Karl Klockars

There are a lot of terrible things that could happen to a person in this world. You could get crushed between a couple 18-wheelers while on the freeway. You could eat a bad piece of fish. You could spontaneously combust. All these things in context make playing guitar for Avril Lavigne pretty harmless.

In my limited and admittedly pathetic musical career, I never even came close to the level of anything like a Kelly Clarkson or a P!nk. And I’m sure I could have, if I wanted to. Now, I know everyone says that. For example, all the guitar teachers in the 80s that stood around watching Eddie Van Halen and thinking to themselves, “I’m just as good as he is.” Right.

No, really: if they needed someone to get on stage and play a handful of fifth-chords for 45 minutes to an hour or so, I’m sure they could get my number from someone. My availability is sadly limited these days, but if they need me to fill in for a few dates, I might be able to swing it. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll figure out that stupid “Girlfriend” song that Ashlee Simpson made a few bucks off of.

Most of the people I know would probably call that “selling out.” I’ve made it perfectly clear that I’d be happy to sell out at any time. If someone would like to offer me twenty thousand dollars to go on tour with some pop-tart and all I have to do is play a guitar for a couple hours a night? Where do I sign?

Too much is placed on the significance of the sell-out. Everyone sells out at some point. The trick is to know when to do it. Who’s smarter? The person who decides, “you know what? I’m never going to make it with my Blink-182 ripoff pop-punk band. I should probably try to get a gig playing with Jessica Simpson,” or the person who tours dingy VFW halls and shitty rock clubs for 20 years playing their carefully crafted tunes to dozens of people per year?

I’m sorry – arguments for musical integrity aside, I’ve gotta side with Chad Parker Nobody on stage behind the girl with the three hair colors and the artful nostril piercing. Better to accept your limitations and make them work for you rather than rail against it and fail over and over again.

I spent a considerable portion of my high school career being True Metal. Long hair, black t-shirts, pointy guitar, and so on. Would it have been a better waste of my time if I had played skate-punk music and dyed my hair red? Of course. I probably should traded the Jackson V for a beat up Gibson with some stickers on it and played Offspring covers in someone’s backyard. I might have gotten a girlfriend worth having for more than a couple weeks.

Far better than the lame parking-lot discussions I had about which Pantera record was better. Would I trade the memories I have? O’course not. They’re mine, and they’re what I’m stuck with. But I could probably rewrite the story a little better. If I knew then what I know now, and all that.

Right now I’m sitting here watching Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” video on Youtube. Is it sad or thrilling to think to myself, “I’ll never be the guy in one of those videos.” As much hardcore thrash integrity I had in my shitty high school metal band…he’s been on MTV. As currency, you can’t trade an all-ages appearance at Riley’s Rockhouse for drinks at Delilah’s. Trust me on this one.

Not only that, but more often than not, the view that those guys have is far better than any one I ever saw. Just sayin’.

I’m sure there are downsides. See the world, play music for thousands, a case of beer and a deli tray in every dressing room, access to stupid people (the possibilities are endless here) and you stand behind some hot chick six nights a week. I still fail to see the downside. Do you get to play your own tunes? Of course not. Would I care? Of course not. And here’s the kicker: No one knows your name.

No one cares who you are. They’re not there for you, they’re there to watch whats-her-face of the month bounce around and say scripted shit like “What’s up Cleveland! All right! You guys are great!” And while she’s making her eighth costume change, maybe you throw in a bitchin’ solo. Maybe you drink a beer. Who cares. You’re just some faceless guitar player.

Would you have to suffer through nightly performances of “She’s like, so whatever; I don’t like your girlfriend!” Yeah. Such are the prices you pay to be a touring guitar player. Life is rough, kid. Get used to it. Now, this isn’t the kind of hired gun I’d like to be through my whole life. But for a few years, in your early twenties? Can’t beat it with a stick.

His friends probably call him sellout too. They didn’t play the feel-good hit of the summer…all summer. And who’s got better stories? The guy with integrity in his garage? Or the nobody playing the sheds? The guy in the garage is going to be playing on Dodge commercials in fifteen years if he’s not an accountant. Who’s the sellout then?