After answering, “what’s a good creative outlet for me?” and, “should I start a blog?” followed by, “what’s a good first post?” this has ultimately led to the, arguably more difficult, question of, “where do I go from here?” Thankfully that’s a short answer— I don’t know. BAM! Blog-post done.
In truth there’s plenty of things I eventually want to touch on: my work, my music, my faith, my journey with mental health, etc. While I am unsure of what would be a “good” or captivating place to start, I figured I would talk about this past weekend while it is still fresh in my mind.
Some friends and I went to Memphis, Tennessee. This was meant to be a stereotypical “boys trip,” whatever that means to you. Several friends and I had taken a trip to Cincinnati around this time last year partially in an effort to celebrate my completion of graduate school. Trying to establish a regular routine of going places together, we planned this trip, though a couple friends who went to Cincinnati with us would unfortunately not be able to attend with us.
I was the main driving force behind selecting Memphis as the location, for reasons that are intimately connected with my own love for music and childhood nostalgia. When I was in 10th grade, we went on a band trip to Memphis, Nashville, and Atlanta and I have loved these three cities ever since. I will not get lost in the details of that trip, but, in the moment, I loved Memphis particularly for the music scene and its historical prominence in the civil-rights movement. In my mind, Beale Street in Memphis had similar vibes to Hollywood Street in Nashville— live music everywhere. Now, I did almost do my undergraduate in Nashville (a decision a part of me regrets to this day, though that’s a story for another time), but, alas, I really do not love country music. I was captivated by Memphis particularly as the birthplace of blues, soul, and rock “n” roll, all genres I deeply enjoy. All that to say, for better or worse, we ended up in Memphis.
Now, I could tell you the story of our trip in prose highlighting our trips to a bar, to the Bass Pro Shop pyramid, to a bar, to the Peabody hotel, to a bar, to bed, to a bar, to the National Civil Rights Museum, to a bar, to another bar, to a disappointing barbecue place (with a bar), to another bar, back to the third bar, and finally back to the airport… That’s how I would write in all of my journals; I would write to remember. It was very, “we did this, then this, then this, then this, then…”
I don’t regret writing that way because memory is a tricky thing. I wish I remembered far more than I do. I feel as if my life and experiences blend with the passage of time into an incomprehensible mess where I only remember fragments. I find myself in the moments where I feel the best– loved, cared for, happy– longing to remember yet never seeming to retain what I want as if my own vaults of memory are a colander underneath the flow of water. I forget the prose. I forget the dialogue. I forget the narrative.
I’ve enjoyed looking back on the journal entries I wrote after significant events (which are few and far between because I rarely got around to actually writing about them) because through reminding myself of the order of events, parts of me were able to see through the narrative and remember the theme. Forget what happened, what did these events mean to me?
That’s why for Memphis, I’d rather skip the play by play and instead attempt to find the meaning written between the lines. Instead, I’ll follow the motifs, the first of which being the live music.
I cherish the moments in my lifetime where I am listening to a live performance of something and know right then and there that this is something special. This weekend stuck out to me because I experienced that exact feeling at least three times.
First of which, as simple as it was, was a transition between songs in the first band we saw. We were at B.B. King’s Blues Club on Beale Street listening to what they called the B.B. King All Star Blues Band. This group was incredible, clearly phenomenally talented musicians all playing their hearts out. Though seemingly insignificant, this first enticing moment was just how they transitioned from September to Let’s Groove both by Earth, Wind, & Fire. Irony of the blog and the limitations of words is that I simply cannot describe to you exactly what they did, but I want you, the reader, to know it was absolutely wicked. It was perhaps one of the smoothest song transitions I’ve ever heard, so much so that you didn’t know what was happening until it had already passed you by.
Second was not that much later, with this same band’s rendition of Purple Rain by Prince. This song’s studio recording is long enough as it is, but this performance seemed to go on for at least twenty minutes except instead of wondering at the length of the song it left us wishing it continued on in reality rather than just in our own memories. The audience response was palpable even during the song as many people were shouting out and raising their hands, reminiscent of the Baptist, Gospel church I attended during college.
The third such moment was the next evening at an Irish bar on Beale Street where two piano players were playing opposite of each other taking audience requests. As one would play a song, the other would be looking up the next requested song and figuring out how to play it in only a few minutes time— this alone speaks to their incredible skill and musicianship. One began a low cascading triplet harmony as he explained that this song was requested in honor of an audience member’s wedding anniversary. He began to sing Unchained Melody originally recorded by The Righteous Brothers, except in a lower key and vocal range. I was captivated for it was beautiful. The setting in the lower vocal range (not something you hear every day as the vocal male performer industry tends to be dominated by high tenors) allowed me to see and hear myself within the performance as my mind drifted across my imagination much like the rising and the falling of the triplet harmonies from the piano. Admittedly, I am not sure I had heard this song previously, but I found myself wanting to hear almost nothing else. A moment I treasured, to be sure.
As the title suggests, the next motif would be centered around the Moon Pies we bought from the Memphis Bass Pro Shop pyramid. Late Friday afternoon, we visited this cultural landmark simply to say that we did. A little drunk and trying to keep myself from becoming sick, purchasing these simply seemed like a good idea at the time—a deep irony as these are equal parts glorious and deeply disgusting. “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” was also the only line my grandfather would give in response to asking why he rode his bike down the Swallow Cliff Toboggan slides in his younger years.
Though we did not finish the boxes pictured here, we certainly made several visits to them, consuming them for both late night snacks, breakfast, and everything in between. A decision that I will not entirely admit I regret, because though the memory perhaps makes me feel sick, they were delicious and I regret nothing.
The most important motif, the people, unfortunately did not fit into my attempt at clever alliteration in the title.
Pictured above are my two companions for the weekend. On the left, Brendan, a biology teacher that grew up around the block from me. On the right, Dan, a pilot from our same hometown. A blog post is certainly not enough to describe how much their friendship means to me, so just take my word for it for now. These are two of the most supportive people I know and the amount of respect and love I have for each of them is beyond compare. (Pat yourself on the back if you’re reading this, guys)
Over the years I have oscillated between being extroverted or introverted, typically sticking somewhere in the middle. I know I certainly used to be far more extroverted than I am now. I was more confident and sure of myself, where that went is somewhere in between a mystery and a story for another day. So, what surprised me most about this trip was actually the amount of time we spent interacting with strangers.
Dan and I had arrived earlier than Brendan on Friday and went to get lunch on Beale Street while we waited. We went to a rooftop bar and sat in the one corner in the sunlight at that moment. Two middle aged women came in shortly after us and took a table close by. After they asked us to let us know if we leave so they can move to the sunlight spot, we shifted the tables around to make enough space for all of us in the sunlight (which unfortunately led to some wicked sunburns). Aided by the social lubricant of alcohol, we got to talking and got to know each other a little bit. One of them, Kim, works in sustainability, and it turns out that the other, Maureen, was a social worker as well! We didn’t talk the whole time, but it was nice to branch out and feel like I got outside of my own bubble a little bit.
The next evening while we were watching a band, we got to talking with two girls around our age who were standing in the balcony next to us. My friends, ecstatic, saw this as an opportunity to try to set their single friend up with one of them and pressured me into continuing to talk with them. Turns out they were also from the Chicago area and we all had plenty in common with them and another friend that joined them later. The place we were at closed and we all went out together and continued to talk down the street.
In these kinds of situations, I tend to overthink, get in my own head, and become preoccupied with my own pervasive self doubt. They left before I could find the ability or courage to take the logical next step of perhaps exchanging phone numbers… I was kicking myself, truly, because I want to have that kind of confidence or initiative. I feel as if I used to have it but it has since escaped my grasp and is now ever elusive beyond my reach… While for a time this seemed as if it was evidence supporting the voice of self doubt in my head, they ended up finding and following us on social media that night. This might raise some concerns about my internet anonymity (or lack thereof), but perhaps it indicates that I did something right. Maybe I can still be personable and endearing; maybe the voice of self doubt is wrong!
Cue the Monday Blues… Not to give further credence to the voice of self doubt within me and strengthening him, but seeing phenomenal musicians in places such as this tends to energize and inspire me yet unfortunately cause him to raise his ugly head as well.
Going to school for Music Performance, I imagined that I could end up in a place like this, performing each night to my hearts content. It can be discouraging to see trumpet players here that I can at least technically outplay even if not in improvisation. There were drummers here that I could at least hold my own against. But could I? My friends would bet that I could, but I tend to look at my own musicianship and see the faults, mistakes, and shortcomings before anything else.
The fact that I could potentially be living out a childhood dream in settings such as this is confronted with the simple reality that I am not at the moment doing just that. I’m left with more questions than answers… Am I talented enough to compete here? Did I miss the boat somewhere? Do I simply come up with excuses to not put in the work necessary? Is what I am doing more fulfilling or important than this would be? Can I do both? What will the future look like?
While my aforementioned supportive friends would chastise me for even considering these doubts, I struggle to find such optimism within the recesses of my mind.
There was something dystopian and distressing about Memphis as well. Another topic entirely, but the city was sprawling with cops, security guards, “No Gun” signs, and evidences of suffering. While I am blessed and privileged to not have to worry much about those concerns, there is also something dystopian and distressing about the doubt lodged within my own mind. To my chagrin, I find it hard to shake, but I will try. Maybe one day I’ll spend the summer attempting to gig around Memphis. Maybe one day I’ll start the band I want and play the music I like. Maybe one day the voice of self doubt will stand quiet. Maybe one day I’ll find my way.
[title pending] 