When a non-musician aspires to lofty heights of musical accomplishment, any number of things can happen. Occasionally a pretty face or a limited talent is propped up by someone¹ who can fill out the soundscape either to highlight a star’s unique ability or mask his or her lack thereof. Sometimes an absence of theoretical training is trumped by sheer force of will, and the non-musician strikes an artistic and commercial nerve as a Nirvana or an Oasis. Less significantly (but at least as admirably), a guy like Robert Pollard can spend many long years and albums toiling in expensive obscurity before catching the world’s ear with something like Guided By Voices’ Bee Thousand, creating an ingenious piece of music while essentially remaining a non-musician.² By and large, we tend to view these kinds of people as having been possessed by some innate gift or power, and wrap them up in enough magazine mythology to make them seem mystifying, otherworldly, untouchable.

But perhaps they’re not meant to elude the rest of us, but rather to empower, as a kind of reminder that with enough drive and determination, anyone can do something truly wonderful. After all, there’s no shortage of bad Oasis or Pollard records to remind us that even after creating transcendent works of rock’n’roll art, these people remain regular people. It was many years ago that I first publicly stated my belief that any band in the world is capable of creating at least one truly great song for the records, if they really want to try. Or, to paraphrase Joe Carducci: “never underestimate four randomly selected Americans’ ability to come up with listenable shit.”

Well.

Personally speaking, it’s hard to tell exactly what happens when that non-musician is me: The Story could already fill a small book, but remains largely unwritten as both literature and life-in-the-making. (In some minor way, this blog is a rough draft recollection of the ongoing tale.) Regardless of what the outcome winds up being, it was a literary moment that spring of 2007, when an unwashed disciple of hipster cynicism approached me at school and said in passing,

“Your ambition far outweighs your talent.”

The fact that he saw this as an insult rather than an asset spoke louder words than the barbed ones he spat my way, but I’d have to admit I could feel the sting as he turned and walked away. Good old Pollard could probably relate, having endured these kinds of insults in backwoods Ohio for years before the outside world took a listen and were convinced otherwise.

Which is not to say that this kind of criticism is unwarranted, or at all unhealthy for the criticized: in truth, most of Guided By Voices’ early records are largely disposable, and even though that lightly greased hipster had no way of really knowing it, my band sort of deserved his jeers. In essence, we were little more than a very sincere joke in those days: we would dress in flamboyantly stupid “rock clothes” and get together a couple times a week at Dilan’s practice space, him drumming and Dylan guitaring (very eloquently) whilst I would play the bass and my exceptional friend Pete sang (very not so much). Hence photos now exist of me wearing tattered mesh jersey, Dilan flaunting vintage Boston Bruins headgear, Pete looking studious in a labcoat and 3D spectacles, Dylan in various stages of hairy cross-dress, et cetera. Weezer’s “El Scorcho” was butchered many times, a detail thankfully omitted by the photos — although it should be little surprise that someone might see these photographs and ascertain that we sucked.

And such conclusions were far from inaccurate, then. Which is why it’s rather remarkable, just how much that music changed the life of the non-musician me. Over the couple quick months that would ensue, the force behind DFD would forge beautiful friendships while torching others; provide me with experiences both unforgettable and regrettable; introduce me to people I would love and disdain in equal measure; and any number of other literary clichés that are unremarkable in fiction, but quite a trip to actually live out. All this in the pursuit of something that was, at the time, little more than a bad weekly jam session.

I still remember how Dilan introduced KJ to me, for purposes unrelated to Dancefloor but rather to a film Dilan and I had made about denim jackets and orange juice. I had decided that this was a work of art too great for iMovie, and so Dilan — who possessed some expensive software he put to no particular use, but not Final Cut — brought me to KJ’s house one night, claiming that he was the kind of kid to have Final Cut installed on his laptop. He did; he was also the kind of kid to lend that laptop to me for a weekend without ever having met me before. As it turns out, KJ thought I would be a person worth knowing after he saw a schoolwide showing of one of my videos a few months prior, so perhaps his generosity had an ulterior motive. Either way, the gambit worked: I was intrigued by this curly-haired introvert so willing to give his laptop away to a total stranger, and in the span of an evening his unique image lightly burnt itself into my psyche.

It happened like this: When we arrived, KJ was pacing impatiently about his backroom — an extension to his house that at night functions as a sort of illuminated fishbowl in his backyard. His parents weren’t home, and he felt comfortable chain-smoking inside his own home — a decision he would soon regret, when the effects of the Adderall began to wear off (which was apparently what he had popped shortly before we arrived). Dilan was flying sober insofar that I knew, but his demeanor seemed more drugged than KJ’s subtle high let on: he fell asleep during Pulp Fiction, woke up to drum sedative rhythms on KJ’s dilapidated kit (which KJ could not play), strummed questionable chords on the guitar (which KJ could play), kneeled briefly in a rainy driveway to no discernible end, channel surfed his way to a showing of Kindergarten Cop that seemed to briefly hypnotize him, snored loudly while attempting to rest his bare feet on KJ’s face, and ate the most pizza of anyone in the house by a large margin. I can’t remember if he left or expired on the couch, but he did fade from the memory of the night rather quickly.

Meanwhile, KJ and I spent the many dark hours commiserating in shared insomnia. The demons haunting me probably lingered from another disappointing morning on the river, a reminder of my health’s recent and inexplicable deterioration. As for KJ, I’d imagine the torrent of nicotine and amphetamine salts weren’t helping him find peace. To remedy the issue, he dropped some Air into his stereo and let the pretty French melodies mix with the marijuana smoke soon exiting his lungs. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about throughout the night — just the kind of thoughts and details you wouldn’t normally reveal to someone you just met. The words trailed off around when the Air did, evaporating gently into morning dew and birdsong.

KJ had disappeared by the time I woke up, but kept himself lodged in my mind with a well-placed email that, in its brief two lines, reflected a much deeper character and kinder heart than I had found in any other schoolmate of mine over the past four years. Still, borrowing his laptop and occasionally gallivanting with him to rock shows would have meant little if not for the context of our own rock; KJ, after finding out I had a band, begged me for a place in it relentlessly. I had my initial reservations, but eventually invited him to fill in for Dylan at a lead male singer audition.

That potential lead singer wound up flaking in favor of a 16-and-over night at a laughable club downtown,³ but KJ twanged his way through “El Scorcho” and handled his acoustic guitar well enough. He seemed capable of adding some solid rhythmic support behind Dylan’s impressive lead work, and so he was invited to the next one.

Conceivably, the next one could be called “the night it all came together.” At least literally: all past practices had been conducted on the fly, the instruments on the floor picked up and plugged in by whoever was around to play them, but this was the night that the whole team made it. Crucially, Pete met KJ, and the two commemorated what would soon become a rich friendship by indulging in a great din on Dilan’s keyboard and drumset. I missed what they would tell me were rather good “primal jams” when I returned, however, as I was off getting Marie.

Marie had been my best friend for about a year or two. We met during the earlier half of high school through a confluence of mutual friends and the internet that found her posting nice compliments to me in the form of Xanga comments (complete with eProps) at a time when I was on the precipice of a bizarre long distance relationship and had someone to feel jealous for me.⁴ I visited her house one day with friends Melanie and Melissa, and Marie briefly interviewed me before them about my musical tastes, how I made mixtapes (mine were extravagant productions, in those days), and asked me questions about my first kiss (which I was still a few months off from having), among other similar details I wasn’t very used to talking about least of all with strangers. It made her interesting to me, a little bit edgy, and while I didn’t start hanging out with her regularly till more than half a year later, there was enough intrigue to leave open the possibility of a great friendship.

By the time I had drafted her as the girly voice in my band, that possibility had already blossomed into something pretty lovely, as far as friendships go. Having her at practice felt right, and she provided a nice dose of estrogen to the wildly imbalanced chemical makeup of our practices. By the time I brought her back to Dilan’s space that night, the guys were already warmed up and ready to start trying out some vague ideas. Of course, there was the inevitable reading of “El Scorcho.”

Dilan’s friend Drew was around to film the proceedings, thankfully, and I quickly pieced together a small document of the evening on some cheap editing software discovered on Dilan’s PC. Looking back on it, there’s little to appreciate here musically — it’s essentially just a group of friends in a room having fun playing whatever, and for that reason I took it off the internet a very long time ago — but it’s such a great little memento of what was a very sunny side of my life back then. Pete’s pill bottle percussion (and our tentative attempts at vocal input), Dylan’s stylistic foray into gender-bending patriotism and funk solos, a rare appearance of KJ on the keys, Marie’s reminiscence on Dig!, and my early efforts to figure out the instrument hanging from my neck as anything more than a fashion accessory made for quite the ramshackle menagerie, held together against all odds by Dilan’s sturdy drumwork. It was not a bad place to start for an aspiring non-musician, filled with curiosity and ideas just small enough to express in such limited vocabulary. You could only tell I was reaching for bigger thoughts and dreams by the way my hands fumbled up and off the fretboard.

1. Traditionally called a “producer,” but perhaps just good friends turned bandmates. [↩]
2. Without getting too academic, I’m defining “non-musician” pretty harshly here. Frankly I would call anyone who’s made a good song a musician, but for the sake of leaving this paragraph as it is, “musician” here means someone who has a real understanding of theory, or could at least make a living as a session player if synthetic sound hadn’t so crippled the profession. For what it’s worth, Mr. Pollard has taken the label “musician” as an insult before, while the Gallagher brothers assert that playing your first chord qualifies as musical christening. [↩]
3. Either that or he showed up and timidly flubbed his way through the couple songs he hadn’t learned at home. I seem to remember both of these things happening. [↩]
4. I miss that Xanga. [↩]

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