How to Get Born Before You Die

How to Start a Band

"Hello? We are Cloud Monster," he spoke with the self-confidence of a man who had just been dumped twice in a single week. "On the bass...we have Johnny Shins." Our bass guitarist obligingly played a high note on the bass and slid down to a low E. "On drums, Jello Beats." A rimshot was heard by those who were paying attention. Finally, our lead singer gestured to me: "and this is Granite Love." I played a C major chord on the keys. My 8th-grade girlfriend obligingly swooned, and we were off! "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men rang through the halls of the world music shop that our homeschool tutorial had chosen for the Spring band night, the digitized trumpet and barely out-of-tune acoustic guitar clashing against each other in a friendly way.

When I say I was homeschooled to people, they usually picture me sitting alone on my bed, doodling in the Bible and calling it homework. This actually was very close to the truth until about seventh grade, the fateful year that I was enrolled in a Christian homeschool tutorial in Nashville. Thanks to my parents, I had people skills comparable to a seventh-grade public schooler as well as a perfect school record. I didn't have many friends who got B's on anything until about ninth grade, choosing to surround myself with homeschooled overachievers and the occasional Nashville School of the Arts kid.

At the tutorial, the way to be a cool kid was simple: you had to perform at band night, an event that took place twice a year at a small venue across the street from a local church. No matter what band night you were at, it was always packed with homeschoolers, who, like myself, probably fancied themselves screaming, wild fans at the wildest of music festivals. A resounding gasp was heard when one or two of the graduating seniors decided not to censor a "hell" or "damn" in a song they were covering, but otherwise the nights usually went very smoothly. There was really only one big band who played loud music (christened "Chocolate Downpour"). These older kids were the stuff of legend in my little eighth grade groups and group chats. I still remember sitting next to my good friend George and gawking as the 17-year-old supergroups tore it up with OneRepublic covers and fuzzed-up acoustic guitars. Having a band was the envy of all of the kids at the tutorial. Imagine my surprise when, completely out of the blue, my Suzuki method, classically taught hands were called in by George's mother to tickle the ivories.

The lineup for the band was simple:

George played drums, had a massive house and was tall,

Aslan played bass, had a cool dad, and was hot,

I played keys, had a girlfriend and was very charming (at least, I thought so).

and

Timothy sung, played guitar, and micromanaged.

Timothy was older than the rest of the band by a year, but that didn't bother any of us very much. It was clear to the boys and I that we were going to do great things.

Great thing numero uno was learning two songs for the upcoming spring band night. This was simple, fortunately, and we ended up designating "Let Her Go" by Passenger and "Little Talks" as the lucky tunes fortunate enough to be wielded by our magnificent musical prowess. Every Thursday after our one-day-a-week tutorial school day, we would hop in George's slick whip (his mother's van) and commence the rock, video games, and snacks. I cannot tell you how many times we practiced those damn songs, but I can tell you that to this day I can't stand to hear either of them. They really do hold a special place in my heart though.

God knows where the name "Cloud Monster" came from, but we all loved it. Timothy and I would sometimes go head to head on something stupid, but that would be easily forgotten in the span of a few hours of Smash Bros or God of War or some new horror game we would all pretend to be unafraid of. In between gaming sessions or lounging in George's pool and/or hot tub, we would return to the "band room" and practice our two precious covers until we were sick of them, then run upstairs to eat mini hamburgers or whatever delicious morsels George's mother had concocted for us that night. This went on every single Thursday, from October to April of my senior year of middle school.

Finally, the night came. I'd never been more nervous about anything in my entire life. We had no soundcheck, but even if we had we still would have felt unprepared and frightened. A few acts before we were scheduled to go on, we all went together as a group to a small hallway outside of the main stage area. We huddled, told each other "glad we're bros" and then fist-bumped all the way up the stairs and...

...

On to the stage.

It was time to shine.

I don't remember much about that night other than feeling the best I had ever felt in my life. In all four of our minds, the greatest moment in rock history had just occurred. And, as I mentioned earlier, we had conquered the horrid beast that was popularity. The final few weeks of school were filled with high fives from our peers, and even some from the upperclassmen (!!!). It seemed to me that I also got a lot of attention from the girls afterward, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

An entire summer came and went without a practice.

As soon as school started back up, however, whisperings began again.

"Is Cloud Monster going to play band night this fall?"

You bet your ass. It was back to the drawing board.

From then on, Cloud Monster played every single band night, sometimes sprinkling an original or two (always written by Timothy) into the mix of covers. We even recorded two of the originals in a studio, and they're on Soundcloud for anyone who feels like perusing, My favorite song we ever learned how to play was "Peaceful Easy Feeling" by The Eagles, but we never played it at a band night. I hope there's a voice memo on an old iPod touch somewhere of that.

There really is no feeling in the world like band practice with your first band. It's a mixture of feeling important as a group and important as an individual, two things that, when combined together, are really very bonding. As I started to play with more people, the importance of togetherness and unity in happiness was dulled a bit, replaced by the piercing thorn of self-importance. Every group is different.

As we got older, we started to grow into who we are as people and very slowly drifted apart. The only times we ever hung out were when we were at band practices, which began to have more and more space between them as we began to battle our four separate high-school schedules. The saddest thing in the world to me is the long slow goodbye of losing old friends, and I always tear up when I think about those final few practices with them. I don't think any of us wanted to admit it, but I believe all four of us knew it was the end.

The final band night of my senior year of high-school, Cloud Monster did not play. In the wake of my parents' divorce, I had moved on from the tutorial and was taking dual-enrollment classes at a Community College near my house. Timothy was hundreds of miles away at a Christian college gaining his freshman fifteen. Aslan had a wedding to go to. I was still invited to play band night that year with the new group I had started during junior year, so I did end up coming to the event, but it felt almost wrong to me. In the middle of one of the sets, I looked behind me and saw George sitting down on a couch in the very back, his lanky legs crossed over each other in a wiry square. I slowly made my way back to my old bandmate and sat down next to him. With reverence and a lump in my throat, I watched as the kids we once were took to the stage with a vigor we both knew well and heard their souls swirl around the room with growing confidence and blissful ignorance in the face of the long slow goodbye.

"Crazy, huh?" Murmured George on our way out of the school.

"Yeah." I said. "Crazy"