No one but my big sister, that is. That's probably why I chose her bedroom to run to when events would become unbearable in my room - that, and perhaps an ass-whooping if I tried to jump in with my parents (possible repressed memory of an actual incident there, I don't know).
One of the weird things that would go on was that, in the middle of the night and out of nowhere, I would sometimes hear music. Vivid, quite loud music. Oddly, this music consisted of a little jazz combo - vibes, drums (played with brushes) and stand-up bass. I am one hundred percent serious, it was like the Lionel Hampton Trio had set up shop in my inner ear. Playing a goofy little tune.
And it would terrify me. No offense to Lionel Hampton. So on many nights, when I would fly into my sister's room, my frantic explanation would be "The music won't stop."
I recently “googled” along these lines, and from what I have been able to glean from the likes of Wikipedia, et al, I was probably experiencing auditory hallucinations—a neurologist, no doubt, could have explained them. But all I knew at the time was that they scared the daylights out of me. After all, people make music, and if it’s the middle of the night and there’s no one in the room but you and your snoring brother, then who’s ringing the bells? Ghosts? Fairies? Devils?
I eventually outgrew these night time jazz attacks. The closest I come to hearing phantom bells anymore is after a gig when fellow Ditchflower, Steve Connelly, and I have gotten our amps up a little too loud in a friendly game of guitar wars. Since those early haunted nights, countless other auditory forces have come along to possess, harass, and otherwise derail me from sensible pursuits—more often than not, they have emanated from English rock stars in a long line from Paul McCartney down to Thom Yorke.
In some ways, “the music” hasn’t stopped badgering me to this day. It tests, taunts and consumes me…body, soul and bank account. I lavish unjustifiable quantities of time and energy on writing, performing, recording, teaching, and listening to it. In these pursuits, I often risk alienating loved ones. Financially to date, I’m elated to report that I am close to “breaking even.” (That may not be strictly true, but that’s the official version and I am going to stick with it.)
Still, I don’t hesitate to throw myself at it, day after day, year after year. Songs suggest themselves to me, the tiny green stem of a tune will poke its way through the barren expanse of an average day, and I will be unable to resist trying to nurture it into something strong and beautiful enough to stand on its own alongside all the wonderful creations I have loved in the Garden of Song.
I can offer no good reason, no justification for my obsessive behavior. If you happen to be a fan, though, two things: first, thank you. Second, based on past evidence, I'm pretty sure the music won’t stop.
