So I fixed up my tag line. Kind of. I will probably twiddle with it along the way and I DEFINITELY need to learn how to make the text after the first tagline smaller and, you know, sit under the tagline, but this’ll do for now …
Ok so it’s morning now and rather than being drunk and cantankerous, I am slightly hungover and cantankerous, but this is ok.
And while I think my subheader, “diary of a crazy musician who refused to give up” is pretty darn embarrassing and lame, it does at least point to the purpose of this blog, which is to tell the story of my pigheaded decision to revive my “career” (I use the word loosely) as a musician, at the slightly crusty age of not-quite-35 and now that I am well entrenched with a baby and ‘real job’ and all those things that are supposed to make you give up on such silly adolescent fantasies.
I think I will write a static “About” post about this. so go there and read about it.
Meanwhile I have a few things to sort out, and the first is:
The Name.
back in the day, I was the only Seamus rock singer in Adelaide (I live in Melbourne now) and that was all that mattered.
Nowadays of course we compete with the entire planet for our name and frankly, there are a shitload of Seamus’s out there and they all seem to be singers. Most of them use a surname of course, but I’ve always been a bit of a tosser and preferred the single name thing, yes, like Madonna or Sting or whatever. A bit sad I know but bugger it. And anyway, do this for me, google Seamus Ennis (Ennis being my surname, not Anthony, that’s me middle name).
See what I am up against there? I just can’t be bothered taking that guy on, he got there first basically.
So I am soon to create a static site for my music, and I need to decide on a domain name for that. Here’s an email I just shot off to my mate Steve about it. I think it explains the predicament well enough:
“Hi Steve,
do you think i should call my “static” music web page, seamusonline.com or musicbyseamus.com or seamusanthonyennis.com or seamusmusic.com or any other ideas?
remember seamusennis.com is taken, although i could get seamusennis.net but more to the point, google “seamus ennis” and check out those results, bit of a battle taking all that on!
and all the just seamus.whatevers are taken, I own seamus.net.au and i could buy seamus.asia but that seems a bit silly. although we kind of are in asia i suppose.
should i just use seamus.net.au and be done with it? i suppose the decision really is do i want people to google “seamus” or do i want people to google “seamus anthony” or “seamus anthony ennis” ?
google seamus for me and tell me if you reckon we could get to the top of that lot. there is no straight seamus contender… maybe i should just shoot for that and keep chasing seamus.com, they’ll sell it to me eventually but i think it will be pricey.
Anyway, whatever, but I need to make a decision….
Well, it’s almost like this blog was a placeholder in a way, because not only have I finally got myself an actual “Office of Imagination and Procedure” than I have decided to change the sub-header of this blog in order to really focus its purpose.
I am now changing “Words and Music from the Office of Imagination and Procedure”, poetic as that may be, to “Diary of a Crazy Musician Who Refused to Give Up”, because, frankly, that’s what I am.
And there you have it.
*Twenty minutes of fiddling around with the computer (and growing increasingly agitated) later*
I was going to include a screen shot of what it used to look like but I couldn’t do it, and now I’m drunk and more to the point - I’ve run out of beer and I couldn’t give a fuck about the stupid screenshot anymore so you’ll have to look it up on the way back machine if you know what that is and are really that bored.
And I had all this other inspiring shit to say but now this whole screenshot business has just pissed me off. When did words like “screenshot” even become part of my life anyway? It sounds like some kind of technical term that only porn stars and their camera crew would know about.
And come to think of it, that’s my whole point.
But more on that later. For tonight I changed the sub-title and that’s all he wrote. So goodnight to you.
Me and my mate Steve have started a new blog call Rebel Zen.
You can see by the categories I have chosen for this here post what the theme of Rebel Zen will be about (and hopefully in a refreshing and dynamic way). I guess in some ways it will pick up from where The Contemporary Taoist left off but this time it’s a dynamic duo rather than just me, and also it will be more focussed and *cough* mature 
Actually Rebel Zen is going to be more than a blog, but one thing at a time.
We will be posting a fair bit over the next week. Mostly reworked old posts or articles that fit the theme, and then new stuff will begin to go online soon.
Anyway head on over and witness the birthing pains of our new child 
This blog will continue but will probably focus more on music. Not sure yet but probably.
Here I am, man, in my own backyard office bungalow, all connected minus wires and ready to rock. I won’t bore you with the story but it has taken some patience let me tell you.
Maybe I should hang up a sign …
I love our new Mac and I spent all day mucking about getting an iBook G3 (tangerine clamshell) (like these in the pictures) running properly as well.
It was tiring grinding through Google search after Google search trying to make heads or tails out of obscure geek-speak in forums and what-not. I am NOT a geek. I HATE fiddling around with software trying to make it work (why do you think I love Macs so much?) And at the end of the day, I felt a bit flat. I wondered if I had wasted the day just getting this one computer to work. It most totally had not been my intention that it take, like, so freakin’ long.
Then I started on another task that I had been putting off for a while, clearing up all my old boxes of papers and junk in my new bungalow workspace that I am setting up*. Next thing you know I am confronted with photos and objects and posters and general miscellany that reminded me of my entire life so far. My childhood. My teenage years. My Twenties and the first half of my Thirties.
A fun life so far, if not always noble. A brave life so far, if not always sensible.
And it occurred to me how different I have become in the way that as a teenager and throughout my early-mid Twenties, I was highly driven by pursuing my dreams. Driven to the point where I was generally agitated and/or depressed if I was not either smashed or stoned or actively chasing my fantasies (which were mostly about becoming the next David Bowie or something like that).
I am not really like that anymore because I know that I am already here, and that was all I ever needed all along.
BUT I am still motivated to chase my dreams, just because chasing dreams is work and we all have to work so it might as well be at being a Dream Chaser. And despite my “whole zen trip” it seems my dreams are in some ways more complicated now than they were, deeper rather than just outrageous for the sake it.
Thankfully I am more patient now. Even though I find it easier to remember the rock-out-on-stage-in-front-of-3000-people days than the twiddle-with-the-fucking-computer-until-it-bloody-well-gives-in-and-works-already days, and even though I wonder where the hell those grandiose days went, the truth is these were just a handful of (incredible) moments, the rest of the time was either hard work, or tedious, or both.
There always were twiddle-with-the-computer-days, and there always will be. They are necessary.
Like I said, the trick is to remember that you are already here, and otherwise to keep this nugget by Steve Jobs (the Apple computer guy) in mind:
“I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”
You see, dude, it’s a balancing act.
The small tedious parts have to be worth it because of the greater, wonderful whole. I wouldn’t ever have wanted to get bogged down in details all day for nothing, but in the context of achieving my dreams, of living life in a way that makes me and others happy, then I couldn’t have thought of a better thing to do with my time (than fiddle with the fucking computer).
So anyway the five minute method is this:
1) ask yourself if this blog post has you feeling massively, totally inspired right now. If so, get on with it.
2) if not, read the Steve Jobs Commencement address. It’s not breaking news, but if you haven’t read it, then you should. It’s pure gold…
*Finally, The Office of Imagination and Procedure becomes reality more on that soon, oh breathless masses!
Pete, the guy with the pants on my left, just emailed this photo to me. I am the red jumper-dude in the middle. Matt is in the black Dylan t-shirt. My girlfriend at the time made those pants out of our curtains. We had no need for curtains in those days, but it seemed like a good idea that Pete cover up with something (anything!).
How’s the attitude dripping from the photo!? It must have been around 1995-96 by the look of that hair. When you’re that old young it is easy to convince yourself that you are a demi-god (and of course there’s no real reason why you shouldn’t think this).
To hear what kind of rock n’ roll this kind of attitude can produce, go here to my reckoning myspace page.
Now I am out of this goddamn office. Off home to get out my axe and rock the suburbs
… Because they smiled so much when you were a cute little baby, that’s why.
Yes I have disappeared in fatherhood and pretty much don’t give a shit about anything else so that’s why no bloggy goodness lately.
That and moving house, overseas holiday (Bali), started a new business, and also - because Optus are FUCKING SATAN! - haven’t had internet at home for months.
But the nature of the new business means bulk blogging and more online goodies to come so stay tuned, oh breathless masses…
Meanwhile I think I will go blow another few minutes staring at my gorgeous sleeping baby girl (try not to puke on the carpet kids).
Me and Peter Owen, two thirds of Reckoning (for those Adelaide types who know what I am on about) will be playing some of the old Reckoning songs (and some newbies) acoustic style at the Prince Albert Hotel 254 Wright St on Easter Saturday March 22 with Spindickle and Soursob Bob. Starts about 9.
Also I just posted a new version of one of my songs, Go Away, here at Myspace.com/seamusanthony.
Here’s a photo of me and Pete at the first new-reckoning gig we did at the Grace Emily last year. There are some videos of this up on youtube if you look hard enough but they sound pretty crap.
Fagan was standing at a bus stop after school one day when he first saw the vision.
In his minds eye he saw every detail. The stage he would stand on. The hot lights on his face. The massive crowd stretching out before him. The three or four front rows of faces that he could clearly see: pretty young girls making eyes at him, impressed young lads watching his hands like hawks as his fingers danced across the fret-board of his shiny electric guitar. He saw himself shimmy across the stage: young, excited, totally self-assured, radiating the X-factor.
In his mind’s ear he heard the music: raw, powerful, epic, his voice soaring great heights. He heard the crowd roar after each song finished. The applause, the whistles and stomping feet.
In Fagan’s heart he felt the thrill of success, the glory of the spotlight and he knew that, for him, nothing else mattered. This was what he was born to do and that, simply, was that. He kept this vision at the forefront of his consciousness every day for the next ten years. He spent hours obsessively daydreaming the vision over and over again. He immersed himself in rock and roll culture, moving from band to band, studying the every nuance of the greats of popular music: Bowie’s different vocal palates, Kurt Cobain’s songwriting structures, what Robert Smith ate for breakfast.
When Fagan’s mother caught him in his room doing air guitar solos, he wasn’t embarrassed. Instead he proudly stated: ‘I’m going to be a rock star!’
‘But you can’t even play guitar!’ she squawked. Thirteen year old Fagan just rolled his eyes and began to teach himself to play on an old nylon string acoustic guitar that he found on top of a cupboard in the hallway. It had been left behind by somebody years ago and only had one string, but Fagan didn’t let that stop him. He made do with what he had and then when he had some pocket money saved up he bought some new strings and slowly but surely learned some chords. Straight away he began to write songs. He suspected they weren’t much good yet but it felt so good anyway that he just wrote and wrote and wrote. His mother didn’t like much noise so he had to sing the songs in his head, imaging a voice powerful and high.
Five years later when he got his first gig at the university bar, he opened his mouth to sing and realised that he didn’t sound anything like he thought he did. His voice wasn’t smooth and high, it was gruff and deep. But Fagan didn’t let that stop him. Nor did he let the too-cool drinkers in the bar deter him when they completely ignored him as he poured his heart out all over the stage.
Fagan saw no way to get what he wanted without hustling, so without a second thought he begged, pleaded and schmoozed his way into bars to play gigs. But he wanted a band. So he would go to record shops and check out the ‘singers wanted’ signs and try out for all kinds of bands. Mostly they didn’t work out, but sometimes he would meet someone who he half-clicked with so they would razzle together a band and hire a studio and record a demo. Then the band would break up, but he would use the demo to go get a gig, pretending the band still existed, then he would find a new band to play the gig.
Eventually he did find the right band: two other guys, one who was as obsessed as Fagan with rock stardom, the other who was just a walking success magnet, a good luck charm. Together they plotted and worked hard. They rehearsed every day of the week, often to the disappointment of their girlfriends and families. They hustled gigs and recorded and pushed and pushed and pushed and never took no for an answer. They weren’t cool like the inner-city kids from the private schools, with their just-so clothes and haircuts, but Fagan and his mates were hard working and above all, strategic. They went to see other bands and would stay up late discussing what was good about them and what didn’t work. They knew that above all they must be remarkable if they were to succeed. And that they must be obsessively singular in their focus. They must be monomaniacal.
At first they were nobodies on the local scene. The hipsters snubbed them. Three years later Fagan and his two friends were the biggest indie rock band in their city and Fagan saw his vision come true night after night. Huge crowds, often up to three thousand people strong. Screaming girls. Powerful music. The spotlight. Adrenalin filled nights. Autograph hunters waiting by the stage door and beautiful girls galore.
Fagan had never more than idly wanted financial riches, and this he did not get. He had daydreamed a little about traveling the world with his band, but he did not obsess about it, and thus his fame remained a local phenomenon. But he had a single, clear vision that he was not just passionate about – he was obsessively monomaniacal about it: Being on stage playing his own music in front of large, enthusiastic, receptive crowds. He focused on it day and night, at the expense of a balanced life or more sensible, security-minded activities. And thus he saw this this dream come true.
If you do the same, you can see your dream come true also – but take note – be sure that what you focus on is worth it. It took years for Fagan to get over the imbalance that his obsession caused in his life.
Actually, it’s doubtful that he’s gotten over it at all
