The life of a musician is depressing, yet interesting

When I was a kid, listening to music was an escape from the mundane. There was nothing I loved more than sitting in the back seat for a long drive with my headphones on. I found myself moved by catchy melodies and guitars. I loved rock ‘n’ roll so much, I wanted to play the guitar myself. My dad bought me a small, no-name nylon-string acoustic at the guitar shop where I signed up to take weekly lessons. The first time I picked up that cheap instrument, I was disappointed to learn that playing the guitar wasn’t something I could do naturally. I didn’t understand how the thing worked. Once I started taking lessons, I found that practicing was boring and painful.

I was a slow learner. I actually hated playing the guitar for the first year. This all changed when I got a shiny brown Stratocaster and a little 10-watt amplifier for my birthday. The muddy “overdrive” button on the amplifier changed my thoughts about playing the guitar instantly. With the press of a button, it seemed I could play any string of notes and feel like a bona fide rock star.

Years went by, and I went through several guitar teachers. The one I remember the most is Dave, a perpetually shaking, 40-something-year-old man. His wiry black hair looked thinner every lesson, and he always smelled like cigarette smoke. He was better at guitar than any teacher I had before. So one day I asked him:

“Hey Dave, why do you work here? I mean, you’re so good at playing guitar, why aren’t you, like, a famous rock star?”

“Well kid, one day you’ll learn that the whole rock star thing is never going to happen for any of us. Playing the guitar may be fun now, but when you’re my age, you’ll realize trying to make a life out of music is a waste of time.”

Soon after this, I stopped taking guitar lessons. I still played often though, and I even started writing and singing my own melodramatic songs. In middle school, obsessed with the music of Hot Topic and Warped Tour, I tried to start several bands with like-minded friends. We would practice in my garage once a week when my parents went out to dinner.

The first time I ever played a show was with a band I started my freshman year of high school. I won’t mention our name for fear that somebody may find the videos posted of us on YouTube that I don’t know how to take down. It was at a warehouse venue called The Talent Farm behind my old high school.

Looking back on my performance, it was an embarrassing display. The only thing worth mentioning was a memorable sexual experience before my band played. A girl from my high school came to see me play. We danced together until we found ourselves in a dimly lit corner. We started making out, and she pinned me against the wall. A few minutes into receiving oral sex, I was distracted by a dark figure on the dimly lit asphalt in the middle of the parking lot. After careful examination, I saw it was a dead cat. I brought this to her attention, and she stopped giving me head.

Last year I saw Dave’s obituary in the newspaper. He was hit by a car. That surprised me. I figured his death would have been drug-related.

Jeremy Haas is a UF English junior. His column appears every Wednesday.