1.17

 A sixth first day & the potential Whiplash of my college career

Today marks the first day of my 6th semester.

The classes I had today were fine. We spent 90% of the time talking about syllabi and what we wanted to get out of the classes.

I'm not sure if I'm going to like my multitrack lectures. I hate when professors make you do icebreakers. Also, everyone in that class has known each other for three years. The dude talked and talked and talked about nothing today, and I kept nodding off. I made a promise to myself to go to every class this semester (unless I have a very good reason not to), so while attendance is optional, I need to keep going. This class is self-graded, and I want every reason to justify an A for myself when I have to write my self-evaluation in May. 

I have to remember that I have no safety net anymore with my GPA. If I get one more C, it will ruin everything. I'd have to wait a year to take my final classes, and I'd have to move back to my mom's house and commute every day. Getting forced onto the dreaded five-year 'plan' (there is no plan or extra studio time and education like they claim, it's just waiting for the year to pass) is something that I can't afford mentally or financially.

However, because today was just syllabus day for my THREE-HOUR lecture (why did I bother reading everything ahead of time?), I found myself on my phone here and there, and that's when I discovered I got an email yesterday from the jazz ensemble director. I didn't see it then because I spent the entire day watching Lord of the Rings.

I had emailed this guy in mid November, asking if he had a spot open for a new bass player in the spring. He got back to me a month later, saying he didn't. However, I guess he remembered the good word my buddy Tim put in for me (the director is his trumpet teacher), because a spot opened up in a different jazz ensemble.

About 75% of me wanted to say no, but I promised myself I'd join one of this guy's ensembles before I graduate. This semester is probably my last shot at doing that. And so, to my nervous system's dismay, I said yes and officially registered.

Playing jazz terrifies me more than anything. I overthink every little note I play, every choice in my solos and walking. It makes me freeze up in ways no other genre does. This has been a mental block since I started playing jazz when I got here, and my attempt to cure it was a disaster.

The last time I played jazz for anyone besides my bass teacher was spring 2024. My bass teacher asked me to be in his Jazz ensemble. I was flattered because the group that fall was fantastic. However, he didn't tell me that the roster changed drastically. 

When I walked into that ensemble's first rehearsal, I saw no familiar faces from last semester's crew. Instead, it was people who had never played jazz before (at least I had one semester under my belt) or didn't care enough to practice. All I'm gonna say is that they couldn't remember the melody to Duke Ellington's C Jam Blues. If you're so curious about this melody that was apparently too difficult for my fucking group, please take four seconds to listen to the start of this recording. 

Yep. That is it. We had three months to prepare this song. They couldn't do it. This performance was horribly embarrassing for me, because I was trying my best and actually made really great progress that semester. The drummer (also new to jazz but also improved greatly) and I were the only good things going on on stage. One player was supposed to talk at the end of the performance about some stuff, and instead of doing that, she turned around and stared blankly at me. We stood there awkwardly for too long as I tried subtly gesturing to her to talk. Eventually, I gave up, yelled "Well, that's it!" and we walked off stage like that.

That night was the first night I got drunk, and I pretty much swore off doing a jazz ensemble again, despite my director only praising me.

But here we are today, two years later, being asked last minute to join a jazz ensemble again. At least I know most of the players in there, though I don't like many of them. I wonder if I'm just cursed by the jazz gods and that this will be just as bad as last time.

Regardless, I had to kick this off my music major bucket list. I've heard crazy stories about this director, where he's skipped rehearsals because he thought his drummer sucked and was tired of dealing with him. Rehearsals are mostly sight reading, and he'll have no empathy if you can't keep up. I think I'm going to have to practice this semester more than I ever have. I think, despite the total circus this may be, I'm going to get something good out of it, whether it be chops or some stories.

Tomorrow will mark my first day of choir since 4th grade, so look forward to that.

My Music Collection

Gil Scott-Heron is another of my favorite songwriters. His debut album, Pieces of Man, took my breath away the first time I heard it.

I heard Home is Where the Hatred Is first. I was in the backseat of my infamous 'John's' car as we and his friend drove home from that one gig we had together.

The gig was strange. I was asked to do it five days before the show. The show was at a weed festival, and I don't smoke weed. This was also my first gig ever. I had to learn passable slap bass in five days.

2/4 of my roommates and I discovering 
that our beloved hallway sink was
also a place to sit that same week. I
 have no photographic evidence of
today's story happening.

An important thing about this gig is that my also infamous jazz performance was the night before. I came home with another of our roommates, face red from anger, declaring that I was going to drink tonight. I was 19 and had no alcohol, but John did. He had a wonderful, quality bottle of tequila, and to our luck, yet another roommate's boyfriend was over so much that he had a dedicated bottle of Hawaiian Punch in the fridge. He drank it out of the bottle, but tonight we did not care. I think John put some other mixer in it, and it was so tasty that I couldn't taste the alcohol at all.

One of my dearest friends to this day, Esmeralda, had also accompanied me home. I debriefed my performance to her as everyone hung out in the common room for essentially my own pity party. I gulped down the drink like it was water, and very shortly after, I realized my brain was buffering: I was drunk.

John asked how I was feeling, and this started a long banter between us. Eventually, we stood up and turned the room into a wrestling ring. There's a photo out there somewhere of us on the floor while Esmeralda plays solitaire on our tiny table. I threw him into one of my mom's baskets on the floor, and when that basket comes up, I still tell her he just tripped over it somehow. It was all in good fun.

Eventually we both went to bed, but when I woke up, John wasn't home. We were supposed to leave together for his band's dumb weed gig in 10 minutes. I tried calling him, and when he didn't pick up, I texted the singer to see if she could contact him. 

This was the final straw for something. She just went to the group chat and asked him where the fuck he was. He responds right away, and later tells me that he was off at a rehearsal and was just wrapping up when she texted. 

They argue over text the whole hour and a half drive there. John kept saying he was gonna really quit this time, but his friend told him how he's been saying that forever. By the time we made it to this event, things had cooled off between my temporary bandmates enough to have the show go as well as it could have.

It was so cold and misty, and the stage was outside. John and his friend wandered off to buy some stuff, but I stayed in the singer's car with her and the drummer, all of us sitting on our hands so they'd warm up. People talked to us after the set, so the performance was good enough, which is all I wanted it to be. 

We drove back to the dorm, and I heard this song for the first time:

A junkie walking through the twilight

I'm on my way home

I left three days ago, but no one seems to know I'm gone

Home is where the hatred is

Home is filled with pain

And it might not be such a bad idea if I never went home again

Stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why

Hang on to your rosary beads

Close your eyes to watch me die

You keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it

God, but did you ever try?

To turn your sick soul inside out

So that the world can watch you die?

Home is where I live inside my white powder dreams

Home was once an empty vacuum that's filled now with my silent screams

Home is where the needle marks try to heal my broken heart

And it might not be such a bad idea if I never went home again

This was different than anything else John had put on. The words and melody latched themselves to me and haven't let go since. As I looked forward between the front seats to stop my motion sickness, I couldn't help but notice his face in the rearview mirror. His stare was distant, and while he wasn't looking at me, it felt like ice. Though he was right in front of me, I wondered where he was. Something in me felt uneasy, but I brushed it off as me just being tired. Home again rang through the car speakers over and over until the song faded. 

That same stare found me two days ago, and despite knowing this person for so long, it's never made me nervous beyond mild concern. The difference this time was that I knew, without a doubt, that it had to do with me, with the implications hidden entirely from view and thought.

I was a much more innocent person two years ago. People who have known me from that time have told me I'm more "intense" now. I don't really know what they mean by that word exactly, but the only person I equate that word with is John. I'm worried that people feel the same way about me that I do about him when he gets distant. If I ever look in the mirror and recognize those eyes within myself, I'll feel as if I've lost to something.

Anyways, really beautiful album.  Go check it out. See you tomorrow -G