All I Ever Wanted Is To Be A Musician And For Music To Be Easy

At my age, most people have given up on their dreams. They go to college, settle down, get steady careers. Pretty soon, they’ve spent so much time on the corporate money-go-round they can’t even remember what got their engines going in the first place. But I could never see myself holding down a nine-to-five like that. See, I’ve spent my whole life determined to rock ’n’ roll on my own terms.

Truth be told, all I’ve ever wanted is to be a musician and for being a musician to be really easy.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve hoped that someday, somehow, I could ascend to the ranks of sonic superstardom without any hard work whatsoever: no long nights practicing riffs or struggling to pen lyrics that’d inspire millions. Nope, my sincere prayer to the rock gods has always been that I’d just wake up one day and—without any actual legwork on my part—suddenly be as talented and beloved as John Lennon or David Bowie.

Of course, I grew up in the ’90s, so my real childhood idols were the gods of grunge: Kurt Cobain, Eddie Vedder, Chris Cornell. I’d have done anything to be like them, as long as it wasn’t something tough like “learning scales” or “figuring out how to strum.” What I wanted more than anything was to just get up on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, ask if they were “ready to motherfucking rock,” shred a face-melting solo on my vintage ’74 Fender Stratocaster, and be able to do that without needing any preparation or skill of any kind.

That’s my dream—and no one can take it away from me!

I remember first seeing Nirvana on MTV’s Unplugged back in ’93. Even as a teen, I knew what that band had sacrificed to be there. And I said, “No fucking way am I doing even a fraction of that.” I wanted to blow past the years of failure and rejection, thank you very much, and just instantly get to the part where I’m ripping off my shirt and jumping into a crowd of screaming rock acolytes.

That’s what first inspired me to pick up my dad’s old Gibson Les Paul. From the second I felt that strap around my shoulder, I was hooked. I didn’t practice chords or fingerings or whatever musicians do. Nope, I just closed my eyes and sat there, imagining huge crowds that sang along to my choruses, held up lighters, and begged to sleep with me after the show. At that moment, I realized this was my one true calling in life—and by “this,” I mean getting magically transported to those thrilling, lofty heights without having to exert myself in the slightest.

Over the years, whenever I’ve been deterred by my lack of success, I just think about how hard other rock icons have had it: Brian Wilson had an abusive dad who made him practice harmonies every night. Rod Stewart even worked in a cemetery before he made it! In that sense, I consider myself lucky, because I’m hoping to skip over all that annoying stuff to the part where I’m selling out Madison Square Garden and putting out album after album that will revolutionize popular music forever.

Some people might doubt me for thinking I could ever get a multiyear, multimillion-dollar record deal without spending more than a few minutes playing an instrument. They might call my dreams “unrealistic” or “impractical.” But hey, don’t forget that even the Beatles used to be a no-name band grinding it out in Hamburg. And the only things standing between me and them are a methodical work ethic, years learning the fundamentals of music, once-in-a-generation talent, and a willingness to do things that are even slightly uncomfortable to attain my goals.

Also, it looks like getting calluses really hurts, so I don’t want to do that, either.

Until the day I finally make it, though, I’m not going to sweat the small stuff. My plan is just to sit back and try to enjoy the ride. Because one day, when I hit it big and can finally quit my day job, I’ll know that all this laziness and absence of effort will have been totally worth it. 

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