On any given day, I look like someone who finds the missionary position too racy.
I mean, take right now, as I’m writing this in an oversized flat cap, drinking a cappuccino chased with fizzy water, sitting upright to a degree that you’d assume I’m wearing sandpaper underpants. I’d like to think surprisingly, but knowing it’s decidedly unsurprising, I wasn’t a hit with the ladies in high school. When asked to be the guitar guy at the party, I’d play Bach, furrowed brow and all, looking up after a lackluster interpretation of Bourreé in E minor to find the room correctly deserted in favor of the dance party next door.
My musical preferences at the time were instrumental shred guitar, progressive metal, death metal and, when feeling delicate, thrash metal. The guitar was an athletic event, something to be conquered, a neat outlet for adolescent anxiety but one that exaggerated my essentially being made of tweed. It’s taken me years to allow the ticking of the metronome to fade into the background - in the words of Grand Master Yoda, to unlearn what I have learned.
Last night in San Antonio, I wore an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt on a stage engulfed in giant paper flowers. I missed my entry into the second pre-chorus of Upside because I was blowing kisses to our production manager in monitor world. Laying down the burden of self-seriousness has been this chapter of my life’s greatest gift and, for better or worse, I’ve accepted that sandpaper underpants suit me. For Johnny Depp, it’s scarves, leather jackets, and questionable fiscal decisions. Me? Sandpaper goddamn underpants. Oh well.