![]() ![]() My band went farther than most and I’m reminded regularly that it laid the groundwork for a number of great things in my life, from my job to many of my friendships. The question I grapple with, though, is how do I deal with the fact that no one cares anymore?īefore you write this off as a pity party, I recognize it’s all gravy from here on out for me. The context of the way I make music has changed I do it on my own (with a handful of talented people making crucial contributions) and no longer for a living, but also because I can’t, and don’t want to stop doing it. I no longer have a band (you try scheduling a practice for a bunch of people in their mid-to-late 30s) and touring in any real capacity is no longer on the table. Between kids, I recorded and released two solo albums containing some of the best music I’ve written (as it should be?) that has been heard by hundreds and purchased by dozens. There were still songs I dabbled in the weird world of production music before ultimately finding a fulfilling job in music licensing. The band ended, amicably, when I turned 30 (as it should have?), and the next 10 years were spent doing “life” things: getting married, having children, getting a job, buying a house, and of course, starting a podcast. It remains, for better and worse, the defining creative experience of my life. We were never more than moderately successful on a grand scale-no one is clamoring for a reunion-but we dug in our heels and left a little mark. We toured extensively, signed to a well-regarded indie label, put out a handful of varyingly well-received records, played to very few people, played to lots of people, slept on a lot of floors, and spent a lot of time with like-minded people. The bulk of my 20s were spent in a rock band called Oxford Collapse.
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