The rock star, bartender, psychiatrist, and me.

Dispatch from the top of the turnpike

I was a freshman at Rutgers University living in a dorm that was little more than a concrete box alongside a river. My dorm was one of three identical buildings that sat in a cramped little row out behind the dining hall and library and post office. It was charmless and dated. It wasn’t convenient to lecture halls or study areas.

But it was on the main campus and behind it was a “park”. It was really more of a giant cement terrace built over a highway but it was open space and it had a basketball court and benches and you could walk and sit and be outside and that was enough… and it was where, each spring, there was a little music festival.

It was reputed to be a blast because the bands were usually good and it hit usually fell right in that magic window between when classes ended and finals began where students had a few days to let it all out before buckling down.

My freshman year, the lineup was three bands. None had albums out or a real following. One was fronted by a guy who played harmonica and just belted out catchy rock tunes. Two years later, they’d drop their first album. Rolling Stone would give it three stars. The song “But Anyway” would become a hit and they’d be on their way to mainstream success.

The band was Blues Traveler.

Also on the lineup was a band that was known around campus. The lead singer was supposed to be a pretty dynamic performer. Their sets at campus bars were popular and well-attended. They had a growing local rep and some campus buzz…

…and they were awesome.

Two years later, they’d drop a debut album that would go absolutely bonkers eventually selling 50,000 albums a week, producing multiple Top-40 hits, and catapulting them into instant fame and world tours.

The band was the Spin Doctors.

Their front man was and is still a guy named Chris Barron. He was a couple years older than me back when I saw them as a college freshman. 19 maybe. 20 tops.

Fast-forward a decades and through a completely random set of interactions on Twitter, Chris and I were introduced. And then became friends… and then good friends who play golf together as much as we can in the margins of his travel schedule.

Chris is still a touring musician both with Spin Doctors and solo. I’ve seen him both ways this past year. I’ve brought my son along to the first. We made a roadtrip of it and sat with Chris’ lovely wife, Lindsay, and then met them for breakfast and fed goats and chickens as one does when one is a rock star.

When we were all locked down for COVID, Chris and I put on this little series of online concerts. He’d play acoustic sitting in his living room to an audience tuned in over Instagram.

When I could, I’d find an “opener” to showcase before Chris’ set. It gave me a chance to spotlight young, talented musicians I thought the world oughta know.

It felt like “helping the next generation”. I’ve had my chances and opportunities in life. It’s time to help nurture and encourage people looking for theirs.

The psychiatrist, Erik Erikson, called that whole midlife feeling “generativity”. To him, it was a phase in the human life cycle when adults predictably move on to redefining what their value is in the world and what they have to offer.

Basically, the generativity stage is a bit of a passing of the baton. It’s when you go from fixating on being the athlete to wanting to be a good coach and supporter.

And when it came to music, I was there. I was all about finding young talent and then using my and Chris’ combined platforms to lift them up.

Chris was… not. (insert: laughing emojis).

Chris was like “Dude, I’m a musician. I am busy Being. A. Musician. So, hey, if you want to go find acts to highlight and stuff, cool, but that’ll be your thing.”

And so I did, and Chris helped amplify their performances and came and watched and was gracious and charming and supportive… but he was busy being a musician and I was off in my “The Time Has Come to Pass the Torch” generativity bullshit despite the fact that I was barely 50, am never going to have the money to retire, and have no torch to pass per se. (insert: more laughing emojis)

I will confess here - and Chris will undoubtedly hear this for the first time - at first, I was kinda like “Dude, we’re old-heads. It’s time to yield with a grace to younger generations being the stars.”

And Chris was a fairly unequivocal “Yeah, I’m a no on that.”

Now, two years later, I am on Day 5 of Being a Writer and I can tell you that there ain’t no baton being passed. I’m just getting started. I ain’t slipping away from the mic to let someone else sing. I’m the lead singer now and, oh, I have a playlist. We’re going to be here awhile.

In parallel though, I still feel that tug of generativity. I feel that impulse to mentor and support and encourage people early in finding themselves and where they fit in this world.

One of them is a drummer named Jordan. He is a bartender at my local pub. We’ve become friends and I’ve come to know him and his backstory. He is 22. He lost his father a few years ago. At his first show with a band last year, I made sure to be there in plain sight so he’d see an old-head in the crowd who cares about him and believes in him and wants him to succeed.

That’s generativity.

There is nothing wrong with shifting in midlife toward helping the people who come next… but Chris was right too. We aren’t done making music.

We can do both.

And on that note, I have to sign off.

I’m picking Jordan up in 15 minutes and driving down to Philly.

Chris and the Spin Doctors are playing with Blues Traveler.

I know the lead singer of the Spin Doctors. He put us on the VIP list.

Afterwards, he’s going to come over to say hi.

As it turns out, sometimes you’re the rock star for what you do on stage; sometimes, for what you do for other musicians; and sometimes you’re the rock star for both… like my boy, Chris.