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Still, I wasn't put off. Scribbling songs into my teens, in the margins of my school notebooks and on napkins over dinner, I had hopes of one day producing something of worth that could capture people's ears, just as my musical heroes had captured mine. As the years went by, though, instead of writing songs, I got better and better at coming up with reasons why I shouldn't. Years later, though, I spent an afternoon with my grandfather that changed my mind. My grandfather was dying, and in what turned out to be the last time we saw each other, he noted many of his regrets. Specifically, he spoke of things he'd started and allowed to gather dust. It was easy to imagine that one day I'd be in his position, head full of things I wish I had done. So when I made my list of things to do before I was gathering dust, a few items stood out. One of these was "record an album." Just writing it down made my heart beat faster. That old fantasy, I thought...still, armed with a fresh perspective from my grandfather, the reasons not to at least explore it further no longer seemed so persuasive. In fact, it helped to clarify what I wanted: it wasn't about making an album that sold millions of copies. I just wanted to hear the songs, the bass lines, the harmonies, and the guitar leads the way I heard them in my head. Rationale, I thought, might have to take a backseat. I didn't have a clue where to start. I spent days crafting an ad to find other musicians, and then days more to put the flyers around town. Weeks went by -- no response. Zero. But when old doubts started to creep back, and I thought about moving on, I was energized by some lines in a book I was reading at the time. There was a character in it whose motto was "Two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it..." Elaborating, she said she had learned "not to worry about things that didn't matter." I kept looking. One night a couple of months later, I went to a small local club to hear some new bands play. I saw three groups perform and one in particular was good. At the bar after their gig, I bumped into their guitarist Greg and congratulated him. Over beers, we got talking about music and ended up exchanging email addresses; vowing to play some day soon. We met up a few weeks later - this time with a couple of guitars. He wanted to hear a few of my songs. I was nervous and played awkwardly at first, but remembering why I was here -- "two tears"! -- and I started to loosen up. From there, momentum gathered. Greg liked the music. And, importantly, he figured we'd have a good time recording. Having just built a home studio for his own band, Greg offered to record some tracks when he was available. Initially, we were going to record just five songs. But with me having lived with them for so long, we burned through the basic tracks of thirteen songs in two days. During weekends and any sparetime we had, we added more instruments over the next months. The songs began to take shape. They were long, intense days, punctuated with brief coffee breaks. Most of the time I could hardly believe my luck as to where I was and what I was doing. That nine-year-old self was back in the room buzzing with ideas. If we could capture the atmosphere we felt in the room, the mad joy of making something from nothing, then we knew we could make something of worth. Twelve full days of recording later, at a bargain cost of $1,000, I had made an album. Coming up with the album's title wasn't hard. In homage to the spirit in which it was made, the album was called Please Yourself. When we finished the final mix, I sat back, closed my eyes, and listened to the whole album for the first time. Thirteen songs that had been stuck in my head for years now spilled out in full stereo, filling the room. Relief ran through my bloodstream. My mind, body, and bank account could all fall to pieces, but this couldn't be taken away. I knew, whether or not I lived another five years, or another fifty, that "recording an album," was, for me, an experience that I would remember for the rest of my life. As for my grandfather, he held on for some time after I had last seen him, so we'd continue to speak on the phone (he was in another country) from time to time. By the end, he was really ready to go. Just before he died, though, he heard the songs. I managed to mail him one of the first copies of the finished album. Calling him up one last time, I made sure to tell him how much that afternoon months before had meant. And for the very first time, he told me how proud he was and left me with some parting words: "I didn't know you could sing!"
Click here to hear a few tracks from Mike's album. Next on his 2DO List is to play these songs live with a full band...
(c) Michael Ogden 2005
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