DESPERATELY TRYING TO RECAPTURE SOMETHING OR OTHER

A guitar THIS dusty is a sign of some SERIOUS neglect

Did I ever tell you about my first job?

I don't mean my role as stand-in paper boy. Which was pretty awesome by the way, because when you cover for people at Christmas, you get all their presents. It was perfectly okay for me to keep those, right?

Nor do I mean cleaning the windows at the bank where Dad was the manager, which I did a terrible job of. They had a pool table in their staff room though, so that was cool.

No, I'm talking about my first REAL job. You know, after I left school. By that I mean, after I REALLY left school, not just when my Physics and Calculus teachers got so sick of me they conspired to have me banished to the "Transistion to Work" class. Disruptive influence my arse. That's probably another Glog in itself.

My first job? Busker.

Don't laugh. Busking is SO a job!

More of a job than being on the dole, anyway. Not that I have anything against anyone on a benefit, I just liked the idea of NOT bludging... especially after 18 years of doing exactly that off my parents.

Besides, I had a 1974 Honda Civic to run, and while petrol was a tiny fraction of the price then compared to now, it wasn't free. In short, I needed some coin.

Depressingly, by 18 years of age, my skill base was somewhat lacking. The major talents I'd spent my scholastic career developing were mostly centred around telling jokes, faffing about with computers, listening to music and generally showing off.

Little did I know at the time, this made me uniquely qualified to be the Technical Director on the Newstalk ZB Breakfast Show. Unfortunately, back in the early '90s, Newstalk ZB and I didn't even know each other existed.

What I DID have, was an impressive catalogue of songs I'd written myself.

By impressive, I mean sheer quantity. I'm relatively certain 6 years worth of teen angst spilled directly into 2 hours worth of 3 minute tunes does not a promising career as a rock star make.

However, it did mean I had enough material to stand in the middle of Hamilton's Victoria Street and scream my heart out, 4 hours a day, every weekday lunchtime.

Just exactly how terrible WERE my compositions? Reviews were mixed. After a couple of weeks, the lady from Just Jeans came out and said they were getting a bit sick of me and could I please go and play somewhere else? I thought she probably had a point, especially given I only had 2 hours of music yet was playing for 4 hours every day. Hell, I was getting a bit sick of me too.

On the other hand, as I was emptying the coins from my guitar case so I could put my guitar in it and find a new posse somewhere up the road, the bloke from Hallensteins rushed out, imploring me to stay. "Don't take any notice of her! Hallensteins owns this whole area and we think you're great. Stay as long as you like."

Or words to that effect.

Probably as a classic mark of how little faith I had in my own abilities, I moved on anyway. It seemed to me, the girls in Just Jeans might have slightly more taste than the Hallensteins guys. I wasn't really basing this on any tangible musical know-how, just the amount of branded polar-fleece currently on display in their respective window fronts.

The point is, somehow I eked out about $150-$200 a week just by singing my songs to people. I'd actually wholeheartedly recommend busking as a method of honing your performance skills. Because you're effectively performing a series of 30-second concerts to passers-by as they, well, pass by, every moment of every track has to be of the highest standard you can possibly produce. I learned early on, if I gave every silly little ditty 100% from intro right through to ad-lib and fade, I had much more chance of securing the loose change floating around in those pedestrians' pockets.

I can't remember how long I lasted, a mere month or two probably, but by the end of that time, even if the songs themselves were still soppy, I'd like to think the performances had become fairly slick.

Alas, no high-rolling record exec happened past, or if they did, they remained unimpressed. I remained undiscovered and any dreams of rags-to-riches rock stardom remained unrealised.

Before I knew it, years had passed, along with careers of varying length and success in apple orchards, seed storehouses and eventually, thankfully, even radio stations.

Those rock star dreams, even unrealised, never really fade completely though. The guitar still sits in the corner of the lounge, mostly just gathering dust. Every now and then though, usually after a few drinks too many, the stand gives up its mate for an hour or two and I lose myself in what I like to think of as my back-catalogue.

Maybe my songs weren't ALL useless... I'm just glad I wrote down most of the lyrics. Recently, somebody told me you never forget your own songs - I guess they must practice theirs more often than I rehearse mine.

In saying that, "...and a need for tears washes over me in one soul-tearing sweep?" Seriously? I think I just got the musical equivalent of an ice cream headache. Perhaps that's one that SHOULD have stayed back in high school.

Please tell me that isn't a box filled with teenage love, hope and heartbreak