Dear Rocka readers,
I am writing this on Thanksgiving morning. My banana bread is oversaturated with butter, my tea is hot, and I have more schoolwork to complete than I can even wrap my head around.
This year, I am very grateful for the countless strangers who have helped me with my Rocka endeavors. In January, I had a talk with a professor’s son. I was living in a stale dorm room which was the nicest on campus, but dorm rooms can only be so nice. It doesn’t matter how many posters and essential oil diffusers you line your rooms with– cinder block walls will always be cinder block walls.
This man told me that he had left the music industry after over a decade in it, and a successful one at that. I’ll spare you his life story one because I don’t remember the details, but also because it is not my place to be his scribe. Long story short, he told me that he thought he was just going to be speaking to a random kid with a website. In many ways, that is exactly what I am. I do not claim to be much else. But he said I had a good shot at doing something career-wise in the industry I’ve only participated in as a listener.
I was giddy after this phone call. It felt like what I can only imagine as being scouted by sleazebag modeling recruiter at your local mall. Or singing casually in a cafe and then some guy from a label telling you that “you’re gonna be a star.” All this guy said was that I had options.
From that point on, I called old friends and random people I had met through Rocka and took notes on every phone call I had.
LA good, LA bad.
Music industry corrupt, music industry: maker of dreams.
Unpaid internships are a crime, any experience is good experience.
I was unaware how many people were in my corner until I began to take a look around the room. As it turns out, life isn’t always like high school. You can often ask and receive. Not everyone hates you. People respond to genuine intention.
I was given the chance to go to LA for the summer. The road trip from Michigan to Colorado took me about three days. I could feel Michigan’s winter melting off of my frostbitten toes and cold disposition, my deteriorating car heater slowly switching to air conditioning. I ate real food, most notably a lox bagel from somewhere in Nebraska. The tap water didn’t taste like slime. The roads didn’t have secret patches of black ice anymore. I was on my way home.
My job fell through two days before I drove out to LA. Luckily, I have parents who are willing and able to support me and I was told by everyone to just go and see what I could do with a few free months, a laptop, and a car. I had savings from my job that I worked for five years and a truckload of books. It all felt very romantic.
Sorry to disappoint the cynics, but it was romantic.
I have never felt a concrete sense of “home,” even where I grew up. Whether it’s trauma that taints street signs or just an aggressive understanding that I am not where I am supposed to be, very few times in my life have I felt like the missing puzzle piece. I was close to that in LA. Doors opened wherever I walked. Sure, the sheer volume of opportunities and creative people are going to increase the chances of me making connections. But it was damn near cosmic.
I went to shows a few times a week with strangers in a city I had only known fictionally. I got to meet artists I’ve worked with or whose music I’ve loved for years. The work that I had done suddenly felt actualized. It was elusive, but it felt important. I was able to see the direct effect that my work had on others, which is a feeling I try to remind myself of often.
The truth is that I miss LA nearly every day, especially when I step out of my house and feel the seven degree weather freeze my face. Especially when a boy tells me “no one gives a fuck about your brand” when his GPA barely graces a 2. Especially when people point out how scandalous my “hot priest” playlist is. I nestle my earmuffs on and begin my trek up to campus where I once in a while take a class I find fulfilling, but ultimately I feel like Billy Pilgrim, unstuck in time.
I am not sure I’ll ever be the missing puzzle piece and I am sure most people feel like that, since no experience is ultimately unique. But now I know that there are places in this world that are more consistent with who I am and what I want. I also know that the present is not always where you’re supposed to be. Sometimes it’s just where you are. And I’m grateful I have the opportunity to be anywhere.
Happy holidays, folks. Here is my holiday mix.
Best,
Ally