The Chronicles of One Hand Clapping, Volume One: Greatest Hits of a Z-list Musician

At some point in my early childhood, apropos of nothing, I developed an obsession with Michael Jackson that lasted most of pre-puberty. To this day, there exists footage of a tiny me (approximately 4-years old) in footy pajamas re-enacting the “Bad” music video as it plays on TV. My parents are in possession of this tape, and have brought it out on many occasions to embarrass me in front of girlfriends. In their defense, the video is hilarious and I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same to my child, given the opportunity. Ridiculous as it is, there is an unmistakable burning in my eyes as I moonwalk and crotch-grab around the living room. To this day when I watch the tape, there’s a stern look on my chubby lil’ face that clearly says: “Deal with it, bitch. I’m a rock star.”

Events such as this were the beginning of a 10+ years-long struggle to express myself in song. It hints at need to be not just heard, but felt and experienced. But most of all, it represents the planting of a seed that eventually grew strong enough to carry me through my teen years. I have many fond memories of my past as a local-music footnote, and I’ve assembled the highlights in the first volume of The Chronicles of One Hand Clapping, entitled: “Greatest Hits of a Z-List Musician”

TRACK 1 - Behind the Eight Ball

            In 8^th grade, I taught myself bass guitar in order to form a band with my best friends Jared and Mike. We had all bonded over a love of Green Day, and together discovered darker, heavier music that spoke to us as developing malcontents. We soon decided it was imperative that we form a band and write songs that would force the unsuspecting masses to listen. ‘Cause we had something to say, goddamnit! We started by learning songs like “Brain Stew” and “Beautiful People”, but soon began writing our own songs, packed-to-the-gills with rebellion. Eventually we met Fred, who was a drummer. And all of the sudden, we had a real band. We called ourselves Mask, Fred (also a gifted artist) designed a logo, and we immediately made t-shirts to sell to our girlfriends.

            Our debut performance was the Dodd Middle School talent show. A small group of our close friends stood at the foot of the stage and cheered their guts out as we blasted through “Anthem of Youth”, an original song with lyrics about burying the old status quo and thriving as the new generation. When we got offstage, I still remember the buzzing in my head as my then-girlfriend told me I was a rock-star. We didn’t win anything, but we were known throughout the entire school (both 7^th and 8^th graders) as the first local band to perform original material. I’m still pretty proud of that.

            Three days later Mask played it’s second and final gig at the Y-Games, an extreme sports competition held by the Southington YMCA. At some point that summer, we decided to call it quits. But that was just the beginning…

TRACK 2 – "A Rise to Glory (?)"

             It wasn’t until sophomore year of high school that I got my first real taste of the limelight. I was tapped by some upperclassmen to play in their band Glory Rise. I again played bass, and eventually added backing vocals to my repertoire with some striking harmony lines. The songs were more complex, the musicianship more impressive, but it wasn’t until I introduced an element of stage presence that we really started making an impression.

            During the closing number of one of our first live shows (our heaviest tune), I thought it would be totally bitchin’ if I jumped into the mosh pit while playing. Unbeknownst to me, I bashed an audience member in the face with the headstock of my bass. After the show, my friend (who had been taping the set) told me what I had done. I immediately sought out the poor fellow I had accidentally assaulted to attempt an apology. When I found him he was holding his mouth, blood trickling through his fingers, and I offered my sincerest reconciliation. But before I could get through “Dude, I’m so sorry…” he stopped me mid-sentence and assured me that the show “fucking rocked” and we were “fucking awesome”. That night, I went home feeling justified and curiously power-hungry.

            Later that year we played a show at Cheshire Academy, the local private school, in a cafétorium packed with sheltered, trust-funded coeds begging for a reason to rock out. This time, my grand finale was to smash an old broken guitar on stage. After a few whacks, it exploded into chunks of wood shrapnel and scattered into the crowd (who ate up like candy). Afterwards, as I rushed to get my gear offstage so the next band could set up, a friend of mine jokingly asked me to sign a piece of the guitar. I graciously obliged and went back to breaking down my rig.

            Next thing I know, there is a line of uniformed students asking for my autograph. Objectively I knew we were all just swept up in the heat of the moment, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the hell out of signing my name for whomever over and over. In some barely-significant way, I had made an impact on this group of strangers. That feeling has always stuck with me, and I crave it to this day. And if that wasn’t enough, a few plaid-skirted girls asked me to sign their boobs. Fucking awesome.

TRACK 3 – “The Metal Years”

            I was eventually kicked out of Glory Rise due to creative differences. And it wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I joined Attached, a heavy metal outfit comprised of spirited ruffians from the year below me. We rock SO hard. I composed a dizzying array of slap-bass to accompany their unyielding assault of chunky prog-metal riffs, and we made ourselves a force to be reckoned with within the pitiful excuse we had for a local music scene.

            While most of our 1+ years as a band has in hindsight proved to be unremarkable, the one truly stand-out moment was the night we played Toad’s Place in New Haven, CT. For those unfamiliar (which accounts for most of the world) Toad’s is a rock club that has been around since the late ‘60s/early ‘70s and has played host to the likes of the Rolling Stones, The Doors, U2, and Metallica in it’s hayday. Hanging out in the backstage area and performing on that stage, through that sound system made a lasting impression on me, despite the sparse attendance and lack-luster crowd response. I may not have autographed anyone’s private parts, but I played the same venue as Jim Morrison.

            Since then, I’ve all but abandoned a career in music. For brief spurts of time, I’ve toyed with the idea of various melodic endeavors, but nothing sticks quite like it use to. The friendships formed through the years I spent in the local music scene have lasted to this day, and are some of the most impactful and meaningful relationships I’ve ever had. No matter what projects I busy myself with these days, there’s always an element of the song-and-dance man I once was. No matter where life takes me, I’ll always be a bit of a moonwalker; a smidge of a guitar-smasher with a sprinkling of pure rock-star. Deal with it, bitches. I dare you.

The Chronicles of One Hand Clapping: Prologue

        Before I can regale you with my day-to-day struggles as an entertainer-in-the-making, I feel that some context might be helpful to you, my beloved audience. In order for you to fully understand the uniquely first-world problems I have been confronted with and will continue to face in my battle for notoriety, a little back-story on my 25 years-worth of creative endeavors will serve as the context you would no doubt beg for if you existed outside of my head.

These tales (heretofore known as “The Chronicles of One Hand Clapping”) will be divided into volumes; with each entry detailing one of the many types of artistic expression I have tried my hand at over the past quarter-century. You will hear of my time as a local music sensation, of my pre-teen obsession with stage acting, and my most recent soul-crushing efforts to make it as a filmmaker. You will read the first piece of fiction I ever put to paper (rightfully awarded a Check Plus Plus by my second grade teacher) and relive my traumatic introduction to the basics special FX makeup design.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll find it hard to follow my confusing (or what some would call “incorrect”) use of punctuation and countless run-on sentences. But hopefully in the end you’ll understand what drives me to make the seemingly haphazard decisions that have gotten me this far and will continue to carry me on my epic journey through the forest of obscurity. Hopefully you will conclude that I'm not as delusional as I may seem. In which case, please let me know as I am constantly questioning my own sanity and would appreciate your input.

But who knows? No great life story is complete without a heavy undercurrent of uncertainty. Will our hero emerge from the disorienting darkness of the forest into the bright light of notoriety? Only time will tell. But what series of events propelled him into the depths of said forest? For that, read on in… “The Chronicles of One Hand Clapping”!

Something of a Mission Statement

Hello, cyberspace! My name is Mike and I am a storyteller, which is a nice (albeit pretentious) way of saying I crave an audience. If I lived in New York or Los Angeles I would probably be a struggling stand-up comedian, or a lurker at open-mic nights and improv classes, or a shut-in who is constantly shopping around un-sellable scripts. Instead, I live in a small New England town that could best be described as an all-ages retirement community.

Cheshire, Connecticut is a beautiful town for those who dream of white picket fences and little league tournaments. We have blue-ribbon public schools, a nationally ranked marching band, and an adorable community theater program. But for the few of us who want to do something slightly more ambitious than a summer production of “Oliver!”, there’s not much in terms of creative fulfillment. Cheshire is really just a distillation of the Connecticut stereotype: upper-middle class, sweater-wearing Caucasians who consider it a quiet place to keep their kids safe from the lesser riffraff populating major cities. Connecticut is the ultimate suburb, and Cheshire is it’s creamy vanilla center.

It’s a great place to settle down, sure, and I would never want to take that away from those who have done their time living the hectic life in more exciting places. But for those of us who grew up here and want to dip a toe into waters considered by their parents to be “dangerous” or “unstable”, it feels more like a prison than a safe-haven. Unless you’re Yale University material, it’s gonna be a Herculean task to fight your way out of obscurity. And obscurity has never been more alluringly comfortable than it is in the ‘Shire.

It is that superficial comfort level that has turned most of the interesting creative people I grew up with into desk-bound pencil pushers climbing the corporate ladder. Friends of mine who use to dream of lighted stages and art-house installations have resigned themselves to faceless fates because of a community that does nothing to support artistic aspiration. In a state that provides endless entry-level positions in law, medicine, and politics, there is a shocking lack of support for those of us with creative urges.

This blog is the first step in my attempt to break free from the creative shackles of my hometown. I can hear the dismissive cries of “Why don’t you just move?!?” rising from the depths of the internet as I compose this melodramatic message in a bottle. A question I will answer in time, but not right now. I’ve already wasted enough of your time (all none of you reading this). Through this blog I hope to detail the struggle blow by blow for you, my probably imaginary audience. And in the unlikely event that I gain the notoriety I so desperately crave, perhaps I can lazily publish these chronicles as an inside look at the humble beginnings of a celebrated storyteller. Here’s to clinging desperately to delusions of grandeur!