's legs so closely at night as to make any kind of movement all but impossible.  When you would eventually disturb him by shifting around, he would complain a bit, but wait until you were done and then snuggle right back in.  On Saturdays, he would wait until Bekah got up and came downstairs, then follow her down, snuggle back in with her when she laid down on the couch, and go back to sleep as she watched TV.  She called him "her little motor" because he would purr so loudly and smoothly.  He kept her warm at night when I wasn't there to do so.
 
When he was just a baby, he was the biggest wimp you could imagine.  He relied on his big sister Ella to lead the way in exploring and playing.  For a long time, he was basically her shadow.  She would get into mischief and he would be right there behind her.  I remember dangling a string for him to play with.  He would latch onto it with his claws and I could pull him right off the floor and he would just hang in the air, refusing to let go of his prize.  We called him our "dangling kitty". 

He used to stand there and twitch his tail excitedly when we were opening a can of tuna.  While all three kittens were drinking the drained tuna water we put in a bowl for them, he would reach in and pull the bowl away from the other two and closer to himself.  He would also pull bits of food and even water out of the dish and eat or drink off the floor.  He liked to show us one of his fangs, which we dubbed his "snaggletooth".  I'll miss the snaggletooth.

He was a good cat, and a good friend.  He was the one I counted on to comfort Bekah when she was feeling down or lonely.

That's why today was the hardest one of my life.

Losing a pet was hard enough, but watching my wife say goodbye to her pet - HER friend - broke my heart in a way I've never felt before.

Yes, the pain will lessen.  But for right now, it hurts.  A lot.  And it's not going to be easy.

It's got me thinking about death.  A lot of people blame God when tragedy strikes or a loved one dies.  The first family member I lost was my paternal grandfather in July of 2006.  I didn't blame God then for the loss of my grandfather after a two-year battle with leukemia any more than I blame him now for the premature loss of a pet.  But it still hurts.

It's a result of sin and the fall.  And someday, it won't happen anymore.  The loss of our pet reminds us that life is fleeting, temporary, ephemeral.  We love deeply and then it's over.  Yes, death has been ultimately defeated.  But it's still all too real.  For right now, it hurts.  A lot.

When you've cried all the tears you have and your body is still wracked with sobs, when the carpet is wet from weeping on the floor, when you have to face that first night without the one you love, when you have to go on with your daily life the next day, what then?  Where is that ultimate victory?  What does life even mean?  Whether it's your grandfather or just a little kitty, where does life's intrinsic value come from?  Why do we even have the capability to love in the first place?

How long will we suffer?  How long will we wait for eternal life?  How long until death is no more?  How long until the very memory of the word is banished from our minds?

How long, Lord?  How long until you heal the broken-hearted?  How long until you do what you said you would do?

My deliverer is coming, my deliverer is standing by.

For right now, it hurts.  A lot.

How long, O Lord?

 

Louie Sims

August 2004 - January 3, 2011

Looking For Jesus

I wasn't planning on doing this.

I just wrote this song about half an hour ago.  It makes me a little uncomfortable to sing it, and that's encouraging.  I was planning on posting a song a week, starting with some old ones and working my way through the better of the newer ones.  This just hit me tonight.

"Looking For Jesus"

Apology

I only gave it that title because I'm trying something new.  I'm going to start posting videos of some of the songs I've written over the years.  Today's song is one I wrote several years ago while I was on Martha's Vineyard for a semester of college.

"Apology"

Once More, With Feeling

I drove a U-Haul truck for 10 hours yesterday.

Not for myself, but for a friend.  He's moving to Louisville, KY from Fayetteville, NC.  Actually, he's being transferred from Ft. Bragg to Ft. Knox.  Yep, we're in the Army.

Before you start conjuring images of infantry grunts in full battle gear repelling out of helicopters and kicking down doors, let me tell you what I do: I'm in the band.

Yes, the Army has a band.  I don't play the trombone, I don't repel out of helicopters, and I don't repel out of helicopters while playing the trombone.  I play the bass.  That is, I did before I joined the Army band.

Once upon a time, I was a musician.  That is, I wanted to be one.  I took piano and trumpet lessons as a kid, picked up the bass in high school, and picked up the guitar and drums in college.  I got a degree in music performance, then one in audio recording.

Then I tried to get a job.

I spent the next five years in Nashville trying to find steady work in the music business.  I interned at a record studio, played with every wannabe and up-and-comer I could weasel my way in with, tried to shop some songs I had written to big-time artists, and I was even a worship pastor at a small church plant.  I held a bunch of odd jobs to pay the bills along the way.

Did I mention I'm in the Army?

The Nashville music scene is no place for a desperate man stubbornly holding on to his philosophy.  Desperation will either lead you to sell out completely or do something completely rash and stupid.  I found a way to do both.

I joined out of a desire to get out of Nashville and still "have a career as a musician".  If I had known what was waiting for me, I'd have thought twice.

After a promising start in basic training and the U.S. Army School of Music, I found myself stationed at Ft. Bragg, NC.  Fayetteville, Spring Lake, Raeford.  If you've never been to any of these places before, don't bother.  There's nothing here.  Nothing.  Well, nothing but strip clubs, pawn shops, and bad Korean restaurants.

Yeah, there's a mall and a bunch of chain stores here, too, but it doesn't really matter.  In a way, that just makes it worse.  The semblance of suburban civilization without the vibrancy of culture - urbanized or otherwise - is a bigger tease than you'd think.

Oh yeah, and the whole Army band thing?  It's not exactly working out the way I'd hoped.  Instead of utilizing my talents and skills, the Army (in its infinite wisdom) decided that I would be best used as a cymbalist in the marching band. 

So here I am: a frustrated musician stuck in America's Cultural Taint.  Keeping my sanity has been (often amusingly) difficult.  Here's hoping this will be my outlet, my sanity, my commitment, my bane.