How Syphilis Saved Me; Something for the Musical Science Geeks

There have been so many times in life when I've hit a brick wall and questioned what on earth I thought I was doing? I first thought of spending my life on music at the age of twelve; ten years of studying, writing, gigging and recording later and nothing had happened. Thousands spent on lessons, instruments, studio fees and nothing had happened. Hundreds of hours spent with multiple bands, travelling to and from dirty little pubs and seedy little venues to play to absent crowds. Nothing to show for any of it.

It was on an occasion like this, back when I was nineteen, that I can honestly say Syphilis saved my life and still does to this day.

It was a freezing cold, dark and miserable morning when I woke up at 5:00am to head into the city for an audition. I was nearing the end of my university course and not knowing what to do next, I hoped to enter a conservatoire and study for a few more years. Looking back, it was such an aimless and wasteful plan and to be truly honest, not really the direction I wanted to go in life. Classical music is a wonderful thing, but it's a harsh and rigid discipline. Something that never would have been compatible with me and a world I feared was far too concerned with prestige and class rather than the creativity and freedom I was chasing.

Like a lamb to the slaughter I emerged from the train station a few hours later and joined the taxi queue. I'd only been waiting a couple of minutes when a guy about my age joined the slow moving line, holding a black box the exact same shape and size as my own. Our eyes met for a moment as the awkward realisation we were here for the same purpose dawned on us both. Matching instrument cases in tow, we began a stilted dialogue and decided to share a taxi to the conservatoire audition hall.

The fifteen minutes in the back of that taxi were hellish. He spoke as if he had a mouth full of silver and I don't mean the train track braces I'd recently had removed from my own. He told me his dad played the same instrument we did and held a seat in a pretty high profile orchestra. He told me that he'd been to the auditions last year and had been rejected; this was his last chance before his father made him go and join the air force. I had nothing impressive to say so I sat in silence, taking it all in. My teacher was not my father, nor had he done anything of note with his own musical career; he was a player in an amateur ensemble from a sleepy little country town who had stepped in to give me a little guidance and was the best I could afford.

At this point, he asked if he could take a look inside my case. I thought it would be rude to say no so opened it up and passed it over. It was like I had offered a tray of meat to a vegetarian. He immediately clocked the manufacturer; nothing impressive or of substantial quality, but again the best I could afford. Then like a shark on a feeding frenzy he went searching all over for the serial number.

Finding it, he went on to tell me that his serial started with a string of zeros and ended with the number eight. He'd gone to great lengths to ensure that his was the eighth instrument ever created in that line and was devastated to find his ex-girlfriend had managed to get hold of number six.

At this point my brain went numb. I had no idea that a serial number held so much significance and being deadly serious, I had looked at mine once when asked for the number by an insurance company so I could register the instrument under my mum's contents insurance. I had mistaken it for nothing more than a barcode style assortment of random numbers, used purely for the purposes of tracking an object in the case of a theft.

As he handed my case back to me, I slyly took a look at the engraving on the metal tubing. It didn't end with a low number; it didn't even start with a zero. Slightly stung, I zipped the case closed and like a man with a small penis, I tried to reassure myself that it was what I could do with it that counted above anything else.

Now we get onto the Syphilis....

Needless to say, my audition was a disaster. They turned their noses up at my instrument, very curtly told me they'd never heard of my teacher before and made me feel like I'd turned up to World War 3 with a BB gun and no reinforcements.

I was bewildered, confused and feeling very lost. It was at this point in my life I began to associate with Diego Rivera's painting "Man at a Crossroads".

Visually it's pretty stunning. It's chaotic, confusing and overwhelming, but it holds a thinly veiled dig at high society that's helped me throughout the years. If you look at the central scene, you see a figure who appears at the heart of the crossroads; somehow connected to everything yet involved in nothing. He looks just as lost and powerless as I've felt at times, yet still seems to be driving the entire image.

My favourite part of this whole painting is the tiny Syphilis cell that appears floating above the heads of a group of socialites; the type who would probably care more for serial numbers and prestigious brand-name music tutors, than for raw talent or artistic integrity.

Here's my beloved Syphilis cell circled in red.

It's message is pretty clear. You might be rich and have every luxury in the world, think you're above life's scandals and hardships and intend on using your connections and wealth to cruise through life, but underneath it all you're just as susceptible as the rest of us.

And susceptible he was. Daddy's good name and bottomless pockets didn't save him from the firing squad and he was dismissed along with me. 

I don't remember his name and I'm not even sure I correctly remember what he looked like but I haven't forgotten him in the years since that day. We shared a taxi back to the train station where he suggested I catch a later train and we go for a drink so I "had time to process what had just happened". 

I realised it must have cut him deeper than it did me. While I was disappointed, I would be returning to an empty room in my halls of residence to binge on some junk food and finish my course work; he would be returning to his family home to explain to his father that he had missed the mark again.  

I never forgot how I felt on that day. The audition was over before it had started and even though I was in no way ready to be accepted onto the course, I was dismissed for all the wrong reasons. The musical world can be a little like that. I've heard stories of amazingly talented artists being shot down for all kinds of silly reasons, but sometimes it helps to remember that the person doing the shooting down isn't above it all themselves.

A Lesson in Second-Guessing Yourself; how doubt can be like a boner in a strip club.

I thought I'd kick this thing off by sharing my opinions with you on how doubt can be your worst enemy and your best friend in the world of music. Your worst enemy is probably a good place to start; it's something I wish I'd realised much sooner and I'll use some personal experiences to show how deep it can run.

When I was a youngster, one of my first experiences of working on a collaboration with other artists came at university. The lecturer assigned us groups of what I suppose he thought was equal weighting in terms of skill selection. I remember only one person who was assigned to my group that day; a much older student who was twice my age and identified as a "producer". I really didn't know what he meant by this but I soon came to learn it was his misused, glorified label for a DJ. He always carried a laptop on him, although I only ever saw it used for taking notes on Microsoft Word or playing the occasional CD, and he played no instruments or had any knowledge of Pro Tools, Logic, Sibelius, etc. Our task was simple; we were to work on writing a piece of music together, that fitted some shaky guidelines our lecturer had set.

I was really into using Cubase (the digital audio workstation, for those of you who aren't techies)  at the time; I found it quick and easy and the piano sound was realistic enough for me to scam my way through composition assignments. So, the group and I decided the quickest way to get the job done would be to throw together some drum loops for this "producer" to run some "beats" over the top.

The following week, disc in hand, I turned up for class and Mr Producer popped my Cubase export into his infamous laptop. I expected him to at least just give it a listen and then maybe start with the beat-running-over-the-topping - but no. As the other members of the group gathered round (contributing nothing, by the way) he began to mock the track.

"OMG, the drums are flat! Listen to this, those drums are well flat!" His face twisted into a grimace as he tried to show how terribly out of tune these drums- these drums created using a software program set to perfect pitch with not a single live instrument in use - sounded.

"Urgh, listen to that!" He continued, gesturing for the rest of the group to get involved. One by one, they began exchanging looks with each other and nodding. He'd won them all over.

He'd won me over. Much older, much more dominant and much louder than me, I didn't dare question him. The logical part of me was sure it was impossible for this standardised electronic signal to be out of tune. The experienced musician in me knew that a drum kit was not an instrument that required 'tuning' in the conventional sense of the word, but more of a toning process through tightening heads. The band-mate in me was scanning back through images of drum keys and socket wrenches, but failed to find a memory of a tuner or any kind of pitch-measuring device.

But there it was; the smothering feeling of doubt and the constant questioning that popped up every five minutes like a boner in a strip club. Assuming there must be something I just didn't understand, I took back my disc, melted into the peripheries with the onlookers of the group, and let Mr Producer submit his beat track as our collaborative assignment; for which we all scored abysmal marks.

It wasn't until a few years later, when the b*llshit in the music arena finally wore too thin, that I was able to see the truth. I was backstage at a music festival in Australia on a day so hot I could see a bushfire in the distance and was checking my tuning in case my bass strings had expanded in the heat. At this point, another Mr Producer type walked over to me and stated loudly on front of the entire crew that I was doing it wrong. "Don't bother tuning that thing," he said. "It's too hot, you'll go flat. Just open it up." I couldn't figure out what he meant so I said nothing and just looked at him, confused. "It's got something in it, it's called a truss rod," he continued, speaking slower this time. "You'll need to give that a couple of turns".

I thought he was joking and laughed while he stared at me blankly. "Seriously, adjust that thing. I give mine a few turns every time I play it". And with that, he walked off. We can discuss what's wrong with this entire example another time, if need be, but it served a purpose for me. What he said was absolute crap and I knew it. But still, that familiar feeling washed over me and for a split second, my brain went on auto pilot as I felt my hands go to turn the bass over and see what kind of Allen key would take the truss rod cover off.

And at that moment, the foot came crashing down! I just couldn't do it to myself anymore...

Like hell was that a good suggestion! Like hell had I been tuning my bass wrong after nearly thirteen years of playing! Like hell was I supposed to adjust the neck before every time I played my bass since the day I started! And like hell was that drum track flat!

You may or may not have your own moment when you just snap and can't take any more of it. I'm happy I had mine, but wish it had come sooner. After years of second-guessing myself, some of the theories I've entertained have been ridiculous. A particular peach came from another former classmate of mine who had me believing that if I took a guitar on an aeroplane, the air pressure changing in the cabin would snap the guitar neck in half (???????????)

Ultimately, all these silly little things people have had me believing over the years have been counter-productive. There comes a time when you have to accept that you may not know everything, you may not get it right 100% of the time, but that if you've worked hard and earned your stripes chances are you do know your stuff and can stay grounded on that. Hold that ground, you're going to need it in this business for sure.