“The real question is what to live for. And I can’t answer it. Except another one of your records. And another chance for me to write. Art for art’s sake, corny as that sounds.” –Lester Bangs, Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung
Lester Bangs and I have a lot in common. At least, I’d like to think so. We each have December birthdays, share a love for music, and are published writers—though his published works are much more prominent than mine. We could have been great friends, but tragically, he passed away in 1982 at the age of 33. Today, his legacy lives on in his writing, and in the 2000 film, Almost Famous, which follows William Morris, a 15-year-old writer for Rolling Stone, as he navigates the psychedelic and mind-bending world of touring in the 1970s. Bangs’ character, portrayed by Phillip Seymour Hoffman, serves as a mentor for young Morris. In a scripted phone conversation between the two writers, Morris thanks Bangs for being home to answer the call. Bangs responds, “I’m always home. I’m uncool.”
And that’s where my story begins.
It was just another boring night in Montgomery, Alabama. I sat in my room scrolling through Tumblr, scanning the endless blogs related to my favorite bands and television shows. Then BAM! In the seemingly endless amount of unvarying posts, there sat an open call for writers. A young, aspiring music photographer was hoping to take her career to the next level by starting an online music magazine. For years, I had gone to concerts and longed to be a part of the music industry, but having no musical ability, I had no idea how to turn my dream into a reality. For days, I pondered over the idea of submitting an application.
Do I have time to dedicate myself to writing for a publication? Is my writing good enough to be published?
I pushed the doubt to the back of my mind, and in a late night delirium, I submitted my application. Weeks passed, and there was no word from the publication.
“I didn’t get the job,” I kept saying to myself. “I’m just not cut out to be a writer.”
I grieved the loss of my non-existent career as a music writer and moved on with my life.
Then, it came.
An email.
But not just any email.
A confirmation email.
The email I had been waiting to grace my inbox for over a month.
“Greetings,” the email started. “I would like to extend a welcome to being involved with Highlight Magazine!”
I nearly collapsed on the floor in a fit of excitement. Before this moment, I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. Teaching was an option with my English degree, but it wasn’t a career I was dying to pursue. Music had always been a constant in my life. After going to concert after concert, I knew I wanted to be involved in the music industry somehow. I had no clue that my decision to apply as a writer to Highlight would lead me on a path to discovery. Once I regained my composure, I continued to read the email and let it sink in that I was one step closer to my newfound dream of becoming a music writer.
My first article was published in Highlight Magazine in January of 2012. By April of the same year, I wrote my first cover story for the publication on a pop rock band named A Rocket To The Moon. Highlight was a very small music magazine back then, but I was still grateful for the opportunity to put my work center stage for our few hundred followers to read.
At 12:01 a.m. on April 3rd, 2012, the issue went live. With the click of a button, my words were now available for anyone with Internet access to see. Words, which had previously been exclusively mine, were sent out into the world to be shared and cherished by hundreds of other people. Would they treasure them like I did? Would they criticize them? It was like sending my child to kindergarten and watching them take on the world for the first time alone.
The support from the band and their label was astounding. I never knew a simple Facebook post or tweet could affect me in such a positive way. This was the first time I saw acknowledgement of my writing from a band. As an inexperienced music writer, I was just happy to see that the band and their label enjoyed reading what I wrote and helped to promote it. A Rocket To The Moon was at a great place in their music career with a new album on the way and nothing but exciting things to look forward to.
But, all good things must come to an end.
Almost two years later, I found myself scurrying up I-65 to Birmingham on my way to see A Rocket To The Moon in concert one last time. Unfortunately, the two years that passed since I wrote their cover story had brought many changes, and this tour would be their last.
“Nothing ever quite dies, it just comes back in a different form.”—Lester Bangs
I arrive at the venue roughly four hours before the doors open, as is ritual for my concert-going friends and I. The hours that pass sitting outside on the hot July concrete are filled with memories of previously attended concerts and emotional stories about how A Rocket To The Moon’s music has been such a positive impact on so many young lives. There’s a nervous energy among the waiting crowd. I meet fans that have never seen A Rocket to the Moon live, I meet fans that are following the tour, and I meet fans that are seeing the band for the twentieth time. There is no hierarchy of fans, though. No one tells the stories in an arrogant or snooty way. No one proclaims to love A Rocket To The Moon more than another person. The stories are told with enthusiasm and nostalgia as the last performance creeps upon us.
Soon, the procession of giddy fans relocates to the interior of the venue.
If you’ve never been to a concert filled with teenage girls, here’s how this process goes down:
There is no calm walk to the stage. It’s a full-on sprint. They haven’t waited outside for hours and hours to be cut off from a spot on the barricade by someone who just waltzed up into the line a few seconds before the doors opened.
How do I know? I’ve been that girl, and I was ruthless.
My friends and I would often create a “brick wall” in order to keep the stragglers from getting in front of us. The formation of this “wall” consisted of us locking arms and firmly planting our feet on the ground. I would calmly whisper to my friends, who were of smaller stature than I, “Stay strong!” To which they would reply, “I’ll try.” Together, we were undefeatable. These latecomers would try to push their way through, but little did they know who they were up against.
“Excuse me,” they would say. “I’m just trying to get to my friends who are right up at the front.”
Oh, really? Wow, isn’t that convenient? Not buying it, honey. Find some other person to fool.
It may sound dumb or weird that we had this sort of method, but stand in the Alabama summer heat for four hours without shade, and then come talk to me.
After settling into our spots inside the venue, there is no going anywhere. We are trapped. If you so much as move an inch, the people around you move as well. Your personal space bubble has expanded to include four other people, one on each side of your body. Comfy, right?
After doors, we have one hour until the show starts. If we’re lucky, the show will start early, putting an end to the pre-show anxiety that’s been rapidly building since we entered the venue. The giddy fans are clumped together near the front of the stage while the rest of the crowd lingers a few feet behind in a more spaced out formation. The air smells of overheated bodies, alcohol and a conglomeration of perfume from Bath & Body Works.
30 minutes until curtain.
Aimless chatter. Faint music plays over the loud speakers.
15 minutes.
Nervous anticipation. The crowd mindlessly sings along to the music.
5 minutes.
Fidgety movements. The music fades.
0 minutes.
The lights go out. Deafening screams fill the room. Camera flashes cast shadows on the stage.
Curtain.
Four figures appear.
The screaming only gets louder.
And it begins.
There is an energy in the room that can only be described as a uniform feeling of elation. We all know it will be the last time we will see A Rocket To The Moon perform live so every second of the show requires our undivided attention and unrestrained participation. The performance belongs to us as much as it does to the band.
For 45 minutes, we are in a trance. Nothing outside of this moment exists. Fears, insecurities, day-to-day worries— they disappear. It’s just the music and us.
Forty-five minutes feel more like 45 seconds, and sooner than we know it, the show is over. The four figures on the stage take a bow and leave.
Reality begins to set in. That was it. As soon as we walk out of the doors of the venue, A Rocket To The Moon does not exist anymore.
When the music ceases and the crowd dwindles down, I walk to the lobby area in hopes of running into a member of the band. Luckily, they are there, waiting behind the merch table, each heavily clad in plaid, leather and sweat, to greet our sad eyes and smiling faces. I approach them with my own copy of their Highlight cover story and explain who I am and why I want the issue to be signed. I watch each member, light up with joy, thumbing through the pages with eagerness like a kid tearing through gift-wrapped presents on Christmas morning. The excitement follows with hugs and words of thanks and gratitude.
“I haven’t seen one in person yet,” drummer Andrew Cook says.
“I wrote the story on you guys,” I blush.
“You wrote it?” he replies. “Wow! That’s awesome! Thank you so much for the kind words.”
At this time, I am a puddle on the floor. Could this night get any better? A few seconds later, I find out the answer.
Andrew, whose beard has mesmerized me momentarily, motions for A Rocket To The Moon’s bassist Eric Halvorsen, a lanky and slightly awkward fellow, to come over to where we are standing.
Andrew shows Halvo, as he is affectionately called, the issue, and he beams with joy.
I watch as they both look through the pages filled with their pictures and my words. Time seems to slow down, and I try to fully take in the moment, but it is soon interrupted by other fans eager for Andrew and Halvo’s attention.
They sign my copy of the issue, and I leave the venue with a boost of confidence and a heavy heart.
Rest In Peace, A Rocket To The Moon.
It was in that moment that I realized what I wanted to do in my career: write words to encourage, promote and influence the work others are doing in their own profession.
In Dead Poet’s Society, Robin Williams’ character says, “No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.” In that moment of seeing the direct result of my writing, I understood the importance of this quote. While my words may not have changed the whole world, they made a significant impact on four guys in a band, and to me, that meant more than the world.
Since writing A Rocket To The Moon’s story for Highlight, I have written 11 other cover stories, countless smaller features andtons of album reviews. With each piece I contribute, my love for music grows and my writing improves. I may never be able to fully explain what the opportunity to write for Highlight means to me. It has opened a door for other writing jobs, including a spot as a music journalist for Substream Magazine, a nationally published music magazine.
When I decided to take on a job with Substream, I had to consider what that meant in regards to my writing for Highlight. I didn’t want to stop writing for Highlight, but I also didn’t want to give up an opportunity to write for a magazine sold in bookstores across the country.
But then I thought, “Why do I have to choose?”
So, I didn’t choose. I took on both.
At first, it was difficult to juggle writing for two publications. It still is difficult. There are times I want to throw in the towel and quit because of conflicting deadlines. Throw in classes and a job as the editor-in-chief of the school paper, and things can often get messy.
I don’t have much of a social life outside of school and my writing jobs, but at this point in my life, I don’t mind staying in on a Friday night to write an album review or article because I’m making small steps towards achieving my dreams.
“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else while you’re uncool.”—Lester Bangs
