I have this friend, an old neighbor, who is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, extremely intelligent, and certifiably crazy. To be fair, he’s probably got multiple undiagnosed mental illnesses, but at 76, he’s not looking to get any of them made official. Through the span of a 90-minute visit, he can go from enraged to endearing, laughing maniacally to crying uncontrollably. Now, this absolutely doesn’t happen every time I see him, but it has happened plenty of times in the eight years we’ve been friends.

He’s three-times divorced and has alienated himself from most of his neighbors and friends all because he has high and unrealistic expectations for them, holding them unfairly accountable for things a normal person would let slip away. And he never sees that all the things that he rages about are really accurate descriptions of himself. There was one time where he had just been rubbing me wrong for several months that resulted in me turning it back on him and riling him up, antagonizing him as best I could. He threw me out of his house, and we had almost zero interaction for nine months.

Eventually, though, I reached out to him, not entirely sure why. I don’t think it was because I missed him, but because I missed his antics. For an example, if you’re a fan of the band Sublime, and you’ve heard their album “Robbin’ the Hood,” he’s eerily like Raleigh in the 3-part Raleigh soliloquies (and if you’re not a fan of Sublime, what’s wrong with you?), only not under a 5150 hold (involuntary detention for mental health crises where the individual could endanger themselves or others), and much more accomplished. My friend has been a journalist, professor, and professional musician, and we’ll shift our focus to the latter now.

He’s crazy, but also a crazy good drummer. (Image retrieved from here and comes courtesy of Clem Onojeghuo.)

He asked me to write up something on his new band and send it to one of the local alt-weeklies, but there wasn’t enough time to get it in, so I reworked it to fit the scope of this column and tell you a little story about this guy:

If we were to graph the plot of my friend’s late-life music career, we could draw it as a triumphant arc followed shortly by a kamikaze nosedive. 

Had you witnessed the premier of his band CANNON (a pseudonym) at The Jewel (a music venue) back in May of 2023, you’d have been bullish on their potential. Standing ovations rarely lead to the dissolution of a band, but that’s what happened inside of six months, leading to a need to start over from scratch. 

But my friend questioned whether it was possible or even worth it to try. Had he burned all his bridges, exhausted all his opportunities, and let it all slip through his hands? He considered moving on to greener pastures with the hopes he’d be welcomed into another band in some other city. But at 76, it’s hard to begin again.

So, then there were none. No advocates, no opportunities, no prospects for the future.

But he channeled what was left of the optimism within him and he hoped for a sign and a break. Fittingly, one of his catchphrases is “don’t leave 5 minutes before the miracle.”

And then there was one. A chance, if not a miracle, that is. 

Putting himself out there at every open mic and open jam in the city and beyond, my friend took his unique style of performance through a slew of dimly lit and sparsely populated coffee houses and bars with the hopes of connecting to other musicians, intent on rebuilding his band. There were lots of high hopes and dashed dreams along the way, further leading my friend to feel even more disconnected from the rich and vibrant music scene of the city. But slowly, he made new connections which signaled hints of chemistry, and with a nothing-to-lose attitude, he jumped in feet first.  

And then there were two. Reasons to stay, that is. 

With the Boom-Boom Room (a pseudonym) serving as one of the sole beacons of hope in his musical life, my friend immersed himself in their self-generating scene, whether it was as a faithful member of the rotation for the open mic on Wednesdays, sitting in with the house band on Thursday nights, or securing the occasional Friday night slot for his revolving cast of musicians, my friend went all-or-nothing with his commitment to the Boom-Boom Room. And while the first reason is a familiar and welcoming place to play music, the second is the potential to leave a legacy of the music he played for the future. But to do that, he’d need others to commit to his vision. 

Knowing that the sprawling eight-piece CANNON would take more time, effort, and cajoling than he had to commit, my friend decided to start smaller, creating a more intimate sound through a more intimate connection of musicians. He picked up a guitarist and multi-instrumentalist, two bona fides 40 years his junior, and two people he felt could take the reins of the band and carry it into the future after his own playing days were done. 

And then there were three. Bandmates, that is. 

Which brings us to today. My friend hopes he can plot another line on his graph, signaling his ability to overcome his fall and rise once more. Novelists call this the Cinderella plotline, and it’s a familiar arc: the protagonist’s emotional state shapes the story, and the audience roots for their success. In that vein, my friend is seeking to plot his musical resurrection and see if he stayed around long enough for the miracle to occur with his new band, “Then There Were Three.”  

While I call him crazy (he really is), he is my friend. And in spite of all of the headaches he’s given me, he’s still a very loyal and genuine human, and I know my being a reliable figure in his life – one of the few – means a lot to him. And I do genuinely root for his success and happiness. While I wish he could see himself clearly – because it would allow him to have a much happier life – I simply try to accept him as he is, as hard as that can be sometimes.

Marco Esquandoles
Curious Friend