Tech Talk
Dave Summersill is a writer of songs, non fiction, technical articles, unfinished novels, overly long short stories, bad poetry, endless lists and conspiratorial Craigslist ads. His articles and poetry have been published in various online blogs and magazines such as HubPages, Viewshound and thebaybuzz.org. His band, SUMMERSILL, has just released, in time for Christmas 2011, it's first full length CD recording, "Been So Long", containing fourteen songs about the world around us and the turmoil within. They can be seen around the Tampa Bay Area and encourage audience participation, rowdy carousing and creative heckling. Contact davesummersill@aol.com or visit their web site at... summersillband.com.
Scratching an Old Itch
When you're a youngster, living at home - going to school - working on your chops, trying to imitate your hero's, it's much easier to play the game of wanting to be a rock star. Your friends are all encouraging, your family is proud of you and the world is waiting to hear what you have to say. Teen angst fuels your mind and music, and you spit out angry diatribes with reckless abandon. And then reality sets in.
You've got to get a job to support your habits. Friends and bandmates fall by the wayside as you struggle to maintain the purity of your vision. Every conversation you have with people eventually turns to you and your band and the next gig or CD or a deal that you think will bring you the success that you deserve. It doesn't ever get any easier than when you were practicing in your room at your mom's house, watching late night TV while you run through new scales and strange chord structures - trying to find the magic in six strings and a lump of polished wood.
Onward into your twenties, everything is still cool. You figure you've got plenty of time to "make it" - if only you can put together a good enough band. You start accumulating equipment and paying your dues. The bands might come and go, but your vision remain solid and you still have faith that you just need one good break.
In your thirties, you're proud of your songs and your ability to enthrall an audience. You're getting noticed - but life is starting to wear you down. That cute little girl you met when she was in the front row at one of your shows is growing weary of the game. You marry her, have a couple of kids and gradually
the music is on a back burner, secondary to staring to work a career that can support your new family. Maybe you even quit the band scene for a couple of years to re-educate yourself in a decent trade, finally providing an income that you can enjoy and a life style you can live with. But one day that tickle starts in the back of your mind. A couple of your old friends show up to jam and the next thing you know - you've dragged that old Gibson SG out from under the bed, where it's been collecting dust bunnies for years now. You've got no calluses and your chops are gone, but it feels good to hold it for a while. You end up leaning it in a corner rather than put it away and every time you walk through the room, it calls to you. It catches your eye and sinks its hooks in your soul once more.
In your forties you have slowed down on the righteous indignation of your youth and started to appreciate the feel of a good blues song. Your voice is sounding pretty good too and the neighbors aren't complaining when you sit out on the front porch to play in the evenings. The guy down the street, who you always wave to in the morning on the way to work, turns out to be an old bass player. He ends up on the front porch jamming easy songs along with you and gets you wondering where you can find a drummer. Of course, his cousin (who is a couple of years younger than both of you) used to play in a hair band in the eighties and still has a kit somewhere under the pile of crap in his storage shed. Your wife doesn't really park her car in the garage on the weekends, so the three of you move in there to make some noise.
Things are actually working out - without the pressure to perform that you remember so well, when someone suggest a bar that has a jam night where you guys could do a set. You go down there a week ahead of time to scope things out and it's being run by an old guitar player that you used to know so many years ago. They've got a small PA and backline gear so all you have to bring is your guitars. How much easier could it be?
The wives are up for a night out and the kids are old enough to fend for themselves for an evening, so you decide to make a night of it. (Just can't stay out too late because of work the next day.)
When you get there you find that you're third on the list and have a couple of beers while you listen to a singer-songwriter playing pseudo Dylan songs and a young punk band thrash out a two minute song, with a maximum of three chords, at a speed of light. Then it's your turn.
On the way home, the wife can see that look in your eyes and you lie and tell her that it was fun, but not what your want to do for a living anymore.
A couple of days later you're looking around in the attic for the steamer trunk that has all of your old notebooks. The old songs are a place to start, but new ideas are buzzing around in your head.
The itch is back. And you can't quite remember why you ever gave up the music in the first place. But don't worry, your wife will be glad to remind you.
