The bitterest of truths I have learned since becoming an adult is the perpetual longing for the “good times.” That yearning for more simple circumstances and allowing yourself to enjoy life’s simple pleasures was easier. My “good times” were when I was roughly seven years old. I would ride with my Dad to get a cheese biscuit from Jack’s every Saturday morning. The soundtrack of our weekends consisted of the “80s on 8” radio station and the theme song to the anime show Yu-Gi-Oh! Whenever a 1980s hair band, specifically his favorite, Van Halen, would come on the radio, Dad would sing out of tune and play air guitar as if he sold out Madison Square Garden. Instead, he was driving a tan Ford F-150 with an audience of one. Every single first day of school, “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen would blast throughout our town’s highway. Once the song concluded and our heart rates settled, he would preach to us about the original lead singer David Lee Roth’s superiority over the more recent vocalist, Sammy Hagar. Dad would act like it was a debate we had sustained since 1987. Looking back, I always let out a half-assed chuckle like I do when I hear a clever joke, but it doesn’t evoke much reaction. It was a ritual I have yet to omit from my exhaustive list of traditions.
My Dad is an expressive man and ensures you are aware of what he loves. Fortunately, I see much of that trait in myself manifested through music appreciation. I started learning to play the ukulele when I was 14 years old. Financially, it was a low-risk investment, but it proved to be a high reward for me. One night in December of 2013, when Alabama winters felt less like an Ohio spring, my Dad walked into my room and asked if I could learn a song for him. The song was by Skid Row, a band with no business for a ukulele. I navigated where to go on the fretboard and figured it out when the chorus crept up. I will never forget him chuckling and saying, “Dude, we have to get you a guitar.” I thought he was blowing smoke, but it was all I could think about until it happened.
I got a cherry-red Squier Stratocaster and a puny Fender amplifier on my fifteenth birthday. The first song I began learning was “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” by Jimi Hendrix. It was ridiculous to assume I could master it without experience playing a guitar, but you have to capitalize when your Dad is excited about it. My main focus was the blues and psychedelic rock at the time. Any tune by guitar legends like Hendrix, Eric Clapton, B.B. King, or Stevie Ray Vaughn would send shivers down my slightly curved spine. I never mastered any songs by those guys but never put the guitar down. Ten years later, I’m still far from a virtuoso. I’ve just told myself that I got better in my unique way. Most of my time practicing was spent learning songs, which lasted roughly five hours daily. I never took lessons because I would break into sweats at the thought of paying an unbearably average-looking white guy with a ponytail to tell me what to do. It seemed like a scam. Once the skill came to me, I learned blues scales and played along to John Mayer and Grateful Dead live recordings. My original goal was to become what guitar snobs consider “a shredder,” where a guitarist will extend a three-minute song to 12 minutes of improvisation. I was good.
However, I began listening to music that was less about impressive musicianship and more about creating aesthetics, which I found even more intriguing. That John Mayer guitar prodigy mentality never seemed to fade, but I became increasingly concerned with artistic identity and began writing songs. At first, it was a juvenile process using GarageBand to record my ideas. Ironically, I frequently worked on ambient music, which sounds much more impressive than it was. I wasn’t serious about creating that type of music. It took me roughly two years after practicing guitar to start writing music with intent. My first song was called “47.” I wrote it on the balcony of a beach condo in the summer of 2016. It was an acoustic tune about my girlfriend at the time because what else would a moody teenager with a guitar write about? I purchased a microphone, recorded it on the free audio software “Audacity,” and posted it online. In retrospect, “47” was pure, unadulterated garbage, but I’m thankful for writing it because I never stopped from that moment forward. I became insistent on making music my full-time career.
My single most prominent fear is that whatever I do throughout my life will not endure my physical existence. I crumble at the thought of being forgotten or failing to fill the role of being the person who lives in other people’s fondest memories. The letters and poems I write for my mom, my library of journals, and my music became my product-based approach to metaphysics. It’s an immortalizing approach and severely unreasonable, but the pressure felt natural. However, my perspective deters from philosophies dealing with life’s bigger picture as I get older.
My grandmother and role model once gave me more money for my birthday than I expected. I told her she didn’t have to do that, and Nana replied, “Of course I did. I have to give it all to you guys before I’m gone.” The novelty behind that interaction lies in her desire to ensure her love is known, even if she provides less for herself. Nana was a teacher at an elementary school that no longer exists in small-town Alabama. Her small trailer sits about a mile from her former work. She retired over a decade ago but got a job at a mining museum in a dusty, poorly-lit high school gymnasium. By July of every year, she has finished roughly 75 percent of her Christmas shopping, including what she calls the “overflow bag.” This was a concept she came up with when she realized she wanted to give everyone an excessive amount of gifts in addition to our original requests. Nana lives a simple life. It’s a life revolving around the people she loves. Her finances are guided by how much she can give to everyone else, and her radiant smile merely reflects ours.
Antonymous to Nana, a couple of years ago, I finished Christmas shopping approximately one week before Christmas day. The only person I had yet to buy for was my father, but I had about ten dollars in my bank account for the next week. Business was dreaded at work, so money wasn’t necessarily my claim to fame. We creatives tend to put ourselves in torturous situations where we must improvise.
My two options were to either make my Dad a gift out of crafts or buy him a redundant Alabama coffee mug. I made a home studio from a utility closet in my one-bedroom apartment in Birmingham. Being the professional I wished I was, I began learning the chords “Jump” by Van Halen. I recorded and produced a full cover of the song, making the instrumentation the focal point rather than my vocals out of insecurity. On Christmas Eve night, I recorded the guitar solo with my best Eddie Van Halen impression. Dad always loved it when I played Eddie’s tapping technique on guitar, which was out of my wheelhouse. I played the recording for my mom on the same bedroom floor where I recorded “47”, and her pearly white smile extended as far as her ears would allow.
My parents opened their gifts from me and my brother on Christmas morning, and my father saw the brand new AirPods my mother bought for him. He tends to be technologically challenged, so I used that as an excuse to help him connect them to his phone. I sent his phone the audio file of the “Jump” cover. His face illuminated with excitement because he was proud of my song choice. Show time. I nailed the initial synthesizer sound, so he couldn’t distinguish my cover from the original. I observed with the same nervousness I do when I expect a jump scare in horror films. My David Lee Roth impression faintly mustered through his headphones, which was too audible for my comfort. He looked at my mom and said, “That’s Cole!” She nodded with a grin as he paced around, blindsided by a gift that was seemingly more valuable to him than Alabama memorabilia. It was quite intimate because he was the only one listening, and we allowed him the space to digest it. While making my third cup of coffee, I fought through his sniffles to see if he had reached the guitar solo. When he finished, he eagerly greeted me with misty eyes, accompanied by the hug of a straightjacket. He told me it was the best gift he had ever been given. If only he knew, I would record a whole Van Halen album for him if I could.
I don’t have to write music that publications name album of the year. Personally, making music is not really about the music anymore. It may be my newfound catalyst to connect with those I love, but in hopes of replicating the iridescent joy that Nana has mastered, I prioritize giving all I have to improve my loved ones’ lives. Breathing life into the casual and superficially mundane moments has become more fulfilling than having a stage to myself, and I want to eternally breathe the same air as those I love the most.
The “good times” have never left. We change. When my Dad drives around with my 7-year-old nephew, he asks him if he wants to listen to the Van Halen version of “Jump” or if he wants to listen to my version. He usually chooses my version. The great debate was over. Van Halen’s best lead singer was neither David Lee Roth nor Sammy Hagar. You can ask my Dad who it is.
Cole Manasco 
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