I remember some years back having to switch to a new phone. I’m not a fan of change, especially when it comes to things I consider appliances.
In the landline days of old, phones were relatively cheap, and you didn’t have to get a new one every couple of years. I still own a couple of rotary phones from the 1940s that work perfectly fine and have better sound quality than anything else I’ve ever used.
But this story ain’t about phones.
Or change.
It’s about my personal phonebook.
That’s one thing I’ll admit to liking about cell phones. Everyone’s number right there in the device. No more having to remember - or risk forgetting - telephone numbers.
At the time of this particular phone change, I was at one of those midlife crossroads. My dilemma was simple enough: Do I continue with music at some professional level?
I wasn’t happy with my playing. I felt like I was spinning my wheels, doing the same songs over and over. I was burned out.
It happens.
The young lady at the phone store helped me transfer the six hundred or so numbers from my old phone. She looked up and laughed.
“You must be pretty popular.”
I remember thinking, No. I just know a lot of people.
When I got home, I scrolled through the contact list. I was surprised by some of the names in there. Some were out of date. Some belonged to people who had passed on. Some had multiple numbers and needed cleaned up. But overall, it was an impressive little catalog of a life.
Musicians from all over the globe. The United States, Canada, Mexico, the UK, Germany, Italy, Finland, Australia, Japan. Plenty of names most people would recognize. Plenty more they wouldn’t.
There were folks who dealt in vintage gear, rare recordings, antiques, and assorted collectibles. I always seemed to know somebody looking for something, and I was usually happy to help.
There were record company executives I occasionally did PR work with.
Promoters from all over. Some I enjoyed working with. Some I preferred not to.
What it all told me was that, in my own weird little way, I had managed to build a life in music. Maybe not the glamorous version people imagine, but a real one just the same.
Some of my music had been recorded by artists I admire. I had arranged gear purchases and rentals for some well-known names. I had tracked down hard-to-find items for collectors with more money than sense. To my memory, I only failed once—and it wasn’t for lack of trying. Hell, that one cost me money.
Still does, if I’m honest. Less than two thousand of that item were ever made. It’s out there somewhere, and I still believe I’ll come across it.
We all get down on ourselves now and then. We think we’ve gone nowhere. We think we’ve done nothing.
Then sometimes life hands you a six-hundred-name reminder that you were moving the whole time.
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