…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column – by Chris Busone.

When I find myself in the company of a group of people I don’t know, and who don’t know me from Adam, Eve, or any of their other descendants, it is inevitable that at some point someone in the assemblage will broach the burning question, “So, what does everyone do?”

I usually wait it out, not for any particular reason other than I find it a mind-numbingly tedious question. So, after a chorus of admirable professions all worthy of our respect and gratitude by the other innocent bystanders such as: “Doctor” … “Lawyer” … “Refrigerator Repairman” … “I’m the guy who makes those plastic ends for shoelaces” … I pause, look around to make sure all votes have been counted, give a stunted wave and say…”Guitar Player.”

Because it’s what I do. It’s the thing I’ve been doing since I was nine years old, longer than anything else I’ve ever done consistently throughout my life other than breathing. So yes, I’m a guitar player. But I’m also a realist.

I know most people who’ve seen me perform, and even some who haven’t, think of me as a singer. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion, as I have been the singer in every band I’ve ever been in, save a brief, glorious stint with the Decadent Royals. But it was never my intention to be the one up front singing and garnering attention. My original rock & roll fantasy was to be that guitar player, stage right, windmilling out power chords, occasionally mouthing the words to some background vocals that no one ever hears, and waiting to pounce on my opportunity to burn a solo that sears your very soul, but somehow warms your heart. But alas, it was not meant to be. Singing got in the way.

Yes, dear reader, some of us are born to sing, others have singing thrust upon them. I’m that second guy. But don’t shed any tears for me because, as it turns out, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. But let’s start at the beginning because I have a few hundred more words to kill here.

My older brother played guitar and showed me the basic chords and how to navigate my way around a guitar neck. So, once I was strumming chords to popular songs, it seemed only natural to sing along. And because I had supportive brothers and sisters and parents, they didn’t complain too much while I played and sang the same part of the same song over and over, and yes, still over again, until I got it right.

I have spoken in previous columns of my friend Rod Choppy, and here is where he enters this melodic tale. When Rod heard me playing and singing when we were 12 years old, he made it his personal business – a veritable knighted quest – that we would someday be in a band, with him on lead guitar and me as the lead singer. And that’s exactly what happened. We drafted our best friends in the world: Jim Lazzaro (drums), Joe Cocca (bass), and John Degen (sound tech and road manager), and The Chaser Band was born.

Together, we took to the road and knocked around town gigging 5-6 nights a week, playing 50 songs a night, with me singing 48 of them. It was the best training any fledgling vocalist could ask for. And it taught me skills through trial and error that I still use today. It gave me an opportunity to experiment and stretch out my voice. It taught me endurance. It taught me how to sing that many nights in a row and not lose my voice. And when I was a little throaty, it taught me how to work around it to get through nights without crowds noticing. But what it really taught me was that I actually loved singing and wanted to be the best I could possibly be at it. Ya, it surprised the crap outta me too.

I took one formal guitar lesson in my life, and exactly zero singing lessons. But I had another friend, and he schooled me in the vocalistic arts. His name was Larry Lewis.

Larry Lewis was the best singer I’ve ever heard from this area, maybe anywhere. And although I’ve never really figured out why he took an interest in me, I’ll forever be grateful. On one fateful evening, I finished a set in a club with Larry in the crowd. Afterward, I walked up to say hi, expecting the obligatory niceties that most musicians offer their counterparts. But instead, Larry smiled an ear-to-ear beaming grin, so bright you could read by it, and said, “Chris Busone,” (he always called me by my full name), “What-in-the-hell are you doing up there?”

“Singing?” I said with a quiver in my voice, “No?”

“No,” Larry said, still grinning, “But we’ll get you there. Why are you singing those songs like they did on the record? I already heard how those cats sing them,” then he pointed his finger right between my eyes and said, “I wanna hear how Chris Busone sings those songs.”

I felt like the entire building just fell down on top of me. I knew instantly what he was saying, and just as quickly, I knew I had no idea of how to achieve it. “Next set, we’re gonna sing a song together, and I’ll show you what I mean,” Larry decided. So we went up on stage and sang “Heard It Through the Grapevine” together.

“You sing the verse and I’ll sing the bridge,” Larry told me, “And I don’t wanna hear no Marvin Gaye melody lines coming out of you, Chris Busone,” he laughed as the music started.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done musically, avoiding that melody that was seared in my consciousness, while this guy I admired so much stood next to me listening to every note. But it was a huge first step. When we finished, Larry gave me a hug and proclaimed, “There’s Chris Busone! Nice to finally meet you,” and he laughed a satisfied laugh.

I was doing a regular Sunday night gig at Petars in Troy in those days, and Larry showed up week after week, and the lessons continued.

(As a side note, years later, I was talking to Larry and thanking him. He pretended to only have a vague recollection of that time and took no credit for the incredible gift of his knowledge and talent he had given me. “You had it in you, Chris Busone, you just needed to let it out. That was all you.” I’m here to tell you, it wasn’t. )

When I finally felt like I really had it, like I had really found MY voice, that’s when I started to really feel like a singer. Like I had something to say, and my own way of saying it. But I had to put the work in. I would tell myself, “You don’t have to be the same singer you were even five minutes ago,” while I paced around my studio apartment singing classic songs in my own evolving style, never mimicking the original melody line.

And it changed the way I approached my own music, too. I started writing songs for me. For the singer I was and wanted to be. Pushing myself to go further and kick open musical doors with my voice without knowing what was on the other side, but not being afraid to find out or sound stupid doing it. And that’s the guidance I’ve always given anyone who’s asked me for help or advice with their singing: find your own voice. Don’t be afraid to sound stupid. Because even if you do, it’ll be gone in an instant, and no one will remember it. But if it works, you’ve just found something new that you can build on.

I honestly don’t think I would have gotten there without Larry, without Rod, without all the players I’ve played with who’ve influenced me along the way.

So ya, I’m still a guitar player, if you ask me what I do. But if you ask me what I AM, I’m a singer. But here’s my workaround.

My band is a three-piece, so I’m not just the singer, I’m also the one-and-only guitar player, windmilling power chords, just like I always wanted to be. See what I did there?

But hey, singer, guitarist, guy-who-makes-the-plastic-things-on-the-ends-of-shoelaces … I’m cool with it as long as I keep getting a chance to hop up there on stage and, in my own voice, count it off, 2…3…4.

 

 

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