CANT writing

Luke Sandbank        

“Short Story, Sort Of”

Ms. Boyle

11.17.11

It’s hard to tell who people are from a distance, especially if that distance is filled with obstacles such as never having seen them in person, if you’ve only ever heard their voice in interviews. But that wasn’t true, I would hear Adam Squire’s sweet vocals through my headphones daily, without fail. I’ve almost surprised myself with the amount of material I can tolerate listening to that either has his name behind the writing of the music, or his voice next to the guitar chords. Adam Squire had a good handful of side projects alongside his most commercially successful music endeavor. It seems to be a common playful jab at his apparent workaholic lifestyle among fans that Adam Squire does not sleep. As well as the 5-or-so projects under his own name (which would release records quite often) he would produce other bands’ records in the studio. This sort of immortal musical deity had itself as an ideal in my head. For a little while, I had it as a goal to be just like Adam. I was quite into music myself, and had just begun to try and record my own music a little while back, because I knew that if I wanted to be a big Adam Squire one day I’d need to start small. This meant using a portable microphone in my bedroom to jot down ideas that came to me. These ideas would usually come from how I felt about various special someones, people that have no meaning in my life anymore, but did then so wrote all about them using the strings on my guitar and the whites and blacks of the little keyboard I had for a couple of years. I know now that this is not a good way to live, comparing yourself to your idols. It was kind of ridiculous to expect to turn out identical to anyone else. Not even because I was so individual compared to other people, but because whoever I was, I was sure was not a British rock star. It took me some time to realize that the saying “what would (insert idol/genius/hero/Jesus here) do?” should never be used to replace your own free will, you know, unless it had something to do with morality or anything. It wasn’t until very recently, though, that I realized the true nature of who this guy really was.

            I’ve been living in Boston for almost a year and a half. I went to Berklee to study music. I wasn’t interested in being a rockstar myself, because so many people had tried and failed to reach success through songwriting, and I was nobody’s fool. I wasn’t going to make my parents pay 200 grand to send me to Massachusetts just to learn a few more chords, so I took the strategically correct route. I went to Berklee to learn how to record a few more instruments. Well, all of them. I collect instruments, and apparently there are a lot of specific ways to record the myriad of instruments I had stacked in my basement back home. The $200,000 degree in music production and engineering that took me 4 years to earn can prove that statement.

I knew I would never be able to decide my path so forthrightly.  In high school, I had plenty of overwhelming anxiety when thinking about how to decide where to take my life. I almost thought it would be easier not to need to make any decisions and let something else lead. That wouldn’t have brought me anywhere nice, but I would never have to worry about responsibility, right? But I was too self-pressured to let myself give up like that. I would have to take full care of every single god-damned fork in my life’s road, because it was mine and nobody could lead it but me,

or maybe my mother. We had a very close relationship.     I wasn’t sure if I should’ve been proud or ashamed of the fact that out of all of my phone contacts, I had sent the most texts to her. I’ve always had a unique relationship with my mother. Growing up, my father would often give me trouble or be too harsh, and mom was always the one to turn to for protection. Those problems have gone away, but she remains my teammate through every obstacle I’ve encountered. I knew teenagers seemed to force themselves to listen to music converse to the taste of their parents, but I loved sharing my favorite music with my family. Even if they didn’t want to hear it, the sound would seep out of my room in the basement to where everyone else was. I like my music loud- it’s the only way to listen to it. Really though, it’s a good thing mom and dad were okay with hearing Adam Squire all the time coming from downstairs. Whenever his music would come on the radio at home, I’d get a text from mom telling me which song was playing in the living room. I loved hearing that he was getting some publicity. Adam Squire was definitely the kind of artist to attract a small dedicated crowd, not millions of mindless fanatics that would rather download their music from youtube than support musicians who needed money, and deserved it.

Being a native of England, Adam naturally did a lot of touring around Europe. He would often pair with a Swedish photographer and visual artist that had some fame in his homeland of Europe, so I guess he favored that area more than America. I went through high school waiting for a chance to go see one of his shows, but whenever he decided to come around, I would be in school, or had work, or some pitiful excuse that prevented me from ever seeing an amazing performance of his. The chance came just recently, now that I’m out of school and a free man. One weekend in Boston, myself and two friends were tooling around. My mother was driving up from New York to come see the show with me. She had to leave pretty early to get there on time, for she has this problem with her eyes and can’t drive for too long without stopping. One of my friends was taking the bus from their place, not too far outside of the city. It couldn’t have taken too long to get into the city, I imagine.

We weren’t very lively people, so we spent most of our time trying to trick ourselves into thinking we were enjoying the city landscape. However we were people of wide open spaces, and couldn’t find refuge in the tight, superficial spaces of the city. Everyone there was trying to be something; a musician, an artist, good looking, rich looking, classy, but they were all terribly pretentious. I always worried about thinking I was no better than these college kids, but I knew I was a different breed of 24 year-old. What kind of people did they respect? Probably football starts, idiots that knew how to toss a ball back and forth, occasionally tackling one another. Or maybe some idiot artist, who had no idea what he was doing, but his work was popular among the young because it showed them how to not accept their parent’s love and care. I never admitted it to myself, but I knew that idolizing Adam was so much more rewarding. He respected human values, and I knew this because of his lyrics.

The anticipation that day was amazingly irresistible, waiting for the concert to happen. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without imagining myself talking to Adam Squire. I’d ask him what it was like to have thousands of people come into a big city just to see you talk, or sing, or play the guitar. I had this all planned out, because I didn’t want to seem like just another one of his fans. I wanted to show him that I was just as fantastic as he was. Walking through town, I scanned each face vigorously to check if it was him or not. I knew there was some chance I could run into him in front of starbucks or something. It was a city, but it wasn’t too big. Any minute, I could run into Adam and have to spill out this soliloquy on how great he was, and he would probably just stare back and say,

“Thanks kid, but you know you’re just some guy that listens to my music. I’ve got a couple thousand of you in this city now, waiting to shine my shoes or tune my guitar. You think you know me? Please, I’ve got things to do, the show starts in four hours,”

And then he’d just hurry off with a couple of women in his arms, probably a cigarette in hand, off to the next celebrity thing to accomplish.

Later that day, when my friends and I were eating lunch, I called mom to see how the drive up was going. She didn’t answer, I assumed she was fine and just stopping to get a bite to eat. It was lunchtime, after all. Just a minute later, she texted me apologizing. She said she was a little busy, and was excited to see me. I noticed that the message had a file attached to it, I knew it must have been a picture. She sent plenty of pictures. I opened the file, and as it loaded into the screen, I saw that it was her standing with some guy.

“Oh, she’s smiling next to dad. I wonder how he’s been doing. His hair looks like it’s growing back, huh,”

And then the rest came in, and as if it was trying to surprise me, Adam Squire’s face popped in right where I thought my dad was standing. My mother ran into my hero on the streets of Boston.

            They talked for a couple of minutes. He was the most timid and unassuming little man. He was shorter than my mom. In the picture, he had this goofy and almost awkward smile on, with his arm around my mom, posing for the picture. I was absolutely baffled. “How was he,” I asked mom. I demanded answers! This was the first time I would encounter him outside of his music, or some interview. Mother said he was the nicest little man. She almost felt like she was intimidating him. But that didn’t make any sense, this guy wore a freaking gas mask on stage. He was definitely not a five and a half foot tall gentleman from England; he was a rockstar from England. In a surreal moment, the next phone call I got was from mom. I picked up quickly, expecting a rant on how awesome it was meeting this guy. I asked how it was, and in return I got a much deeper and way too British voice in return. No, my mother was messing with me, but it sounded all too real. Who was talking to me?

            “I hear you’re coming to my show tonight? I’ll be glad to see you there. I’ve been talking to your mother, she’s such a nice lady. She told me how much I had influenced your young life, with music and all. It’s great to hear you love music apparently as much as I do. It’s too bad you weren’t here to talk, we had a fine cup of coffee. Well I should be going now, I’m signing CD’s not far from here. Stop by if you want to wait through a mile-long line to meet me!”

            And then he waited for me to say “sure,” and hung up. I was stunned into silence. Once I gathered my thoughts, I exploded and told my friends who the hell was just on the phone with me. “How was it? How is he?” they asked. I wanted at first to say he rocked, he was badass, but he was just a person. He was certainly not an “Adam freakin’ Squire”, he really leaned more towards “Adam”. This was a massive revelation for me. I almost didn’t know how to advance with my life from then on. My idol had been represented as a false rockstar. He was one of the most fairly-tempered people I had ever met. Why was his media portraying him as this almost scary looking guy? Was this something of his own design? I really to this day have no idea. I feel that if I met him again I’d have to directly ask him this. Was his stage presence a trick? Or, an escape from the boring old Adam Squire? My life’s outlook has changed considerably since learning the real nature of my idol. I’m okay with not appearing extraordinary from the outside, because look at this guy. He was a monster on stage and a gentleman who almost seemed afraid to look you in the eye off the stage. What a character!