Paying Attention
In response to a question I was asked about having "I will live for experience" on my list of vows. You know, I probably could've better stated it as, "I will pay attention."
I saw Henry, Ruby and Charley be born. I didn’t see-see them be born—I stayed up by mom’s head and shoulders—but I was there.
Forty-some evenings, I spent a few hours in the same room as Bob Dylan.
One time, I was in a club in Los Angeles called The Opium Den to see Daniel Lanois and his band perform, this was just a couple months after the release of the Bob Dylan record Time Out of Mind which Lanois produced, and I noticed Alyssa Milano across the way, but more specifically I noticed Alyssa Milano across the way and she was checking me out.
Listen, I’m serious.
It’s true.
It was that close to when Time Out of Mind came out.
In late-1995, I shook Bruce Springsteen’s hand, and we stared right into each other’s eyes, and we each said “Thank you.”
When I had the chance to do the same with Paul Westerberg, I nervously chose not to. (But my ex did!)
There are a number of musicians who are among my favorite-ever musicians who at one point in my life I may have completely lost control of my bodily functions at the very thought of ever meeting them, much less having a conversation with them, but I later got to to know each of them really well, and I came to understand that they are each—in fact and in reality—fallible human beings like the rest of us.
And now on occasion one of them will call me on the phone and I will silence the ringer because, say, I’m doing something at work, or I’m spreading crunchy almond butter on a toasted slice of sprouted grain bread.
And I won’t even call them back, I’ll just text them a little later and ask, “What’s up?”
When the band that became Go Dog Go first started rehearsing in Mark’s basement, we wouldn’t have dared dream that we would ever one day play at Columbia Street West, the most popular music venue in the city at the time, but a couple years later we were the biggest draw at Columbia Street West, we could pick whatever night we wanted to play including the night before Thanksgiving, even though with the exception of our singer’s voice we were not nearly as talented as our peers, but, no one could deny that we were utterly gobsmacked by the pure revelry of playing rock and roll music, and it was not lost on us what a gift it was that we got to do it, and especially to do so loudly and joyfully.
Usually, that’s all it takes.
A few years ago, I bought each of my kids the entire Replacements discography, because I wanted to be sure they will have Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash when they need it, because I wanted to be sure they will have All Shook Down when they need it.
I spent a memorable, boozy night with Tommy Stinson. And a couple with Tim Rogers. And more than a couple with Ike Reilly.
David Grisman played mandolin on the recordings of a couple songs that my friends and I wrote.
I thought it was cool when it happened, but 15 years later my friends and I spent the pandemic listening to a 10-episode podcast series about David Grisman playing mandolin on the recordings of a couple songs on the album American Beauty by The Grateful Dead, and then I really thought it was cool.
I was roadie and merch manager for [REDACTED] on a tour across the Eastern United States.
One day, [REDACTED] had me drive him an hour or so to his manager’s farmhouse in rural Maryland for a business meeting, while the band was setting up in Annapolis. He layed flat on his back on the floor in the middle of his manager’s office for the entirety of the conversation, and at one point asked, “What about Emmylou—does she still hate me?”
It wasn’t funny, but it just delighted me.
On that same tour, [REDACTED] was talking to me about his lead guitar player, who was rather uptight, tense, nervous, and never not discreetly nipping on a flask. [REDACTED] said to me, “He’s just incorrigible, Matt. What he needs is, what he needs is to get laid.”
I still think about that line.
Another time, we were talking about Steve Earle. I shared that “I think Earle’s concerts were too long, bordering on self-indulgent, and I’m a Springsteen fan so it takes something for me to say a concert is too long.” I said that I thought [REDACTED]’s concerts were just the right duration, and that maybe he should consider releasing a live album from the tour. And [REDACTED] said to me, “I don’t know, Matt. Maybe we’re all just trying to do too much.”
I think about that a lot, too.
Anyway, after we left the manager’s house, during the show at Ram’s Head later that same night, [REDACTED] broke a guitar string.
And from the stage, he asked me to temporarily shut down the merch stand, and to come change it. I ran up and retrieved the guitar, went backstage and anxiously fumbled my way through putting on a new b-string.
This was the same guitar that [REDACTED] was playing in the photograph on the cover of his brilliant debut album—an album that my friends and I absolutely loved—released more than two decades before.
After I got the guitar tuned up, I sat backstage for a minute while the band carried on. I held the guitar and strummed along to the song the musicians were playing onstage, because at that time Go Dog Go was playing that same song in our own set, and my eyes welled up as I shook my head and stomped my foot and wondered to myself about how it’s often said that life is strange—but compared to what, really?
I ran four marathons in less than 365 days, and spent one night in jail. Unrelated.
I’ve looked older than I am for quite awhile now, and even today, a lot of people still judge a book by its cover, though they may preach otherwise. That’s been just the greatest motivator for me.
I won a Scholastic Art Award—a “Gold Key,” I think—when I was 18, and met Congresswoman Jill Long at the award reception. My illustration was of a skeleton with a top hat and was called “The Last Album Cover.”
It was just a couple weeks ago, as my high-school senior son and I were at the Fort Wayne Museum of Art to view this year’s Scholastic recipients, that I realized just how important that was in my life.
Once a week for a couple summers, I mowed lawns to make money, which I would spend on football cards, baseball cards, comic books and tapes—that was my life at the time.
I had three clients: my parents, Mrs. Muhn (pronounced “Moon”) and the Drakes. Ten bucks a lawn.
Mrs. Muhn’s yard only took me about 30 minutes to mow, but I threw in an extra half-hour of sitting on the patio drinking lemonade-flavored Crystal Light with her for free.
She’d ask me about football cards, baseball cards, comic books and tapes.
I imagine there were seven decades separating us, and in hindsight I understand that she didn’t pay this kid ten dollars to mow her lawn; she paid him ten dollars to just have company, to sit in the sun and talk about life for a little while.
Honestly, Mrs. Muhn, I get it.
Mrs. Muhn and the Drakes both lived on Lima Road, which was a busy thoroughfare even back then. Lots of traffic, and lots of eyes on my work. On Fridays my parents would drive the family to dinner and then drop me at the comic book store, and as we made our way out Lima Road en route to Pizza Hut, my brother and I would look out the window at those lawns. I’d inherited the gigs from him, you see; I felt the pressure, but I felt the pride—I was delivering bold strokes and clean lines way before all the tattoo kids.
Just a few days ago, I wrote a three-page letter to my son, telling him all about the lifelong friends I made on the third-floor of McNutt-Bordner dormitory in Bloomington, Indiana in 1992 and 1993, how they influenced me in such an important way, how I only met them by choosing not to room with anyone I already knew from high school, and how I strongly recommended he do the same. And it seems like he has heeded my advice!
I saw Walter Payton play a football game at the Pontiac Silverdome in 1983. He ran for 80-some yards. The Bears lost.
In the early ’80s, my three favorite professional sports teams were the Chicago Bears, the New York Mets, and the Dallas Mavericks. At the time, those teams were each middle-of-the-pack at best.
But I was 11 years old when the 1985 Bears became the 1985 Bears, I was 12 years old when the ’86 Mets became the ’86 Mets, and, while it’s a deeper cut, I had just turned 14 years old when the 1987-88 Mavs took the Showtime Lakers to game seven of the Western Conference Finals.
And let me tell you, that was pretty sweet.
Each of those teams had a handful of my earliest heroes playing for them.
As it turns out, to varying degrees, many of those individuals weren’t all that heroic.
I’m glad I didn’t find that out until much later.
In 2018, my kids and I got to see LeBron James do the thing, and it was an experience of unmatched exhilaration. I honestly don’t have the metaphors.
Plus, so far as I can tell, LeBron’s alright.
God, I got lucky with my job. And don’t get me started talking about how blessed I am with friendship.
In three different homes, I’ve lived alongside a river. And I hope I always do.
In London, at the café that the song “Bar Italia” by Pulp is named after, I fell for a Californian.
Later, I was with a poet for a couple years. I’ll tell ya about it, if you want. Privately.
My dad was in the Navy. I’d like to know more.
My mom owned a horse. (A couple, actually.)
My brother taught me how to mow a damn lawn.
I have been loved well.
Most days I work. Most days I eat well. Most days I run. Most days I read. Most days I wish I had a dog. Most days I drank. Most days I’m upset about something or other and want to be happier. Most days I long for my kids to demonstrate that they like me, a little more often than they do. Most days I block out the mistakes I’ve made. Most days I worry. Like you, most days I try not to dwell the one thing we all know for sure.
The thing is, on all days, when I think about it—when I pay attention—I’m thankful.
I’m thankful for it all.
Great stuff, as always, Matt. Coincidentally, “Pay Attention” is the motto for my Travel Writing course. Grateful for the connection!
Interesting read. I knew very few of these things about you.
I wonder how much of it is paying attention and how much of it is being a person who values reflection? To be clear, I know you as a person who does both. But what connects the two: you are someone who values people and the experiences you have with them, experiences that embody Pirsig’s ideas of Quality in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The good stuff.
Side note: I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but your writings on music remind me of one of the first writers I felt cool for sincerely and deeply liking: Nick Hornby.
If I had to answer what I’ve learned from you in our years of friendship, paying better attention would be my answer.