(Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for the Young at Heart - 2011)
An unemployed friend recently said, “Looking for a job sucks the life out of you.” Agreed, but when you come to realize that you’re too old and that your experience and abilities are no longer of any consequence, you are robbed of something every bit as precious – a sense of purpose, self respect, a reason to care about getting up in the morning. The scene plays over and over in my mind: the elevator ride with our director of human resources, our silent walk down a deserted hallway, entering the basement conference room, three senior staff people seated at one end of the long table, all forcing their best “down-to-business” expressions. Barren cream-colored walls, the smell of hours-old coffee, the only sound a feint buzz from the fluorescent lighting.
They each study a spot on the table, the carpet, the back of a hand. I sit down, the awful truth drifting into my thoughts like dark smoke. My unit director finally makes eye contact. His delivery is flat and rushed, as if he fears that his resolve might fail before he gets the words out. “Your department is shutting down and your position is being eliminated, effective July First.” And with that succinct and cold-blooded declaration, I am jobless. My 60th birthday just months away and, after nearly 20 years of developing and honing very specific job skills for a very specialized position, my value has suddenly expired. (To add irony to insult, my former work place repeatedly tops the AARP’s annual “Best Employers for Workers Over 50” list.)
So, what’s an unemployed almost-sexagenarian with a mortgage, car payments, zero prospects, and a three-figure savings account to do? The answer, for me, came from one of the unlikeliest of sources: Rock and Roll.
It’s not easy, rehearsing the same songs over and over until your calloused fingertips throb and your throat feels like it’s coated with loose sand, dealing with thoughtless club owners who refuse to return phone calls and who don’t always honor commitments, lugging bulky speakers and amplifiers to the car at 2 a.m. after a four-hour performance, and putting personal or family plans on hold in case we’re able to schedule a gig for a Friday or a Saturday night. But when I step onto a stage or in front of an audience, a transformation takes place. I’m no longer used up, tossed aside, past my prime. And when our first chord rings out, I’m swept up in a wave of energy and passion that carries me through the night. I’m seventeen again. As I watch other people dance or tap their feet or move their mouths along with the music we’re making, I'm soaring on the highest of highs, and I don’t begin my descent until I’m home in my bed, hours after the final note of the night has been struck and sung.
Our band is called Reprise ‘60s. As the name implies, we concentrate on music from the decade of the British Invasion, acts including The Beatles, The Stones, Searchers, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits, to name a few. I last played in a band when their hits were hot off the record presses. They recorded the songs I grew up with, the same ones I listen to today.
Building a consistent following for our group has been difficult. Younger performers can count on friends and peers to come out for the late-night shows. Our contemporaries tend to go to bed much earlier and are less likely to frequent bars and clubs on weekends. Some nights, a place will be packed when we start, with lots of spirit and enthusiasm for the first couple of hours, and then nearly empty by the time we’re into our final set.
During one recent job at a local bar/restaurant, we set up our equipment and ran through a brief sound check while the dinner crowd was still bustling. After we did a couple of verses of a warm-up song and set our instruments down, a man approached the stage. In his arms he held a girl of maybe three or four. “My daughter was very disappointed that you didn’t play a whole song. Would you be willing to play something for her?” he said.
We played “Thank You Girl” by the Beatles while she bounced and swayed on the dance floor with her dad. As we came to the last few notes of the song, I realized that the entire restaurant had gone still and all heads had turned to face the stage. When the song ended the room erupted in applause and cheers.
It was a great and memorable moment for us. Unfortunately, we were competing on that date with our area’s biggest, most popular annual summer event, taking place just a couple of miles away. Once the dinner patrons had gone, the bar and tables never completely filled up again, so our pre-performance number ended up being the highlight of our night.
On another job, we played for four hours to a packed house. Though patrons hung around till the wee hours, drinking and talking, they all seemed to be ignoring the band while we worked harder and harder trying to entertain them. When we took our break, a couple of them approached the jukebox, dropped in some coins, made their selections. A few others joined them on the dance floor. As soon as we strapped on our guitars again, they all cleared the space directly in front of the stage area and returned to their seats at the bar. Throughout the night I thought, we’re bombing here. The word disaster kept running through my mind.
At the end of the night, the room was still jammed with twenty- and thirty-somethings. As we gathered our gear and started working our way through the crowd to load our cars, people were grabbing my arm, patting my shoulder and shaking my hand. “Great job!” “You guys rock!” “Fantastic!” The effusive praise kept coming at us until we were packed and ready to leave.
Part of the appeal of performing is that we never know what to expect. But then, it doesn’t really matter. For us, it’s all about making music. And if sometimes people get to enjoy what we’re doing, if we can put a smile on someone’s face or a song on someone’s lips, if we can make a little girl happy for a few minutes, that’s just a bonus.
This new venture will not resolve all of my financial issues, but I do feel a sense of accomplishment for the first time in months. When I tell friends that I’m playing in a band, that I still get a kick out of pretending for a few hours that I’m a Beatle or a Rolling Stone, I’ll occasionally get that narrow-eyed look that says, he’s probably gone senile. Why, they might wonder, would somebody’s grandpa want to spend weekend nights chasing the rock star dream in clubs and taverns filled (or not filled) mostly with strangers and the occasional drunken heckler?
Maybe those friends are right. Maybe I have lost it.
But if this is senility, I say, bring it on.
