I don’t talk about it much, maybe I’m embarrassed, but mostly I just don’t know what to say. I guess it’s starting to look a little something like humility, but it doesn’t really feel that way. It’s just tough to talk about a person I really don’t know anymore. There’s a fondness there, but estrangement too.

My first band was started under a name I’m too embarrassed to type. We had homemade instruments and a lot of energy. It was quickly made clear that I couldn’t sing, so I assumed my station at stage right. I’d stay there (and on top of the monitors, whenever possible) for the rest of our touring tenure. We played a few churches and more than a few backyards. Eventually, though, we became kind of good. I don’t know if it was talent or just our insufferable optimism, but we were eventually signed to a record label and they sent us on tour.

It was our first year of college,  some of us had declared majors, but we knew the chapter was calling for a bookmark. We dropped out and pushed an old van around the country that summer until it left us stranded somewhere in Texas. We spent a couple of hard years after that touring with our favorite bands and made far more friends than money. I would take a few classes between tours, but (this is crazy to admit) I never really considered a future outside of music. While my friends were gathering internship opportunities, I was writing metal songs in my bedroom at my parents’ house.

After a few years, Mike’s voice made it obvious that he wasn’t going to be in it for the long haul. But, if you ask me, we broke up because being in a band is hard work. Remind me to tell you about the time we played a basement in Bemidji, Minnesota for a set of twin girls (and only one set of twin girls, total attendance, quantity 2). We were spoiled to come home to sold-out shows and our name on Ticketmaster tickets. Should we have stuck around? Most days, I’d say “definitely” – but, we didn’t. And I have to believe it was because those stories are written for someone else. The truth is, we probably would have hurt a lot of people if we had kept going.

So my first band had dissolved, and with it, a big part of some important years came to a screaming close. Our last show was the most bittersweet moment of my life. I wrote about it, here.

But music wasn’t done with us, and besides, some of us had tattoos. In an effort to circumvent the perceived glass ceiling of being in a metal band, we started a rock band. A few of our friends had found some fame and (recoupable) fortune in cutting their hair, so that seemed like the right idea. We started a new band.

“Stereo Tragedy” – we called it. Half ironic and half generic, we were composed of the same group of guys who, six months before, had just played passionately for the Bemidji twins. We’d traded our Peavey 5150’s for Marshall JCM’s and lyrics about God to lyrics about girls. Or maybe it was just one girl, I can’t remember. We got a manager and played a few cool places and I remember having cool hair, but I would struggle through each show. We were used to playing and now we were performing. A few months later, I left the band to finish college, and the rest of the guys changed the name and were signed to Madonna’s label a year after that.

I’m proud of my story. I’m proud of the nights on stage and of the nights in the van. I’m proud to have known the electricity that exists in writing music with your best friends. Most of all, I’m grateful for the interconnectedness of the Larger Story and the way it’s brought me to whoever I am now.

Thanks to my brother, Kyle for ushering this wave of needed nostalgia. To hear our song “Learning to Breathe” (yes, we later realized Switchfoot had a song of a similar exact same name). I won’t lie to you, I still think we were pretty good.