Behind the Mask - A Sequel (of Sorts) to A Star Is Born

Music is a Drug

Music is a Drug

Music is a drug. It killed my father. I wasn't going to let it kill me.

My father was what the music industry calls a one-hit wonder. He earned just enough fame to live a brief moment of stardom before his career tapered off. Eventually, he settled down near Seattle and married one of his groupies, who ended up becoming my mother.

When I say music is a drug, in a sense, it is literally true. Hearing a great tune creates the same biological effect as exercising or taking a narcotic. Endorphins flow through you, creating a high that becomes addictive. That is why the life of a musician is so dangerous. You are literally pushing a narcotic on the crowd. And in a way, their adulation creates its own form of addiction in you. Add the booze, drugs and groupies, and it's hardly any wonder that few survive the career.

That's what happened with my father. He couldn't stop. His life was built on the false relationships created by his fleeting moment of fame. Drugs helped bridge the gap between the reality he wanted to perpetuate and the increasingly dull one he inhabited. When he died, I was only nine. I swore not to make the same life choices that cost him everything.

Which is why I have my secret.

A few years after my father passed, I finally got up the nerve to go into the basement room where he kept his guitar and music. What awaited me was the musty smell of disuse. I picked up his old Stratocaster and strummed a few notes. His style of composition was to write on anything he had handy. The promotional flyer he scrawled on when composing his sole hit, Charged, had found its way into a frame along with the platinum award he received for the album.

On his old desk was a pile of trash, and the obsessive-compulsive urge hit me, so I started to sort through it. Most of the papers contained fragments of songs never finished, or lyrics unconnected from music. I strummed a few of the unfinished melodies and started to separate out the ones that seemed to have potential.

From time to time, I would take a break from life to return to the basement. Slowly, I arranged his scraps of music on the wall, and then took to filling in the missing bits. The songs started to flow, but there was only so much I could do with just a guitar and an iMac. So, I reached out to a few friends.

Brian and Juan were classmates, and though we weren't particularly close, we hung out on occasion. Neither of them was a serious musician. Nor was I for that matter. We were just kids looking to have some fun.

I invited them over after school on a Friday, and showed them around the basement. Brian brought his guitar, and Juan his keyboard. What started as the Friday pizza club — occasionally augmented by the occasional beer we could come by — turned into something more. We managed to put together our first album in the span of a month. Once we had a demo file, we reached out to my dad's old manager, Phil, and asked if he would give it a listen.

Phil came by the house a few weeks later, his lack of haste making clear he was doing this solely out of pity for his old friend's son. After a few awkward minutes of conversation with my mom, I broke in and asked Phil to come down to the basement. He spent some time moving slowly through the memorabilia of dad's short career, and seemed to disconnect from reality into a daydream at one point. I let him have some space while I queued up our songs. After a long silence, Phil turned around. "Let me hear what you have got."

I started off with what I thought was our best song, "Sarah," which was named after my high school crush. I guess emotion clouded my judgment, as Phil smiled politely before telling me bluntly the song needed work.

A few more tracks in, and Phil came around. "Look, you have real potential, but this is amateur stuff." He went on to suggest that we spend some time with one of his technicians to better understand how to compose songs, and that we set a date for an open mike night at some local club so we had a target to motivate us.

I felt like it could have gone better, but at least he didn't shut us down.

At lunch the next day, Brian, Juan and I discussed Phil's advice. They weren't sure. Both had other pursuits, girlfriends, and played on sports teams. Where would we find the time to practice, they asked, if we weren't really any good. We ended up somewhere in the middle – we would start practicing as if we were going to play a show, and figure out the show part later.