Kind reader, I hope you'll allow me to tell you a story. It's kind of a sad story, and I think it's true. And just in case it is, the names involved have been changed to protect the (probably) guilty. It goes something like this...
Last winter, as I was minding mine and my wife's own business on a cold Sunday afternoon, I received a phone call from an old friend. Years before, see, this old friend and I used to be in bands that played an awful lot of shows together up and down the East coast, and because of this time together we'd acquired a fair estimation of each other's musical talents and abilities (whatever they might've been at the time). The phone call was due precisely to this shared history, my friend said, because as it turns out they're still a band and they're doing better than ever with a future bright and shiny. "Thing is, well, Karl left the band to pursue other things, and we've always said that if Karl ever quit we would love to call you, so..."
The conversation thus deepened towards specifics and details, and as it turned out their band had gotten signed to a major label and they were about to record their debut album. So, what did I think, and would I be at all interested in coming to check out their new stuff at the 9:15 Club on Saturday? I said "sure" as my head spun at the dramatic implications of this possible and entirely unexpected career-- no life-- change. What about babies? Rent? Would Mrs. Burly come on tour too? Will the music rock or be lame? etc. So Mrs. and I spent many subsequent hours talking about it all and trying to chart the best course through the approaching dawn of this new world. And see, that's just it-- from the very beginning we had simply assumed that, for all intents and purposes, it was our decision to make, because that's just usually the kind of assumption you make when you hear things like "we've always wanted you," "we love your stuff," "you're the best thing that's ever existed."
But nevertheless-- and for historical reasons beyond the skill of my fingers to trace-- I'd had an instinctive concern from the first four minutes of that fated phone call, which was Lead Singer Tad's singular obsession with his fragile mane, and more specifically, his probable horror at discovering my present lack thereof. See, back in our old days, I too was beginning to have challenges of that sort as well, so we used to spend no small amount of time talking about it all. Strategizing and commiserating our respective follicle fates, no option was off the table-- "I use Rogaine every day, you should try it too. It's gotten pretty cheap at Wal-mart." "Yeah. Have you looked into Bosley transplants? They seem legit. My folks will either get me that or a truck." The thing is, while that had most certainly been a shared concern during that time of our lives (what college boy takes baldness with ease?), I had since gone on to accept, nay, embrace my hairless future. But my concern right here and now on the phone was that the Tad I knew would never make such a peace with his.
So we small-talked our way through the rest of the conversation and ended with an expectant "see you Saturday at the 9:15!"
And being the type that doesn't like to spring stuff on people unawares-- and so I wouldn't walk backstage with a pre-emptively sweaty forehead-- I tried to not-so-subtly suggest via emailed photos that I'd long since given up the fight (my forehead always gets sweaty in awkward situations). (And since I know you're a visual learner, I'll give you an image: my appearance is one part Will Oldham, one part Stonewall Jackson, and two parts my parents. It was the trait that I'd acquired from the Good General-- that is, the secession of my hairline-- that, as mentioned, I just knew was gonna turn out to be the real problem.)
So Saturday night finally came and I entered their backstage room cautiously confident, but no sooner than the deep, warm hugs were over Tad was turning the conversation towards containment strategies-- hats and razors and new miracle pills-- and by such a maneuver immediately confirmed my suspicions that this indeed was a problem. Who goes straight to unfortunate-hairline-concealment tactics as the starter conversation when there's years' worth of catching up to be done???
My forehead was sweating.
So shortly later the show ended and we said our goodbyes and said we'd be in touch. Now it is true that I was invited to come back up to town to "jam" on some of their new stuff a couple weeks later, but if my thesis is correct that was merely a goodwill gesture and a concealment tactic in its own right-- "stylistic differences" makes for a much better pretext than does "you're bald." I guess I've already tipped my hand (is it reflecting off my forehead again?); this burgeoning new world went South fast. Feeling the winds blowing that way, I called Tad on my way home from the practice and told him that I didn't want him to feel pressured into giving me special treatment in their replacement search on account of our past, and that I wanted him to make whatever decision that was best for the band. No worries either way.
A long while of unreplied-to emails goes by, and eventually I get the "thanks so much! but no" response that I'd been expecting all along. They just haven't found the perfect fit yet, but they really do appreciate my time. Now, if you've read this far and you still think that I was rebuffed because of a few flubbed notes in practice, well, I don't know what to say. Don't you see? Hair has always been the over-arching concern for Tad, and, contrary to my hopes, they hadn't turned into the kind of band that rejoices in or flaunts its beautiful naturalness (read: indie as heck).
So, at the end of this whole affair all I could do was paraphrase Marx (Groucho, not Richard): I don't ever wanna be in a band that's "too cool" to be bald. They can have their gels and their carefully-messed swoops and their TRL teenage fanclub, and they can all go straight to the hot place.
All the best, guys!
Last winter, as I was minding mine and my wife's own business on a cold Sunday afternoon, I received a phone call from an old friend. Years before, see, this old friend and I used to be in bands that played an awful lot of shows together up and down the East coast, and because of this time together we'd acquired a fair estimation of each other's musical talents and abilities (whatever they might've been at the time). The phone call was due precisely to this shared history, my friend said, because as it turns out they're still a band and they're doing better than ever with a future bright and shiny. "Thing is, well, Karl left the band to pursue other things, and we've always said that if Karl ever quit we would love to call you, so..."
The conversation thus deepened towards specifics and details, and as it turned out their band had gotten signed to a major label and they were about to record their debut album. So, what did I think, and would I be at all interested in coming to check out their new stuff at the 9:15 Club on Saturday? I said "sure" as my head spun at the dramatic implications of this possible and entirely unexpected career-- no life-- change. What about babies? Rent? Would Mrs. Burly come on tour too? Will the music rock or be lame? etc. So Mrs. and I spent many subsequent hours talking about it all and trying to chart the best course through the approaching dawn of this new world. And see, that's just it-- from the very beginning we had simply assumed that, for all intents and purposes, it was our decision to make, because that's just usually the kind of assumption you make when you hear things like "we've always wanted you," "we love your stuff," "you're the best thing that's ever existed."
But nevertheless-- and for historical reasons beyond the skill of my fingers to trace-- I'd had an instinctive concern from the first four minutes of that fated phone call, which was Lead Singer Tad's singular obsession with his fragile mane, and more specifically, his probable horror at discovering my present lack thereof. See, back in our old days, I too was beginning to have challenges of that sort as well, so we used to spend no small amount of time talking about it all. Strategizing and commiserating our respective follicle fates, no option was off the table-- "I use Rogaine every day, you should try it too. It's gotten pretty cheap at Wal-mart." "Yeah. Have you looked into Bosley transplants? They seem legit. My folks will either get me that or a truck." The thing is, while that had most certainly been a shared concern during that time of our lives (what college boy takes baldness with ease?), I had since gone on to accept, nay, embrace my hairless future. But my concern right here and now on the phone was that the Tad I knew would never make such a peace with his.
So we small-talked our way through the rest of the conversation and ended with an expectant "see you Saturday at the 9:15!"
And being the type that doesn't like to spring stuff on people unawares-- and so I wouldn't walk backstage with a pre-emptively sweaty forehead-- I tried to not-so-subtly suggest via emailed photos that I'd long since given up the fight (my forehead always gets sweaty in awkward situations). (And since I know you're a visual learner, I'll give you an image: my appearance is one part Will Oldham, one part Stonewall Jackson, and two parts my parents. It was the trait that I'd acquired from the Good General-- that is, the secession of my hairline-- that, as mentioned, I just knew was gonna turn out to be the real problem.)
So Saturday night finally came and I entered their backstage room cautiously confident, but no sooner than the deep, warm hugs were over Tad was turning the conversation towards containment strategies-- hats and razors and new miracle pills-- and by such a maneuver immediately confirmed my suspicions that this indeed was a problem. Who goes straight to unfortunate-hairline-concealment tactics as the starter conversation when there's years' worth of catching up to be done???
My forehead was sweating.
So shortly later the show ended and we said our goodbyes and said we'd be in touch. Now it is true that I was invited to come back up to town to "jam" on some of their new stuff a couple weeks later, but if my thesis is correct that was merely a goodwill gesture and a concealment tactic in its own right-- "stylistic differences" makes for a much better pretext than does "you're bald." I guess I've already tipped my hand (is it reflecting off my forehead again?); this burgeoning new world went South fast. Feeling the winds blowing that way, I called Tad on my way home from the practice and told him that I didn't want him to feel pressured into giving me special treatment in their replacement search on account of our past, and that I wanted him to make whatever decision that was best for the band. No worries either way.
A long while of unreplied-to emails goes by, and eventually I get the "thanks so much! but no" response that I'd been expecting all along. They just haven't found the perfect fit yet, but they really do appreciate my time. Now, if you've read this far and you still think that I was rebuffed because of a few flubbed notes in practice, well, I don't know what to say. Don't you see? Hair has always been the over-arching concern for Tad, and, contrary to my hopes, they hadn't turned into the kind of band that rejoices in or flaunts its beautiful naturalness (read: indie as heck).
So, at the end of this whole affair all I could do was paraphrase Marx (Groucho, not Richard): I don't ever wanna be in a band that's "too cool" to be bald. They can have their gels and their carefully-messed swoops and their TRL teenage fanclub, and they can all go straight to the hot place.
All the best, guys!
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