Not Quite Looking at You

I remember a piece of advice my mom gave me when I was about 13 or 14 years old. I was getting ready to play music on stage with a band for the first time, and I was understandably nervous about standing in front of a room full of people.

She told me that if I got nervous, I should pick a spot at the back of the room, just above everyone’s eye level, and focus on it. To the audience, it would look like I was looking out at them, but I wouldn’t have to think about all those eyes looking back at me.

It was simple advice, but for some reason, it stuck.

Even today, after years of playing music, I’ll occasionally find myself on stage feeling a little uneasy about a particular song or an upcoming part. And out of nowhere, I’ll remember what Mom told me all those years ago. It’s interesting how a brief conversation from childhood can stay tucked away in your mind, waiting for just the right moment to resurface.

Recently, while scanning old family photographs, I started noticing just how much music has been woven into my life from the very beginning.

There was a piano in our house when I was little that I don’t even remember having. Apparently, I got a keytar for Christmas sometime in the 1980s, which seems like a perfectly appropriate gift for a kid growing up in that decade. I got my first real guitar around age 10 or 11, and by 14 or 15, I was playing on stage with a band.

That was before I could drive, which meant Mom was also responsible for hauling me and all my equipment around. Thanks, Mom.

I even got a drum kit one Christmas. Unfortunately, it ended up in the garage, which wasn’t exactly the most inviting place to practice. I suppose that helped steer me back toward the guitar.

Music was always around our family. I remember watching Mom practice singing for church, and I think seeing her enjoy music made an impression on me. We watched music videos together and listened to plenty of good oldies, which helped spark my interest in learning guitar.

Mom and her brothers were musical, and Dad had an interest in music, too. He even taught himself to play the ukulele more recently. Looking through those old photographs reminded me that music wasn’t something I suddenly discovered as a teenager. It had been there all along, quietly becoming part of who I was.

And it still is.

One of my favorite things about music has always been playing with other people. It doesn’t really matter whether we’re sitting around in someone’s living room or performing on stage. There’s a particular feeling that comes from a group of musicians finding the same groove.

When everyone is listening to each other, hitting the stops together, and settling into the rhythm, something just clicks. I imagine it’s a little like being on a sports team when everyone executes a play perfectly. Nobody has to explain what happened. Everyone just feels it.

Those moments are what make playing music so enjoyable to me. It’s not necessarily about performing for an audience. It’s about being part of something that only exists because everyone is contributing.

And every now and then, while I’m standing on stage enjoying one of those moments, I’ll remember being a nervous teenager getting ready for his first performance.

I’ll look toward the back of the room, just above eye level.

And I’ll think of Mom.