(I jotted this down a couple years ago, intending to share. But it seemed unbecoming for a middle-late-aged man like me to jump into these issues with his mansplanations. Better to have a seat, and let women shape the discussion. Now, these things are better understood, having become part of the fabric of ongoing societal concern. So, I offer my testimony as a witness to a #MeToo (or a #TimesUp, as the case may be.)

Though I did not fully understand it then, this memory made an impression on me that has influenced my musical journey. I get it now, and I know it is so common as to be ubiquitous.

Back in my 20’s I played in one of the most unique, interesting bands I’ve ever been in. There were two cofounders. One, a bassist. The other, a woodwind player with a colorful, dynamic personality — the clear leader. I had not been playing guitar for long. And frankly, I was lousy, and didn’t know why they kept me in the band. Perhaps I was quirky and unpredictable in an engaging way. But when I say “lousy,” I’m not being modest. I mean, I was lousy. I had no business trying to play professionally, and I have the tapes to prove it. Untrained, musically illiterate, uncoordinated, with loud enthusiasm directly disproportionate to my inability. But Eugene, Oregon back then was a generous music scene.

We didn’t gig much, but we rehearsed frequently, exploring wild, semi-avant-garde versions of cover tunes from all genres — including genres I didn’t yet know about. We took stabs at jazz, too. As if oblivious to my ineptitude, our bandleader cheered my contribution, giving me solo after solo, and even bringing in some of my early insipid original material.

“I love what you’re doing, John. That’s terrific stuff.”

It was a formative experience. This older, schooled bandleader brought me along supportively. He had me trying to read music, nearly pulling off toddler-ish versions of Tom Waits, Charlie Parker, and Captain Beefheart. (The latter of which was somewhat apt, given the wretched messiness of my execution.) I say, “nearly pulled off,” but he patted me on the back as though I was nailing it.

What comes next:

Halfway into the project, they brought in a woman to play keyboards. She was quiet and shy, but she could read music and play jazz. (She was given the task of “jazzifying” an early, naive song of my own called “Light Up Sky.”) In other words, she was a schooled musician who knew what she was doing, and how to play well. (I must highlight her contrast to myself as a player at the time. She was a skilled piano player; I was what we now call in these conversations “the mediocre man.”)

Rehearsals continued. After a while, our bandleader said a few things that were not-so-subtly sexual. Sometimes in her direction. And one day, upon given her a solo section, he said, “Now’s the time you show your stuff. And you know you got a lot of stuff to show!”

Now… I know, I know… On paper, this seems ambiguous enough, and good-natured enough, to dismiss as encouragement of the same kind I was receiving all along. But trust me; we all knew he was talking about her body… in a sexual way. Out of context by miles. Without a glimmer of reciprocal “we’re-all-in-a-rock-n-roll-band-here” playfulness. (And keep in mind the situation. He was an older man, the clear leader, fostering an atmosphere in which we all felt him to be a mentor.)

Her solo was far from a sizzling show of “her stuff.” She played like she wanted to disappear. After the rehearsal, she left before everyone else. And a moment ensued that I will never forget. The bass player, the bandleader’s good friend, said, “Man, you can’t talk to her like that!”

“What do you mean?”

“Telling her she’s got stuff to show off. That’s sexual harassment!”

That was the first time I registered hearing that term in earnest usage. (This was pre-Bill Clinton.)

So, I hope you have read this far, ‘cause here’s what I want to talk about:

I cannot presume that our keyboard player had ambitions in Music, beyond jamming around in a garage with some neighborhood outfit that played a half-dozen gigs. But, for me, that band is a story of successful mentorship, an enriching experience that thrilled my heart and lit a fire in me. It gave me more than mere confidence. I became thoroughly hooked into the process, and nothing was going to stop me — least of all my own ineptitude.

My so-called “music career” is littered with mediocre atrocities and embarrassingly shabby highlights. Thousands of hours of bootleg tapes with singing & playing about which you can only shake your head while making a face like you just bit into a bad crustacean: “No way is this guy gonna go on to record a dozen listenable albums.” But all of it, after all this time, has meaning and value which I never doubted along the way, no matter how awful it sounded. (Not all of it has made the world a better place; but it hasn’t made it worse, right?)

But for this woman, much more talented than me, rehearsing in that band soured her on the process. Maybe stopped her in her tracks. Think of it: the same experience that slung me forward on a trajectory that in the end will amount to half-a-century of music performance, recording, and teaching.

Often, when I come across the objections of some aggrieved old guy who insists that feminism has gone too far with its relentless #MeToo-ing and #TimesUp-ing, I recall that moment in the garage, when a bass player called out sexual harassment for what it was. How it poisons every field of endeavor and contaminates a woman’s belief in her right to belong.

The Mediocre Man (Part 1 - #MeToo)