I’d been dodging the guy’s calls for the better part of a month, trying to decide if I wanted to talk to him – hell, if I even had anything to talk about – when he cornered me where I waited tables.
He sat down in my section and introduced himself. “I’m writing a book about all the almost-were Memphis bands.” He said, without irony in his voice. “You fronted one of the biggest bands local of the 90s. I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
“Well, for starters, what was your goal as a band? What did you want?”
What did we want, I thought. Hell, we wanted what any kid that’s ever picked up a guitar or shouted into a mic wanted. We wanted to be heard, to matter, to be part of that immortal mythology of rock and roll.
But this guy wasn’t going to understand that if he didn’t already know it.
“I don’t know, guess we thought it’d be cool. Piss some people off. Get lucky, maybe.”
He looked up at me with disappointment, wanting more than I was going to give him.
Turns out I didn’t have anything to say after all.
With one of the highest per capita rates of working musicians in the country, you can be assured that any bar or restaurant with a decent cool cachet is going to have at least one upcoming or almost-was musician on staff.