Showing up

In April of 2023, Melody Funk reached out to me. She and Kate Wlaysewski had been working on some songs, and they were putting together a band. When they told me they wanted me to be in it, this is what went through my head.

No

Absolutely not

Maybe

O.K.

Let's start with 'no.' As loud as I am, I am basically a shy person. I knew of Melody (if you have ever been a working musician on Orcas Island, you know Melody Funk), but I didn't 'know' her, so naturally, I was scared. And then there is this complete stranger, Kate, and now I'm double scared. AND there is another weirdo, Randy Jesierski. Straight up stranger-danger. To add to the mix, I've always been plagued by the idea that I'm not a very good guitar player, but then I hang out with Gene Nery and Lek Thixton, who won't admit it, but they play circles around me. There's no way I'm going to go somewhere so I can feel like an idiot.

So… No. Scared of strangers and scared of idiocy.

Absolutely not arrives just after I entertain the idea, and then immediately come to my senses.

Alright, I've had my moment. The next stop is maybe. I had recently bought a Fender Mustang GTX 100 amplifier and I was having a blast playing my purple Stratocaster through it. See—right there is the conundrum. I love playing, but I get nervous and anxious when I have to do it in public. To be clear, just one other person counts as public. Now, having lived so long with fear of failure and social anxiety, I knew they weren't the final word, just something I would have to put up with. Kate and Melody merely wanted to get together to see what would happen, and I could always bring a taser. With those provisos, I got to maybe.

This is how I got to yes. Against my better judgment, I agree to show up at Randy's to run through a few songs. I pack all my gear into the mighty Ford Taurus, but even after I've left Deer Harbor, I've still got twenty minutes to pull the plug, send a lame excuse (sorry, I forgot I was being abducted by aliens today), and make a run for it.

Here's where showing up begins. There is an annoying one-man ethics committee that lives in my head. On this particular day, he said, "You made a commitment, so you have to go." Also, in my head is the cruise director assuring me that it will be fun. Like the time the magician sawed me in half. Well… so called magician. Alright, this is what I know. I've made a commitment, and it will be fun. A house of lies.

I find Randy's house. Inconveniently, it is next door to a house I remodeled the year before, so I can't use the "I got lost" excuse. I remember my guitar and amp, but, much to my dismay, I've left the taser at home. I'm ninety-nine percent of the way there, and the prospect of being seen sneaking away is too much, so I go to the basement door, and a very nice girl opens the door for me and says, "Hi, I'm Kate."

Note: I get to say Kate is a girl because she still has all her own teeth and is obviously much younger than me. Yes, Melody, you can be a girl too. Randy, you cannot.

I hadn't played in public on Orcas since 2006 when Heather and I did a set at the Firehall. I haven't played in a rock and roll band on Orcas since sometime around 1995. Not to worry, I remember how. And we start playing. And it's fun. And I'm having a blast.

I'll be sixty-eight in April, and instead of having measurements taken for my coffin, I'm in a rock and roll band called WildChild—let's pretend there's no irony. We've played half a dozen gigs. People like us. It's tons of fun. Melody, Kate, and Randy are stellar people, and they have given me a warm welcome.

It is the best band I've ever been in. Not technically, but on a human level. We are all quite polite. I think one night I was sick and may have gotten snippy, but that's the biggest ego blowout we've had. We have each other's backs. At least 20 minutes of every night we practice is spent laughing. The creation of new neural pathways that come as a result of learning songs will probably help me avoid Alzheimer's. The social aspect of being in this band (with people who are now my friends) will hold at bay the development of my curmudgeonly nature.

Win, win, win, win.

A year and a half later, I have more evidence that I'm a decent enough guitar player to be in a cover band. I have evidence that I don't have to believe every fear that parks in my head. I get to have a part of my life that is fun, like 'real fun' as in a lot of fun.

I get to have all of this just because I said yes. I get to have all of this just by showing up.