‘Guitarist wanted for female black metal group. Must be ok with a bit of corpse paint’.
Am I ok with a bit of corpse paint? I don’t really know what I am these days, but I think I’d be ok with a bit of corpse paint. A more pertinent question is whether these black metal ladies would be ok with a 38-yr old who is not that good at the guitar and can only come to rehearsals if she finds a babysitter.
I am trawling the small ads on my local version of Craigslist. My youngest child is about to start nursery, which means it’s time to think about going back to work. I have plenty of qualifications and experience, but I’ve been out of the workplace for nine years so the prospect is pretty daunting. And in any case, all I really want to do is join a metal band.
I have barely ever played with another musician before; the piano is a solo instrument, and as a young pianist I had only myself to rely on. There were a few gigs as an accompanist, and a disastrous evening as a last minute stand-in with the Liverpool Chamber Orchestra, performing a Brahms Quartet unrehearsed- despite counting furiously, I somehow finished about 20 seconds before the other instruments, and will never play Brahms again- that was the longest and most sheepish 20 seconds of my life. Consequently I never reached the dizzy heights of playing a piano concerto with a full orchestra.
The electric guitar is the opposite of a solo instrument; it yearns for accompaniment. Sure I’ve been thrashing away to backing tracks downloaded from the internet, but that’s starting to wear a bit thin- I need the visceral kick of a live drum beat, the thrill of an audience.
‘Just put out an ad looking for bandmates’ my guitar teacher suggested, as if it were that simple to start a band. And perhaps it is- after all Metallica were famously born when James Hetfield responded to an advertisement placed by drummer Lars Ulrich in a local newspaper.
I decided to start small, and a couple of weeks ago I put an ad in the school newsletter to start up a parents’ rock band. I wrote it after a few glasses of wine and sent it to the PTA president on a drunken whim, so I was mortified to see my text word-for-word in the newsletter the next day, replete with over-enthusiasm and exclamation marks.
‘You have basically humiliated yourself in front of your entire community’ said my husband helpfully. ‘The only solution really is to move out of the area’. I have yet to receive a single response to my ad. Tumbleweeds fill the ether, and people avoid my eyes in the school carpark.
This is a huge relief to my husband, but it’s also something of a relief to me; I don’t actually want to fill my garage with dads, nodding our way through Journey covers, making knowing guitar faces, arguing with the school bursar over who gets to play Slash’s part in Sweet Child O’ Mine. That scenario is the apotheosis of the midlife crisis I am pretending not to have. I want to be in a proper band, with original songs and tour buses and sex and drugs and vomit and hotel-room-smashing. Ok maybe not all of those things.
But let’s face it, I’m not ready to start my own band; name any standard metal riff and I can play it, but I haven’t a clue how to co-ordinate with other musicians. And anyone who has read my blog knows that my ‘original material’ is abysmal. I need to join someone else’s band, with someone else in charge. What I secretly want to do is join my guitar teacher’s band, because that would avoid me having to make any effort whatsoever, and he could carry me through any difficult guitar parts just like he does in our lessons. But since he is a highly technical mathcore virtuoso who has devoted his life to music and is about to go on a big European tour, and moreover probably finds my existence the most embarrassing aspect of his life, this idea is typical of the spectacularly wishful thinking which has yet to get me anywhere.
So here I am looking through the classifieds.
‘We are two fifteen year old boys hoping to start a metalcore band. Influences Korn, Slipknot, Bullet For My Valentine. Please get in touch if you play guitar or drums’. Sure, and perhaps after band practice I can make them a snack, help them with their homework and then drive them back to their parents’ houses.
‘We are FUCKWHORE!!! Brutal hardcore punk. We need a fucking sick guitarist, fucking losers need not apply!!!’. I may be a fucking loser but that’s not why I won’t be applying to your band, gentlemen.
‘Soft rock cover band needs rhythm guitarist. Bon Jovi, Heart, Whitesnake. Wedding gigs etc. Contact Greg’. Greg, you are my nightmare.
‘Established 80s Hair Metal tribute band seeks new shredder, age unimportant but must look the part’. God, that would be my dream- to wear spandex leggings, leather bustier and a huge perm, and play blistering solos with abandon. But even if I was a better shredder I would never have the balls to apply for this, because although the ad doesn’t mention it, what they really want is someone with actual balls. 80s Hair Metal was all about the misogyny- can you imagine a female member of Motley Crue, Poison, Guns N Roses? Nope. Perhaps if I was twenty years younger they might hire me as a groupie, but they wouldn’t let me near a guitar.
So the search continues. Any band that sounds remotely metal tends to be looking for a drummer or vocalist- there is very little demand for guitarists, because everybody around here seems to play the guitar already.
There’s a spectre looming; the spectre of Last Chances. Last chance to change career, last chance to climb the corporate ladder, last chance to make a name for myself other than ‘Mummy’. Last chance to escape the fate of becoming a permanent housewife, resigned to gym classes, bake sales and school runs. And behind that spectre lies the encroaching world of work- the 9 to 5, the office politics, the suit and heels, the water cooler gossip, the deadlines.
Last chance to become a guitar goddess. Maybe I will give Fuckwhore a call…..