We're The Band

        Being in a band is like being married. Except you’re married to more than one person. If you’re in a four piece band, for example, it gets complicated. Because you’re each married to each other. So in a band with four members, you’ve got a total of six marriages, because each one of you is married to three other people. Even polygamists would shun from such an arrangement. But it comes with the territory.
        I’ve never been married, so you’d have a point if you questioned my authority on this. But I have been in lots of bands, had many relationships with significant others, and I know plenty of people who are married. Some of these married people are in bands, and one of them actually proposed the band/marriage analogy to me. So if a married guy that I’ve played in a band with can make the comparison, I’m think I’m qualified to take the ball and run with it.
         Around 1989, my twin brother and I hooked up with our cousin and a buddy of his from high school. We started a band that lasted about three years. It was fun, but internal tensions got in the way of the music. Internal personal mechanics are what usually break up a band. It’s ironic that issues around the music, the most important reason that the band exists, rarely have anything to do with why the band doesn’t last. It’s personalities and people’s ability (or inability) to resolve conflict that tear things apart. The music often suffers if the members aren’t getting along, but not always (look at The Who - they couldn’t stand each other, but they kicked ass). Ultimately, like in a marriage, it’s the people who either make it work or not.
         A few years after we broke up, we got back together again. We were all a few years older, had matured a little, and had learned a thing or two about life. So it was better this time around. Like a married couple that separates, misses each other, experiences some personal growth, and gets back together. And this time, it’s different. You don’t let things get in the way like you used to. You’ve learned that there’s something special about the relationship that has drawn you back together, and you have a greater appreciation for what you’ve got. You’re willing to work harder to keep it going. And you’ve developed some personal skills, like owning you’re own shit, that you didn’t have before.
         In particular, the bass player and I were older, wiser, and had grown as people. In the band’s first incarnation, we butted heads often. And we had pretty hard heads. We were young, had fairly big egos, and possessed strong personalities that didn’t like to back down. Especially from each other. The other two members of the band, my twin brother and our cousin, were more easy going. They would often roll their eyes and attempt to mediate when the bass player and I would go at it.
         But this, the second coming, was a different ball game. The band rocked harder, had more fun, and enjoyed the whole process a lot more. A few years later, though, we had to split again. But this time, it wasn’t because we weren’t getting along. It was for personal and logistic reasons that had nothing to do with our personalities. Where last time the break up was no big deal, and even welcomed, this time, it hurt. All of us. It was hard saying good by. Like in a marriage, we had grown to love and respect each other. There was a special bond this time that was completely lacking the first go around. I remember our last gig. On the ride home, my drum set jammed into my convertible with the top down, I cried my eyes out. I was gonna miss this thing we had. I was gonna miss these dudes who had become very special to me. It’s no coincidence that I took a girl home that night. I was on the rebound and I needed a fill-in lover. Because my true love had left.
         In the years that followed, we all kept in touch, got together socially, and stayed in each other’s lives. After the first break-up, there was much less collective contact. But through the last incarnation and over the years, the relationships we forged had deepened and grown. Which planted the seeds for yet another crack at it.
         This was round three, and it was the best round of all. Third time really is a charm. Our rehearsals were always fun, but now it was like an exclusive boys club whenever we got together. We developed our own short hand language, and our practice sessions found us laughing, goofing around, and doing “guy shit” almost as much as we played. And the music was better, not only because we were all better musicians, but because now there was even more love and respect between us. Imagine that music is the sex of the relationship. And after you and your honey have been apart for years, you get back together. Now, you’re both better lovers. Not only because you’ve boned up on your techniques, tricks, skills, and have become more sensitive and attuned to each other, but because you love each other even more than you did a few years ago. And the sex was great then. Now it’s cataclysmic.
         Well the years go by and we break up again. This time it’s a combination of personal and logistic reasons. But the remarkable thing is, the bass player and I, the two dudes who twenty years ago didn’t want to spend another minute with each other, are closer than ever. We have discussions that go deep, are quite intimate, and cover lots of intellectual, philosophical, emotional, and spiritual ground. They’re the kind of discussions that we have with very few other men in our lives. He therefore occupies a place in my life that few people do.
         If I look back, it’s hard to imagine my life without this band as a part of it. It’s hard to imagine my life without the relationships that this band created. Fostered. Developed. Nurtured. Through music, we all married each other. Countless ups and downs later, there’s still something there. There will always be something there.
         I’ve been in lots of other bands besides this one. I’ve been in bands that have made a lot more money, gigged a lot more often, and played in front of much bigger crowds. And those bands were all like marriages too. But they weren’t like this marriage. They weren’t like this band.
         This band is the love I’ll never forget.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a dowery full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Mistress Music Part 2 - The Glory of Table Drumming

         A simple but revealing insight came to me not long after I began coming out of My Dark Ages. It occurred to me one day, like a flash of sunlight reflecting off a passing boat, that for almost two years I had not been humorously chastised for table drumming. This is because, for almost two years, I had not done any table drumming.
         Often enough (some would say obsessively enough), my fingers and hands are in rhythmic motion, tapping out beats and fills across counters, desks, tables, walls, doors, and people’s bodies. Whether music is playing or not. But I could not remember the last time somebody made a joke about it at my expense. Because for the longest time, I didn’t do it. It’s a silly little observation, but quite revealing.
         The music wasn’t alive in me during those difficult times. Not only was I not quasi-obsessively table drumming, but I was not responding emotionally to music at all. Usually, several times a week at least, a song will move me either to tears, to head banging, to singing, to air guitaring or air drumming, or to dancing. During My Dark Ages, which lasted over a year and a half, I hardly did any if that at all. Maybe only once or twice, and that’s it. When I realized that, I was astounded. It made me realize just how out of sorts I was during that time. A basic staple of my personality had not shown up for almost one hundred weeks. It was as though I hadn’t eaten in almost two years.
         I wasn’t letting music, or anything else for that matter, in. When I’m so walled off that not even music can reach me, well that’s only happened for one period in my entire life since I discovered, in my early teens, the magic of music and how it affected me.
         I wasn’t even in a band during My Dark Ages, and that’s the first time since I started playing at thirteen that I had gone more than six months without being in a group or having a live performance. That may be the most telling emotional statistic of all.
         Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has made light hearted, amorous comments about my table drumming. Every girlfriend that is, except my last one, principessa. She rarely saw me at anything remotely close to my best. She never got to experience more than a fraction of all of me, because I was incapable of giving anything more than that. If I had the opportunity to ask her if she ever remembers me going nuts over a piece of music, be it table drumming, singing aloud, wailing on my air guitar, or spontaneously shaking my groove thang, she’d say “Yes, once”. And I’d know exactly what time she was talking about. It was right before the moment I fell in love with her.
         She had come down to my house on the cape with a mutual friend. We had met about a month before, and I hadn’t seen her since. When she came into the kitchen, I was busy air drumming to a live version of “I Shot The Sheriff” by Eric Clapton. I was way into it. Musically Possessed, you might even say. Eyes closed, my hands and feet moved all over my imaginary drum set in syncopated motions, with a focused reckless abandon. I was oblivious to the rest of the world. Because in those moments, this was the world. I didn’t even know she had walked into the room. For about a minute, she and two others watched me in this trance like state before our mutual friend screamed “Hello Clint!”. I looked up, and saw my future girlfriend there. I had forgotten how pretty she was. I walked over to her, grabbed her gently by the shoulders, and kissed her softly on the lips, saying it was nice to see her.
         Looking back, I know now that it was precisely then that I fell for her. It was a moment of clarity during a time of great confusion and turmoil. It’s also when I got scared stiff. My mind started running away as fast as my heart had tumbled towards. I was coming from my head back then, so I wasn’t in touch with what I felt, even though my higher self knew what was happening.
         These days, things are different. I come from my heart, and music moves me all the time. I’m letting it reach me once more. Actually, because my heart is so much more open now, it’s reaching me deeper and more often than ever. It’s really beautiful, but sometimes kind of disruptive. This extreme openness is still relatively new to me, and I try not to squelch it. Which means that it’s not unusual for me to start crying in the car when I hear a piece of music that moves me. Or air drumming in between sets at the gym. Or singing the song on the radio quietly, but audibly, in public. Or dancing in my bedroom. By myself. It feels good, hurts no one, and makes me happy. It may look (and sound) a little strange to those in my line of sight or in earshot, but it’s harmless. I’m even grateful for the tears, because it means I’m feeling something, when for so long I was unable to.
         Besides everything else it’s given me, music also serves as a barometer for how much I’m letting in, how much I’m letting out, how much I’m feeling. I table drum like mad now because the music is back in me. Even in my darkest moments, I can turn to music to help me. I’ve let her back in. She feels good. And if she feels that good to me, I feel that good to her. It’s a marvelous relationship.
         I’m forty-six, and I’ve never proposed to a woman. But I’ve been married for over thirty years. Married to music.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a loud screaming amplifier of Wrongs) Reserved.

Priceless

        This morning I received a most precious gift from a friend. She wrote a poem. About me. I am moved beyond words.
         And I’m speechless....
         Luckily for the sake of this blog, I don’t stay speechless for long. But there is nothing I could possibly add to what she wrote except to say thank you from the deepest depths of my heart. This is one of the most beautiful gifts I have ever received.
         A few weeks ago, I encouraged people to write a poem to someone they loved for valentine’s day. Little did I know that I would soon be the recipient of such a priceless gem. From this new, unexpected perspective I can therefore say, without equivocation, that it works. Writing a poem to someone you care about is a most sacred event. For both people.
         Open your hearts to those around you. And love them...


Ode to a Sequoia

Beautiful man
Exuding energy and joy
A unique gravitational pull
Engaging the world
Inviting us inside his heart
His battered heart he seeks to heal
His scarred soul he seeks the courage to accept
Wanting to love and be loved
Afraid to bleed again
yet drawn to the blade.

Not living in the pain
It’s easy for me to see the power and strength
He somehow fails to embrace
He’s got the words
He’s got the skills,
I’m watching him struggle and grow
A mighty tree cracking through stone and pain as old as he is
A bedrock of pain that will not be denied,
But has supported the man he has become,
And will always be the foundation of the man he is becoming.

Blessed am I to watch his unique tree grow and spread its branches.
It affords me a spectacular new perspective from its upper limbs
balancing precariously on the newest growth.
His solid trunk provides a safe place to rest when looking out at his domain.
I can lean there, mulling his ideas and growing with him
I hear his music as the wind passes by and through him.

A new sort of tree he is-
His own sort of foliage, proudly, defiantly, standing out in the forest
It’s a beautiful sight as he pushes up to the light
I want to water and tend him,
Help him repel the painful saw
Clear the debris around him and give him space to expand

With time and love this tree will flower and bear delicious fruit
Standing tall in a space all its own.
A testament to the paradox of vulnerability and strength.
When embracing love and pain morphs into power and grace

AES 2/2009

Managing The Rock Bands in My Mind

        Meditating is a big challenge for me. Like many of us, there’s a lot of noise inside my head. Some people refer to it as static, chatter, or babble, but those quaint terms are completely inadequate. I would describe a typical moment inside my mind like this: Imagine being surrounded by a dozen stages. On each stage is a rock band. A loud rock band, like Deep Purple or Van Halen. Each band is packing it’s full P.A. and amplification system, they’ve cranked it up to eleven, and they’re all playing, balls to the wall. At once. THAT’S the cacophony of mayhem that’s going on inside of me all too often. And my twelve rock band analogy is probably an apt description for a lot of us.
         I meditate every day. On some days, there are actually moments of peace and quiet. On others, the bands in my head add an extra guitar or two and jam my brains out. Today, however, I had a wonderful new experience.
         A few minutes into my meditation, I was aware of the peace and quiet within me. The lack of noise brought my attention to my body. I felt something happening. My body was rocking itself. Involuntarily. I was not consciously sending signals from my brain to my body to move the muscles necessary to rock me back and forth. My body was doing it all by itself. I opened my eyes, just to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating, and looked at my hands on top of my legs. They were moving, ever so slightly, back and forth. Rocking. Along with the rest of me.
         I don’t know if this has happened before and I just never noticed it. I don’t know if the force of my heart beat and the expansion and contraction of my lungs was causing the motion. All I knew was that my body was rocking itself. And it felt great.
         It’s well documented that the motion of rocking is a soothing and tranquil experience for most people. It’s one of those primal human motions that mothers instinctively do to calm babies. We have a memory of that motion in our DNA, so we come out of the womb loving to be rocked.
         When I would snuggle with my ex-girlfriend, with one arm under her head and the other wrapped around her beautiful, warm body, I would softly grab her shoulder and rock her gently back and forth. She would let out a quiet moan that always warmed my heart. If you haven’t done this in bed with the person you love, try it. It’s an intimate, loving experience for both of you. And it’s so simple.
         However it happened, my body was taking care of me by providing a soothing motion. To help me relax. To give me peace. My body was, on it’s own, without guidance form my rock band infested mind, doing what it could to bring me calmness and serenity, which I need more of in my life. Meditation and prayer are but two ways that I’m using to bring me more of that. Actually, it’s not so much bring me more of it as it is stripping away all the madness and remembering how to give something to myself that I’ve always known how to do. My body certainly does, if I just let it.
         I haven’t been meditating long, and I’m curious if any of you veterans have ever experienced this involuntary body rocking, or something similar. If you have, I would love to hear about it. Please tell me in the “Comments” section of this post.
         The irony that the term “Rocking” describes the madness in my mind, the soothing calm of a peaceful motion, and my behavior when I’m listening to a song I love, is not lost on me. Music, particularly rock ‘n’ roll, has given me more than I could have ever imagined. Maybe the twelve rock bands in my mind, all playing at once and at maximum volume, can learn to play one at a time. One rock band, playing with all it’s intensity and volume and focus and passion, is just what I need sometimes. Other times, when I need some peace but not quiet, I could switch acts and listen to James Taylor, instead of Motley Crue. And other times, I could just turn them all off and have complete silence.
         Managing the rock bands of my mind. That’s a job I could get into.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a sold out arena full of Wrongs) reserved.

Not Enough Ache

        There is inside of me a constant ache. Maybe it’s in you too. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. It was there all through my childhood. It was there the first time I fell in love. It was there when I graduated high school, college, and graduate school. It is with me every moment. Even when I am at my most joyous, my happiest, my freest, I am aware that, deep within me, there is a pain that has not gone away.
        No matter what I do on the outside, this pain will be there. Because healing this wound is an inside job. Relieving this ache is up to nobody but me. Nothing on the outside can make it better or worse. Only I can. I’m really good at making it worse. I’m slowly learning how to make it better.
        Called by many names, such as inner demon or pain body, this ache appears complicated, a labyrinth of mental and emotional vines all twisted into one giant, gnarled tree. But despite it’s complex appearance in my mind’s eye, it boils down to a simple phrase: “I am not enough”.
        When I am in the throes of self-flagellation, if I stop and reflect for a moment, it’s easy to see that at the root of this destructive activity is the belief that “I’m not good enough”. What’s more difficult, however, is discovering the “I’m not good enough” that lies at the bottom of virtually every other pain. For example, if I’ve been hurt by something my lover said or did, there is what I’ll call a “genuine” pain, born out of the experience that somebody I love hurt me with words or deeds. But if I dig deeper, I will discover that underneath that, something else has been triggered: the “I’m not good enough” gun, which is always cocked and loaded.
        Taken together, the genuine pain and the “I’m not good enough” pain can feel daunting. But it’s the latter hurt that is by far the most problematic. A sincere “I’m sorry”, big, fat hug, and maybe some make-up sex can help remedy the genuine pain. But the “I’m not good enough” pain is different. It’s shame based. It’s deeper. It’s highly toxic. And now it’s running through my body and mind like radioactive blood.
        If I’m not aware that my shame of inadequacy has been set off, in other words, if I’m emotionally unconscious at the moment, then I will launch into my defense mode. And that’s when the trouble really starts. This is when I shut down, which is my default defense mechanism. But there are many others, and we all have our own favorites. We attack. We withdraw. We become passive aggressive. We punish. We undermine. We criticize. We withhold love or sex or attention. We intellectualize instead of feel. All very destructive and very painful. And all because we’re not aware that we don’t feel good enough. That we feel less than. A very old wound has been reopened yet again.
        So this ache I feel inside of me all the time can be triggered whenever I’m hurt, which can send me into defense mode, which can escalate the situation. At the same time, the person who hurt me can be triggered by my defense mechanism, and now they’re in their shameful place. Maybe they were there already. Maybe I was too. Like a giant powder keg of stored pain, ready to explode at the hint of a spark, “I’m not good enough”, also known as plain old insecurity, will blow things up very nicely. And often does.
        As much of an inside job as healing this old pain is, what can be a wonderful experience is if a couple is aware of this dynamic and wants to work on it together. One of my favorite sayings is “Being in an intimate relationship is like putting Miracle Grow on all of your character flaws”. Well there is no deeper, more daunting character flaw than the shame of “I’m not good enough”. A couple who can tackle this together, as long as they’ve done enough work on their own, can accelerate the healing of this wound and at the same time bring themselves closer to each other. That is the basis for a truly spiritual connection to a partner. Opening up this deepest of cuts to each other, being completely vulnerable, completely trusting oneself and one’s partner, committing to working at it together...probably scares the hell out of many of us. It does me. But it also excites me, because it’s what I want. I’ve never been ready for that. Until now.
        Until then, until I’m with the woman who will do this with me, I’m on my own. Not completely, because I can choose to operate in this open, vulnerable way with certain people in my life that I’m close to and trust. That will deepen the relationship and help us both grow. But always, the work is mine. The journey is mine. The ache I feel has to be healed by me.

©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a good enough trunk of Wrongs) Reserved.