Animal, The Captain, and I

The Captain slammed his bass guitar into the case and stormed out of the barn.

Animal sat quietly behind the drums. My chin fell to my chest and I dropped my guitar into its stand. We both knew this was where things had been headed for a while, that didn’t make it any less shocking.

Two days till our first show.

Two and a half years earlier, I started writing songs to deal with pandemic lockdown anxiety. I took the next step and learned how to record decent demos at home. Unsure where I was headed, I kept moving. I shared my demos with musicians on Craigslist. Could I find people who wanted to help me realize a decades-old dream? This story is about Animal and The Captain, two of the characters who joined me on the journey of trying to start a functional rock band when I was nearly 50 years old.

Animal was one of the first drummers I met through Craigslist. He looked like a guy who worked for a living in heavy boots and durable clothes. I felt a kind generosity and casual, laid-back attitude. He had listened to my demos, so we had a starting point, and without much preamble, we started playing. Feeling the kick drum in my gut made the music sound suddenly so much more real. After many months of confinement, the songs I wrote were coming to life and escaping my modest guest room home studio.

After a few sessions, we started upgrading the practice space in Animal’s backyard shed–we called it the barn. He improvised exciting drum parts as we developed a chemistry and transformed my demos into something new, exciting and wild and erupting with enthusiasm. It was loose but we were making progress and having fun. The search for the bass guitar player began and didn’t take long.

The Captain certainly looked like a bass player. He had the broad shoulders and salt-worn skin of a surfer, and he was big enough to carry that big guitar with authority. He was prepared. He had spent time with the demos we sent, and his bass lines brought depth and dimension to the songs. I think he knew the songs better than we did. The Captain was leaning in, and he was exactly what we needed.

Over months, the excitement and enthusiasm of our practices rose. It was intoxicating. The Captain was also actually intoxicated most of the time, but Animal and I chose to ignore it. Our practices were efficient and exhausting. We didn’t mess around. We had a plan for each session and we got right to it, playing until we spilled out of the barn to catch our breath in the fresh air. Sweating, smiling and congratulating ourselves. 

After one session I told them that I think we sounded particularly great. I think we could actually be onto something.

The Captain said, “Yeah, if this is going where I think this is going then yeah, we are definitely on to something.”

Animal chimed in, “Hell yeah brother!”

Between moments of gratitude and mindfulness of how special our time in the barn was, I also felt a clock running out. Fifty years old is too late to start a band… I had time to make up, and I wanted to move forward, generate momentum, and get out of the barn. I wanted to play a show, and I was ready to make that happen. Before bringing the idea of playing our first show to Animal and The Captain, I researched venues that might be open to our project. It didn’t take long. 

My local bar was ready to have us whenever we were ready. I knew I needed to use caution when I brought it up at our next practice. I didn’t want to force this issue… too much. I wanted this to be a team decision but I also had my hands at their backs, gently coaxing. We picked a date 6 weeks out. 

Practices got quieter. We still made a lot of noise, but we weren’t laughing anymore. We weren’t celebrating. We weren’t sharing gratitudes anymore. We were slogging. The Captain refused to push through mistakes. He’d stop, frustrated, and point out any little problem. Animal didn’t want the band to feel like work but that’s what it was. We were grinding. 

I was trying to keep it together. I practiced more on my own. I shared practice recordings so we could all listen between sessions. I asked everyone to share notes so we all knew what we needed to fix. I came early to practice to try to make sure everything was plugged in, dialed in and set up correctly.

Then we started having side conversations outside of the barn. Animal was pissed because The Captain squeezed the fun out of every session. The Captain was losing his patience with Animal’s loose, improvisational style. I’m sure they talked about me.

I told them that a lot of great bands probably had terrible first shows and that the worst case scenario wasn't that bad. I tried to assure them both that it was natural for tension to rise as we approached our first show. We have to start somewhere, I said.

The Captain kept raising the bar. He thought our set was too short. He thought we needed a cover song. He thought we made too many mistakes. “I’m not trying to make an asshole out of myself,” he said. Maybe he didn’t want us to be ready–maybe he didn’t want to do this at all.

Animal just wanted it to be fun again.

After decades of thinking about being part of a functional band, I was on the verge. I just had to hold us together for two more weeks.

The Captain’s criticisms ignited my imposter syndrome that had kept me from doing this for so many years. I can barely play guitar. I don’t know how to write a song. I don’t sing in key. I’m too old. I had kept a lid on it since I started writing songs in the darkest days of lockdown but the imposter was always bubbling underneath.

The Captain turned up the pressure one more time and I made one more mistake. I might have missed a chord. I might have forgotten a verse. I might have forgotten the all words to my own song. I don’t remember what it was, but The Captain called me out.

I clenched my jaw and furrowed my brow. I resisted the urge to break something. I took a deep breath. Through my clenched teeth I spat the thought that had been haunting me these recent weeks.

“This. Is. Not. Working.”

The Captain slammed his bass into the case and walked out of the barn without a word.

Animal sat quietly behind the drums. 

“What the fuck was that?”

I had no idea what that was. My chin fell to my chest and I dropped my guitar into its stand.

Two days before our first show.

I would've been nervous under the best of circumstances. Now, I was paralyzed with anxiety. I started imagining alternate paths, ways to avoid the looming disaster.

Maybe I could reach out to my friends and family—everyone I’d invited—and tell them the show was canceled. 

I could call in sick. Everyone's getting sick these days.

Who needs a bass player? The White Stripes did fine, but then again, I’m no Jack White.

Or maybe The Captain’s loyalty was stronger than his anxiety. He’d been difficult over the past few weeks, but he was never late to practice. Did that mean something?

For the next two days, I obsessed over every detail I could control. What to wear, whether I had enough backup cables, whether my guitar strings were too old. I practiced the songs over and over, printed lyric sheets, rewired my pedalboard. I was so distracted I could hardly function in other areas of my life. I focused on the small stuff because I had no control over what really mattered. Were we ready? Would everyone show up? Maybe not doing this for so many years was the right thing to do.

The Captain did show up, but he didn’t look happy about it. Loyalty over anxiety I think. Animal was ready to have fun. I had a beer to loosen up. We quietly loaded gear into the bar, looking professional if not joyful.

The soundcheck was our next test. I chose two songs carefully: one loud, one quiet, but both easy. We needed a win, a little confidence boost.

The other band on the bill caught our soundcheck, and they seemed into it. They even invited us to play with them the next night at another bar. Nice invitation. It felt good. I stopped short of explaining that I AM 50 YEARS OLD I HAVE TOO MANY RESPONSIBILITIES AND NO WE WILL NOT PLAY WITH YOU TOMORROW. But maybe tonight would be ok.

A small audience had gathered—small, but real. Here for us. I was pretty sure they did not know what they were in for. When the bar owner gave us the go sign, we didn’t hesitate. We took to the stage and let rip a blur of adrenaline, nerves, and noise. Muscle memory kicked in from the months of practice, and I just played without thinking about the playing, without worrying, without concern, and with reckless abandon.

With one song to go I tried to slow down. I tried to take it in. I squinted through the bright lights to see my friends. I choked back emotions of gratitude and also fear that I may never get to do this again. I felt like a different person. Maybe I took off a filter, or maybe I put on a mask. It was like playing a character. I could say things I wouldn’t say. I could be something I didn’t know I was. 

We tore through the final song and we were done.

We were invited to play at the same bar again a few weeks later. And once more, loyalty trumped anxiety. The Captain’s rules say you don’t turn down an invitation from a bar owner. So we played again. And we were a little better.

But not better enough for The Captain–who didn’t stick around very long after the second show. Animal and I kept going and tried out a bunch of bass players. We found one and even played one more show with him but then we lost Animal too. 

Now it’s me and the new bass player, and we have been writing and recording songs with a hired drummer, keeping some momentum going. I started, and we persevered. Now what?

You can check out Cadmium Rock Band here.