Latter Day Tales of a Wannabee

Being a music lover never equips you to be a music maker. As I now know, they are separate, as far as the east from the west. In my early to mid-teen years, I had that all-too-common aspiration of teen boys to "play in a band". I put this phrase in quotes because it has always been a cliche. For me and most, there are the classic obstacles that keep it from happening. First, there's the lack of desire and the absence of drive to make it happen. I was like most, thinking it would fall into my lap without either blood, sweat or tears. Second, there's the notion that the lineup can be filled with friends, family or peers. There were few or none of my family, friends or peers that were qualified for this position. I wanted to play in a band with drums, guitars, bass vocals and anything else that would make music girls would love. My friends did, too, yet all my friends were worse musicians that I was, and I pretty much sucked.

My parents bought me a guitar, and I played it, learning a few major chords here and there, with an occasional minor chord thrown in for good measure. Other friends had guitars, too. I would learn a few chords here and there, or how to mimic a lick from this song or that. They would learn to go "twang, twang, twang" then say, "Hey, that was Smoke on the Water." The next time we would get together, I wouldn't hear Highway Star. I'd hear "twang, twang, twang...twang, twang, twang, twang". Nothing else happened. Nothing could have happened. Where I was at that time, there was no fertile ground from which music could grow.

So years would pass. Adulthood arrived. Children arrived. Adult children arrived. Finally, I decided I'd waited long enough and set out to purchase a bass guitar. I had an electric guitar. I had owned acoustic guitars. This was my first bass, and it meant something for me. I had always been a bass player at heart. My heroes in music were bass players. Paul McCartney was then first. Geddy Lee and Sting followed. Finally, as an adult, I started playing with a friend, he on guitar, myself on bass. He was a good guitarist. Finally, to have someone good to play with would mean that I needed to up my game. I was forced to learn how to play by being forced to practice.

Year after year, this friend and I would find a small amount of satisfaction playing together. We'd learn new songs. We'd record something in my home studio. We'd have dry spells when we wouldn't do anything at all. We'd share ideas and aspirations of "getting something together", whatever that meant. Then the cares of life, more weightier than our musical aspirations, would push it all to the side where it withered and desiccated.

What it took for me was a major life change. After decades of being active in conservative, traditional churches, we started going to a younger, more contemporary church. Whereas our previous churches had either just a piano, or piano and violins, or perhaps a piano and an organ, this church had guitars--several of them--and a bass and drums and keys, in addition to several vocalists. In other words, it had a real band, not simply accompanists.

I paid close attention. I studied. I was friends with the bass players. The first-string bassist was encouraging, telling me I ought to volunteer to play. I longed to play, yet I wanted to be asked, not because of any kind of vanity, but because I wanted it to be purposeful and divinely guided and not an entirely self-centered venture. Finally, after a year or more, I broke through. I was scheduled to play my bass in my first service. My first-string friend coached me, giving me inside information, saying over and over that it was no big deal. I wanted to believe him, but my anxiety told me it was a big deal. This was as close to pro-level playing as I had ever been.

I show up, plug in my 5-string and after sound check, get going on the run-through before the service. I had the charts beforehand and had practiced, and I suppose I did passably well. The experience was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I don't know how that's possible, yet it is. It was the kind of experience that you're petrified in the midst of yet you can't wait to repeat.

So here I am, a year-and-a half after that initial experience. I've gotten to play an average of once every month or two. My first-string friend has stepped aside, creating a consistent opportunity for me and one other bassist. I play one week, he plays the next. The experience remains terrifying and exhilarating, yet as my confidence grows, the terrifying part decreases. What the experience has taught me seems complex, so I'll list some of the foremost ideas:

1. Worship music is--and should be--a different type of performance. - Everyone I've played with has been perfectly encouraging. They realize this is worship music and not a professional performance with all its pressures of perfection. They realize it's all in the attitude and that we, as musicians, are leading those in attendance in worship and should have a worshipful spirit as well. We are doing this because we want to, not because we're paid to. 
2. You are your own worst critic. - I notice every mistake I make, and if I allow myself to dwell on these mistakes, it poisons everything that follows. What I've learned is that I should notice my mistakes only enough to learn from them and then quickly move on. 
3. It's not all about me. - No one is there to see me, so more accurately, it would be said, It's not about me at all. Dwell too much on my performance and I've robbed God of each and every bit of glory He deserves.
4. If I'm paying so much attention to what I'm doing, I can't pay attention to what others are doing. I need to be in the moment and paying attention so I can encourage others in the way I've been encouraged. - One of the greatest parts of playing with the guys I play with is that we all enjoy doing it so much and are able to share this with each other. The more I make it just about me the more I don't make it about us as a group. 
5. You need to play to the song. - I'm a member of a group, not a soloist. Nothing I do should take away from the song. Just enough notes, please. Not too many. Not too loud. Not too flashy or fancy. No overplaying. If anyone notices me without trying to, I've done something wrong. Music in this sense is synergistic, greater than the sum of its parts. 
6. Live music is, by nature, an uncertain beast. - If one person makes a mistake, others may be thrown off as well. Also, imperfect communication of plans throws off concrete thinkers such as myself. Imagine this: if ten people linked arms and tried to run across a field, one person falling might take others with him.Accepting that this beast may turn and bite you at any moment makes it exciting because when you're up close, your chances of being bitten are greatest. All of these metaphorical ideas are meant to say the same thing: do your best, and when your best falls short of perfection, shake it off and go it again. 

Worship musicians are, in certain circles, not considered "real musicians" in perhaps the same sense that an unpublished writer isn't a real writer. Tell someone you're a writer and they'll automatically ask, "Have you had anything published?" What that means is, Ok. You say you're a writer? Here's the real test. Because worship musicians are almost universally unpaid volunteers, they're second class in a way. Whatever. Worship musicians enjoy what they are doing, paid or not. 

At this writing, I'm gearing up for my next performance. I intend on practicing and knowing the songs. I want to pay more attention to what's going on. I want to get better because I see that everything musically I've done over my lifetime has prepared me for this moment. Whether there are bigger moments in the future, I cannot say. For now, this is the big times for me. In this moment, it doesn't get any better, any bigger. I'm not playing for a full house, an arena or a stadium. The promoter for this gig happens to be the Creator of the Universe. In that light,  this is the best gig there is.