A Gun Called Life

A Gun Called Life. 

The bulk of my musical career, if you could call it such a thing, was spent in or around the musicians that made up A Gun Called Life. Beau Moseley on guitar, Ricky Kidd on drums, Chris McDaniel on the other guitar, Jamie Warner on bass, and myself as singer (which is a loose term when you're in a metal band). I don't know exactly when it all started, possibly in 2003 or 2004, it was born in a waffle house, over late night coffee and a pack of Marlboro 27s. Jamie was the cook, I had just gotten off of work from the Mcdonalds across the street, and everyone else had time on their hands.

I guess you could say it was destiny.

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We started off practicing at Ricky's place, but that was short lived and we didn't even have all the equipment needed yet. So over the next few weeks we quested for the scattered remains of our music equipment and, once fully acquired, managed to somehow cram every amp, guitar, bass drum, mic stand, pre amp, and cymbal in Jamie's basement bedroom. I cannot begin to illustrate both the fun and annoyance of singing in a water bed. I'm sure it was awkward for Jamie to sleep some place where a restless night of tossing and turning could both startle a high hat and knock over a mic stand.  We stayed there until a series of events, I'm not sure which exactly, led to us getting kicked out. (or politely asked to leave depending on your side of story)

In desperation we then set the band up in the basement (A Gun Called Life HQ has been in 4 different basements all together) of a guy's house whose nickname was Groupie. As a note, he had this nickname well before us, and well after. While he wasn't a total stranger, I was the only person who had met him. He was someone I hired at McDonalds whom had tattoos and enjoyed bands that yelled a lot while beating the crap out of their instruments, so I thought he would be okay with the arrangement. He was.

We broke up sometime in 2006. Over things that I cannot even remember, but likely it was over music composition as is the norm with bands. At a certain point we could never keep a bass player, the drummer had a kid, and I got a office job far far away which meant the drive to practice became an issue.

Sometimes people ask me what it's like being in a band, and to them I say these things..

Being in a band, especially one that's together for an extended period of time, is like being in a relationship with a cracked out supermodel who possesses tendencies to spontaneously morph when shaken slightly. The really bad times being the days you had to slap Lizzy, the crack juggling metaphor, with a few stern words before she could realize that fire, no matter what John's twice removed niece had said in passing last night, is rather hot.

"NO." You say to her as she gives you melancholy eyes teamed with a machine gun sniffle and a quivering lip, "We will not change our style to Emo, now lets be origina- HEY! Put that down!"

You have to be strict with her because yesterday she wanted to be country, and tomorrow she'll want to be rockabilly. Yet, she may go a whole year and not want to change a single thing, at all, even when she knows all too well the songs and style are going stale.

It's not all bad though. Playing on stage is a feeling altogether indescribable. A feeling that most people never get to experience, which is a shame. You're constantly stretching your creative muscles, and without realizing it you're doing hours and hours of aerobic activity. There's almost always beer involved, and more times than not there's some girl out there who wants to watch the band practice, those girls tended to bring friends.

And who could forget the band girlfriends, whom were the pillars of A Gun Called Life? It was they who ran the band, not us. It was they who gave the perpetually out of work musicians rides to practice and money for cigarettes. Who else was going to remind the guys they're hungry and should stop playing long enough to eat? Who else will say awkwardly, "you um...play your instruments well" when we obviously blew gargantuan ass balls. And, if I do say so myself, our band girlfriends were typically the hottest out there.

Bands fill a void unlike any other because there's always goals and milestones, there's always improvement to be made, and generally you're rewarded on a scale most cannot comprehend. Your talent can shine through, your hard work pays off and can sometimes pay off immediately. All your emotions, the ones that most jobs or groups of friends frown upon, are expressed and is a necessary component of the overall process.