Give The Quiet Dreams A Chance
We can accomplish more than we think.
I unplugged my guitar, looked out at the small club packed with two hundred people, quietly soaking up what had just happened — we just played a killer set, and the crowd loved it. I gave my bandmates a nod they knew meant, great job guys, and headed to the bar for a beer.
The people who high-fived me on the way had no idea I’d just done what I never even imagined was possible as a fourteen-year-old kid playing air guitar in my bedroom.
They didn’t know I wasn’t a full-time working musician like my crazy talented lead guitar player or that I could barely sing ten years ago.
They didn’t know about all the crumpled pages of crappy, cliched-filled lyrics I threw away before I got something halfway decent.
They didn’t know it took me years to master the simple guitar chords they just heard me play.
When I grew up in the ’60s, there was always music in the house — my mother sang along to blues and folk artists, and my father played jazz and big band stuff. I dabbled with piano for a few years before reaching puberty, but my real love for music took off when I got my first vinyl record player.
Dylan, The Beatles, The Kinks, The Dave Clark Five, The Beach Boys, The Animals, The…
