Backwards Record (a.k.a. B-sides)

Summer of 2009. I stay at my mom’s for a change. I can’t find a job this summer, the economy sucks. But I get the opportunity to put my efforts elsewhere. Freedom at last, even if it’s not meant to be. I rummage through my room in search of a dusty case, although I’ve always known where it is. Rich mahogany in hand, I begin to talk Stairway to Heaven.

School year, Second Period Daily, 2006-2007. At School: Get bass. Play with mediocrity. Watch the clock. Repeat. At Home: Avoid family. Watch tv. Attempt homework. Repeat. One hundred fifty school days and several arguments later: I’m done.



October 25th, 2004. Today I receive a check in the mail for $100 from my Aunt Jeanie and Uncle Jerry. The accompanying note reads “Thirteen years old! What an accomplishment! Happy Birthday!” I suppose if I had had a party they would have given it to me in person. I save the sum until Christmas, upon when I give in to buying a sleek mahogany bass guitar from zZounds magazine. Truly one of the greatest gifts I have ever bought for myself. I can’t put it down. My string bass sits in the corner of my room.


Summer of 2004. Tensions are running high in the Lindburg Household. My brothers and I have been told we are picking up and leaving from the town I have lived in for nearly thirteen years. Though we feel betrayed (excluding my youngest brother, who is three at the time), our parents go about their usual business. Like every summer, my parents pick something to keep me occupied and strip me of my freedom. In previous years it was YMCA camp or an activity-oriented babysitter. This year it is orchestra camp. It is held at Sandburg Middle School, which I attend, and we have to arrive at the same time as if it were a regular school day. My soul develops a nasty case of ALS.


Fourth Grade, circa 2001. This is the year my elementary school feels is the best time for students to begin playing musical instruments. They overlook the fact that most of us would rather play sports and run around, as sitting indoors and screeching out “notes” in a dusty school basement is much healthier. Of my options, pounding on the drums sounds much better than wind or string instruments. My dad and stepmom outright refuse; my baby brother won’t be able to handle all the noise. String bass it is. My parents are happy to rent one out.