The fine line between never giving up and being happy where you are

The sun had long retired by the time we pulled into the sequestered parking lot and stepped inside [insert name of local haunt] to see the venue that we were slotted to play that evening. It was a long and narrow room, the kind of dive where the bar’s bronze and wood entirely encompassed the right half of the space while the cavernous left was filled wholly with trite plastic tables and spinning top stools.

At the end of the bar rose a foot-tall wooden stage not six feet in any direction. On it, a twangy tenor voiced man led a bearded banjo quartet upon the stage before a dozen or so half-interested suburban families enjoying buffalo wings and potatoes fried fresh round back.

The smell of burnt cooking oil lingered heavily in the place over the wafting tobacco and weed that lingered in from outside, which seemed to be, in my humble estimation, the bar's most redeeming qualities. Don't get me wrong, it was a fine bar for purveyors of simple drink and limited bother, but I quickly got the sense that it was best suited for the locals of Bisbee and not so much those drifting in from cities yonder. You caught quick glances insinuating a long-simmered disdain for the annual music festival that drove in peoples distant. Afterall, what did we know of their lofty summers amongst familiar places while we were away and unconcerned with their existence otherwise. Why, only when their spaces became shared novel vessels did we come to squeeze between their walls and tight spaces.

And yet, there we were. Commissioned with drink tokens and promises of exposure to fill a room they knew holy only to themselves to sing songs they cared not to hear.

Or maybe, I considered on the knifes edge of self-awareness, that that’s just the internal and self-important monologue of the artist; always on the outside of their personal shell of importance, ever wavering between holiness and interloping intrusion. Never wrong, nor right, either.

But regardless of philosophical musings of purpose or validity, the place wasn’t ideal in other ways. The walls and floors were hardwood and the clientele were slightly more… gentile than what we were accustomed. The “sound engineer” to the left of our surveying perspective was near silly-drunk already, and the promised “house kit” of a drum-set currently being played on stage appeared to include little more than a bass drum, snare, and high hat all held together by a few thin screws and a dream.

That’s not to say that we had any reservations about the whole thing. We knew that SidePony was a festival traditionally reserved for the folk, indie, and more moderate sounds that travelled from Phoenix and beyond. What did we expect? A basement full of college kids shuttled in from Tucson? Nah. We we’re there to do our thing and not give a fuck about what anyone thought of it. In that regard, we couldn’t lose, and we never did. We were, and still are, undefeated.

We were just kids playing loudly in a dovetailing dance of sweat and folly, although it wasn't always that simple nor easy.

Post Hoc was the rock and roll band of my college years and the bridge that led between the days of my service and what came afterward. It was both a conduit and a means of catharsis; both a deeply personal endeavor and the most collaborative engagement I have ever had the satisfaction of taking part in.

On March 13th, 2020, the day the majority of the U.S. slid into its covid lockdown, we played our last show. Sometimes I think of that fact and I’m reminded that symmetry does indeed exist in the world. At the very least, it was a fun little serendipity. The set was even recorded and still exists on YouTube today. I think that’s pretty cool. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5mQZnLbkb0)

We didn’t plan for that show to be our last show, of course. With covid came the drying up of lives shows, which just so happened to precede my graduation from ASU that May while my career took me out of state in September. We played another house show at our drummer's house a few months later to put some finality to it all, but for me, our last true performance was at Last Exit Live on the day the world went inside. There’s no duplicating the real deal. The energy. The fear of failure and the smell of those spaces dedicated to loud noises: Sweat, weed, dried alcohol, and sound absorbing fabric. If they sold the air freshener I’d be the first to buy it.

I distinctly recall landing our first gig. We had been practicing out of my cousin Mike’s detached garage for some time (bless his soul) when we got a response from a promoter we’d reached out to. We were beside ourselves. By then, we’d already taken the token steps of any new band: made shirts, stickers, a website, had a photoshoot, and envisioned our names in lights every time we listened back to our rough recordings with rose colored headphones. We were set to play the Yucca Tap Room on June 1st, 2017.

Now, in a lot of ways, the Yucca Tap Room is eerily similar to the bar I described at the beginning of this story. It has hard wood floors and a loyal set of locals that’ll let you know. In the punk Tempe community, it’s a well-respected venue and bar with history that’s seen plenty of names over the years, but it sure wasn’t going to do us any favors or curb our sharps.

And of the latter, we had plenty.

More than a few friends of ours showed up to support us and endure the opening salvo of our creative war. Some were even good enough friends to share with me afterwards what needed to be fixed.

But afterwards, I remember feeling an overwhelming soreness absolutely envelop me. And when I awoke the next day, I felt as if I’d been bludgeoned by stones. At first, I was perplexed until a friend suggested that the solution might be quite simple. Maybe, I just needed to relax. I was so nervous on stage that I’d wound myself into a tight ball of anxiety and had stoned myself into physical pain. And nobody wants to hear the song of the stoned man. Not that stoned man, anyway.

I gave serious consideration to quitting right then and there. I was afraid that every time would be the same and that I’d be better off sticking to garageband software in dark bedrooms. Hell, for the longest time that’s what it was all about for me, anyway. For years I sat alone in barracks rooms twisting words and making up chord progressions and I had a fun enough time with that. Sure, I dreamt of sharing those overly layers songs with others as loud as I fucking could, but maybe that was just folly. I gave it a shot, right?

I cant imagine such reservations are rare for most musicians. I was no trained singer, either, so having an assumption of imposter syndrome was ever present, persistent, and not without arguments of merit. But I had allies too. Curtis, our drummer, was as hard working and persistent of a person as I’ve ever met, while Gonzalo, our guitarist, was the most loyal man I’ve ever come across. An entire armada of friends and family stood beside me while the ink on my arm spelling Semper Fidelis reminded me that I’d overcome worse.

“It can only get better from here,” I recall thinking one day. And it did. And only because we didn’t give up.

We practiced three times a week from then on out. Not long after, and likely not by coincidence, my cousin Mike’s neighbors reached their wits end and began calling the cops every time they heard us practice. It turned out to be a blessing, though, as it forced us to make arrangements at a professional practice studio, Francisco's, where we rented a space to call our own. And let me tell you, we got our moneys worth at that place, as our cars where the most common sight that parking lot had ever seen.

The shows started to come with more regularity and with each show my and our confidence and abilities grew. At some point, maybe after our third or fourth show, I recall sitting in someone’s backyard during the afterparty starring up at the sky feeling an overwhelming pride twinged only with embarrassment at even considering giving up beforehand.

We commissioned a talented audio engineer in Scottsdale and gave recording a go, resulting in our EP Daffodils. The crowd favorite of the album, Morning Light, was actually a last-second addition. Curtis hadn’t even written a drum part for the song yet, but nonetheless, we slapped on a simple beat that he practically improvised in the studio and we sent it out the door. Funny how that works sometimes. What does that say about not overthinking things.

We even made a music video for the track in the Superstition Mountains. Hiking a full drum set, multiple amps, and four guitars up a mountain in the dark for a pre-dawn shoot was less than enjoyable, but the outcome and experience was more than worth the sweat. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDRZpD-cWy8)

Things felt like they were really moving along. Around that time, we had some fun shows that came to pass, we were getting invited to play with other respected local bands, we had songs played on the local radio stations, and we even got the opportunity to open up for some childhood hero bands such as Emery and The Spill Canvas. But you know what, the more successes we had, the more I wanted just a little bit more. It always felt like we were always on the verge of breaking it wide open. It always seemed to feel like we were right there.

I was a man floating in the lake ever casting his line into the water while his boat’s rim nearly met the water itself from the weight of his previous catches.

We went back into the studio, this time shelling out some serious dough, and made our full-length album. In a way, it was just like you’d imagine. There were screaming matches. Plenty of cheeba hut and just as many hugs. There were more than a few broken drum-sticks. But mostly, it was sitting around waiting for the magician Cory to do his thing on the computer while saying “yea, I like track two better,  but play it back one more time just in case.”

“Wilderness, the Villain”, our full length album was released at our adopted home, The Rebel Lounge, where the capacity of our support system was on full display. It was something else, looking back. There we were, surrounded by nearly a hundred friends, family, and fans taking time out of their week to say “Fuck Ya! You’re doing the thing!” What a blessing that was.

And yet, there was still that pull. What’s the next peak to be tackled? Sure, we’d summited the past mountain tops. I’d grown confident in my live performances. We’d made TWO records. We’d played several shows, opened up for famous bands, and were openly supported, and yet… the next peak was all I saw. All that mattered at the time was moving past the view we’d already earned, descending back into the valley to struggle once again against an ascent anew.

The album didn’t achieve commercial success (of course). Looking back now, it’s not hard to see why. Albeit an honest attempt at art without reservation, it is at times an utterly serious collection of songs that is best listened to after a few drinks. Not exactly a dance party inducer. (I blame Brand New’s influence). Looking back, I wouldn’t have changed a thing as it is perfect in its own way, but nevertheless, it wasn’t the hot air balloon ride to peaks beyond that we silently hoped it might be.

And so we carried on, both pursuing endlessly the impossible while simultaneously enjoying the dance. And by god we danced. We had so much fucking fun together, whether it was screaming spice girls lyrics in alley ways before shows or making promo videos for Instagram dressed up as a confused mariachi band. More than a few laughs were had along the way. We gigged and gigged and played as many shows as we could. The loading in, the drink tickets, the supporting the other bands, the cigarettes between sets, the ringing in your ears. I loved it all. The only thing I didn’t love was the promotion. I hated selling tickets with all of my heart, but it was the price that our ambition was willing to pay. It’s might be my only regret in the whole saga of Post Hoc, that we cared about selling tickets as much as we did. But at the same time, there’s a reason we played as many shows as we did. The old saying is that money talks. In a way, it listens too.

All in all, we played exactly thirty shows at the Yucca Tap Room, Club Red, The Marquee Theatre, The Rebel Lounge, Last Exit Live, The Nile, The Green Room, Pho Cao, Crescent Ballroom, Valley Bar, Sidepony, The Mesa Music Festival, and the Side Sessions living room. We made seven music videos, recorded four studio productions (one EP, one LP, and two singles), and even did a morning news show once! (that was sure weird)

And yet, when things slowed down in the summer of 2020, it felt at times like we’d never climbed a single summit at all. Some days, I’d check in on the amount of listeners we had on Spotify to see if it’d changed at all from the day before, ever eager for the soon to come spike that never came.

But just like so many things in life, retrospect gave the majority of the perspective worth valuing. I know now that I wasn’t constantly chasing new peaks throughout my journey with Post Hoc. I was atop the peak the whole time. Hell. I still am. The people I met throughout those four years. The places we went. The struggles we overcame and the lessons we learned. The sweat we poured into the carpet at Franciscos and the stonings we gave ourselves. The songs we wrote, re-wrote, and threw away forever. The noise complaints, the bad reviews, the broken strings, and the cognitive dissonance. The friendships lost and the moments that will live on in our heads forever. Each came to represent rocks upon the mountain on which we still stand, at dawn, somewhere in the Superstition mountains.

They were truly some of the best years of my life, and I wouldn’t trade them for a thing.

When we loaded our gear onto the meager stage in that hardwood bar in Bisbee, I looked back at Curtis and smiled. I remember always looking back at him sitting on his stool as we started each set, reliably seeing his wild gaze returning the favor as he began pounding on his drums. It was a fond unspoken tradition we had.

Not seconds after we started the set, the blitzed sound engineer rambled quickly towards the stage waving his arms indicated that we needed to turn everything down. It was way too loud for his liking. We ignored him and played on at the volume of our liking, which was loud as fuck. And as the families grimaced and quickly found their exit alongside the sound engineer himself, we played one of the finest sets we’d ever played to a holy haunt somewhere in the hills of Bisbee, Arizona and ourselves.