Songs 1 — Rock Band

I burned the CD to my hard drive. Then I made three copies. One for my daughter, for when she’s old enough to understand what a dream looks like before it becomes a regret. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked if I ever made anything beautiful, and I lied and said no.

The first song was called Cigarette Girls and Broken Sirens . It started with a feedback loop that went on too long because Marcus forgot to mute his amp. I came in a beat late, voice cracking on the word “asphalt.” But then—then the chorus hit, and for forty-five seconds, we weren't four broken kids in a closet. We were something that could hurt you beautifully. rock band songs 1

I found the dusty, unlabled CD-R at the bottom of a cardboard box marked “Evan – College,” which my mother had dropped off ten years too late. The plastic jewel case was cracked diagonally, and inside, someone had scrawled in fading Sharpie: RB Sngs 1 . Not even a date. Not even a band name. I burned the CD to my hard drive

By the time Anna, in Rearview started—the off-key twelve-string, the raw catch in my throat—I was crying. Not silent movie tears. The ugly kind. The kind that comes from a place you forgot you had. One for my ex-wife, because she once asked

I never listened to the CD again. I packed it away, told myself it was a demo, a rough draft, a thing I’d revisit when I was famous enough to laugh at my origins.

It was never meant to be an archive of failure. “Rock Band Songs 1” was supposed to be a promise.

We burned through the rest in a blur. Neon Jesus was a slow-burn dirge about a convenience store crucifix that melted in the summer heat. The Year We Forgot to Breathe was three minutes of pure rage—Benny broke a string and kept playing through the silence. Anna, in Rearview was the acoustic closer, just me and a twelve-string that wouldn't stay in tune. I wrote it for a girl who left me for a guy who played lacrosse. I sang it like a eulogy.