My strange and beautiful midlife crisis

I turned 40 last June and, for a series of reasons — all related to me being unable to sit back and relax once in my life — my coming of (middle) age happened quietly.
I had a sort of low-profile party (at least compared to the one for my 30 years) and we didn’t even managed to have a proper celebration with my family, since my birthday came during the final stage of a looong relocation, which left us short in money and time.

In the last three years a lot changed in my life. But it always goes that way and I didn’t noticed anything until yesterday, when I realized I was basically selling a piece of me.

This is a page of my life about how I discovered a lot about myself, by selling a drum kit.

Build-up

A couple of years ago me and my wife decided to move to a new house. It was not strictly necessary at the time but we seized an opportunity and dove into a new adventure.

It took way a lot more than expected, partly because of us, partly because renovating an old building is never simple, especially when you are on a budget. All in all we began this ordeal in early 2016, to eventually enter new home in August 2018.

During this period, a lot of time and energy went into making this thing work. Making things work is a sort of skill and I think I’m pretty good at it. Often, when things don’t work, everybody turns to me.

This also always happened with the most important activity in my life: music. In every band there is always a human glue and I generally always took up that role. It’s kind of fun but it also drains energy, and I was really low in energy during the last year.

Add to this that the live music scenario in Italy is downright bleak today. Popular music turned mass-production of overnight sensations while club-gigs (events that used to maintain a high level of dignity) generally go deserted nowadays. Musical illiteracy spreads like a disease and turns the once satisfying live shows fatigue into frustration.

There was a time when playing live was still a blast…

That’s why I decided to stop my live activity until further notice, put my battle-kit to rest and move along to electronic drums, with the aim to produce some new music by myself and for myself.

Then hard times came (and are here to stay for some months now) and I thought that I would hardly play again in gigs where a huge acoustic kit could shine — or at least be appreciated. So I decided to sell it.

And after some months it happened. Today.

The black swan

I don’t really hang on to things. Quite the opposite, the main reasons to sell my acoustic drums was not, as one can imagine, to make money: I was just really sad to see it covered in dust. A good instrument must be played, and I didn’t plan to play it anytime soon again.

In fact my recent passion for e-drums come from the idea that they are the best instruments for small venues. They can also look sexy as a real drum, if not sexier. They have a lot of plus, from making recording a breeze, to sound versatility, to silent rehearsals… you get the point.

I admit that if I was not short in money, I may have left my acoustic kit there, you know… just in case. But all in all I got serious about selling it and pushed on that pedal for some months.

Then finally a really nice guy called me yesterday to arrange the pick-up today. Cash payment and no fuss, he really needed the drums for his upcoming European tour with Athrox.

I was like Yay! but hangin’up the phone I felt like I was making something wrong to myself, somehow. The feeling took me totally off guard.
It was not like “man I don’t really want to sell this kit because I’m too nostalgic”… it was something totally different and, even more awkward, it was like that feeling resonated with a lot of small voices, all of which tried to tell me something in the last months.
Too bad I was too focused on practical duties to pay attention.

That was my black swan and today I dealt with it.

Not for the drums

I woke up this morning thinking about the moment when the new daddy would have come picking up my beloved instrument and I felt scared.

Not jealous, not repented. Really scared.

Simply put, I was giving away what, in my ignorance, I will name a defining object: something to help or support my self-definition.

My childhood heroes was heavy and hair-metal bands like Europe or Manowar. I grew up with a clear archetype of what being cool was, and I stuck to it even when it was no more cool — or even blatantly ludicrous. Add to this that I also was a sort of nerd: playing RPGs with friends, tinkering with computers when it was just odd and spending afternoons bent on a strat, trying to grate some decent Metallica or Maiden’s riffs.

I was not what you’d call a successful guys. Think of a typical 80s American high-school movie and locate the loser in the most embarrassing scene. That was me. And my freaky friends nearby.

But I was happy with it and while the world was going Yossun ‘Ndour, I spent my early teens fighting to grow long hair. By my twenties I was totally asserting myself the way I wanted.
I bought the motorbike of my dreams, I shaved handlebars mustaches, I fell in love with drums and after some good years of live gigs in small to medium venues I invested in what to me was a stage killer.

It was the final step in living myself to full extent. And I did!

I just never took the road of professionalism, partly for I never considered myself up to the necessary level (but I may rethink this statement, in retrospective, given the education level of some alleged pro…) and mostly because I didn’t want to trade my music for food.
This means that I had to resort on other skills to earn my days. When the time came to start a family, exactly ten years ago, I put some of my previous life on idle: my bike went into a garage (and still sits there), my musical activity was reduced and I never managed to sew up the torn lining of my Perfecto jacket.

But hey, I was still there, playing RPGs, banging my drums and entertaining the idea of taking my bike back on the road (I actually bought, then sold another one in the meantime so somehow I did). My ponytail, despite having shrunk, is still there… etc etc.

But does this mean I am the same man I built up for 30 years?

The power of a narrative

Define: to limit, to border. From latin de (intensifier) and finìre (to come to an end, to give a limit).

When we define something we are tracing clear borders so that we separate that something from the rest of the world. The word rationalize, also of Latin roots, has a very similar meaning (to divide, to break in pieces).
This also resonate with the concept of self. Perceiving as a self requires that you identify your boundaries and limits: what separates you from the rest of the universe.

I’ve always seen myself as a very self-defined person, conscious of my prerogatives and features, despite others.
Now I feel I was wrong. Self-assertion and self-definition are different things, of course, but I never realized how the possibility to assert myself (narrate myself) was my way of defining myself (understand who I am).

Now, I’ll borrow the words of my wiser, younger brother and will temporarily rename my drums, from defining object to narrative device (yes, I know I didn’t even made use of the previous naming).

As silly as it may sound, I discovered that my drums were the most powerful among my narrative devices. Or maybe the last one I was left with.
I did without my bike; I did without my jacket. I probably will do without my wild hair sooner or later. But the drums was still there, ready to rock, waiting for me to change my mind and go back on stage.

Now they are gone and with them went my last possibility to tell a story about whom I used to be.

That’s great

Left with no more narrative devices to sustain the personality I built up since my childhood, left me naked in front of a mirror. How did I happen to change that much? Where did that hell-raiser metalhead go? Is him still there after all? But most important: is him still relevant to me?

When you have no alternatives, you stick with what you have. And that’s what was happening to me. I was just fine cuddling up with my former self and spent little effort in building.. a new version of me.

This scared the crap out of me.

But now, jotting down this sort of diary page, I start to get better. I’m trying to reckon how much possibilities I have now. And after all I know I’m not just lost in the interstellar void: I will end up forming another perception of me that will be more up to date and sustainable.

Almost for sure it will soon or late involve a new very pimped-up drumset, plus fewer (but firmly in place) long hair, maybe a couple of tattoos and who knows what else!

But this is not the point. What I learned today can be summed up in the following points.

First of all, no matter what I’ll get, I can’t do it by myself. I need others to provide feedback on which I’ll build and build upon, until I’ll feel settled again.

This means that I’ll have to be more respectful and thankful to others while narrating myself, knowing they — aware or not — are gifting me with their time and love, to help me find my center.

Most of all, I may now ask what I used to require, helping others helping me.

And finally, I now recognize a new type of feeling. I can now verbalize the drive that urges me to achieve seemingly trivial goals and recognize the impulse behind that drive. I can define that, so I can take at least partial control of it.
Not a trivial boon while you are growing and learning!

What’s in it for me?

I don’t use to share much on the interweb, being that kind of antisocial that feels superior by not joining the global noise.

Truth is, I frankly feel pathetic talking about what I am, like I’m all that special. We as human beings are pretty predictable and mostly identical from a rational perspective.

Yet this time I thought that these lines may help someone else in a similar situation. Maybe someone less fortunate than me: without such a supportive family and partner, or with bigger problems to face. Or maybe someone that never got to build a strong identity in the first place…

I don’t know. I don’t even feel this makes sense. But if this can help you somehow, then good luck my friend! And keep rocking!

PS: at least I gifted my patient reader with the highest amount of “me”, “my”, “I” and “self” she can find on Medium :)