Trois, my third opus, dropped at a crossroads in my journey. Early ’87, just hit 18, itching to ditch high school’s shackles, the Rocky Mountains calling for a summer rendezvous in a field biology dance.
Then came the snowstorm, a birthday bash turned car crash, my dad’s ride crumpling in the icy grip. Lou Malnati’s pizzeria in Peoria, Illinois, became my haunt. Washing dishes – a grind, man, but in the soap and suds, dreams brewed, and I realized the dishwater gig wasn’t my forever scene.
That winter, that spring, my bed was the cold, damp basement of my folks’ crib. Chills in the air, but my mind, oh, it was a buzzing hive of ideas. Upgraded to a Roland TR-505 Rhythm Composer, beats and grooves pulsating through the night. What was my sound, man? A heavy rocker like Def Leppard or Led Zeppelin? Or a folk punk, a Violent Femmes folk echo? Maybe an electronic punk, a DEVO beat? Still figuring out the symphony.
The basement, it was more than just four walls. Graduation knocking, the future looming, nights plagued with indecision and panic. Yet, down there, strangely calming – a sanctuary in the chaos, where my tunes found their whispers and my mind found peace.
Trois unfurls with the resonance of “Tangerine,” my nod to an unsung Led Zeppelin hymn. Simple chords by Jimmy Page, echoing through my cheap Strat copy. Playing with the soul, shifting an “A” to an “A minor” in the chorus – a tweak that traded dreamy vibes for urgency, a touch of impact.
Then, “What Thoughts Are Left,” a proud creation. My Strat copy, not just strumming, but dancing like a bass, a Saharan nomadic vibe wrapped in the lyrics, a journey through the sands of feeling.
“Don’t Feed the Demon,” a yarn spun for Tantrum, the band of my youth, set loose in a junior high 8th-grade talent show. My mom, recording the raw magic from the crowd.
Trois marked a shift, breaking free from sing-song rhymes to a stream of consciousness drift. Ideas, born in the moment, inked without self-critique. Not perfection, but the raw heartbeat, the essence of music waiting to be whispered to a band, notes dancing in the air.