Dreamscapes and Hollow Victories
Here in the big time, I needed to look a little more rock and roll, and I needed to know my place as a sideman for someone else’s dream.
Early this week I talked to a friend in Oklahoma, and the conversation came around to songwriting. I told him I’d written my first song when I was eight or nine years old. If you asked me to, I could play that song for you right now—I remember it well. Granted, the song wouldn’t turn a lot of heads or make people talk about the skillful composer, but it was a notable event for a little boy with a guitar. So yes, the song is stored in a well-kept vault of my memory bank.
Something else happened this week: a dream set in Western Pennsylvania, right there in the place that spawned me. As is usual with dreamscapes, I knew where I was, though it didn’t look right. That is, the house didn’t look like my parents’ house on Nicktown Hill, but that’s where the dream took place. I’ve noted that most of my dreams—at least the ones I remember—are set in the place I still consider home, though I haven’t lived there for most of my adult life. Northern Cambria County is home, and it always will be in my mind quarters (that’s my youngest daughter’s very apt phrase). It’s home, but I’m not sure if that explains the setting for my dreams.
The most recent dream involved some faulty musical equipment and a frayed wire. I couldn’t connect the wire properly due to its poor condition. Another great feature of dreams is that lots of things aren’t clear, and I happen to believe that dreams have a larger message—your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something. The dreamy moments that need to be clear are very much in focus, and like a poem or a painting, some metaphor might live in the imagery. It’s left for the dreamer to figure it out. So, I couldn’t connect a wire, even while I wasn’t sure why I needed to. I could see some electronic unit in the dream, its buttons and knobs—it could have been a stereo or some weird amplifier, but the details don’t matter. I needed to connect it, and I couldn’t.
Some friends of mine from the 80s showed up in the dream, people I worked with every day back then. People I traveled with in a van so I could play music. Tony Mastran was there, and Charlie Farabaugh, and Pat Waksmunski. It was Pat who offered help with the faulty connection, and that makes sense. When I played music in 1980s Pennsylvania, Pat was the sound man and the most technically minded among us.
My mom and dad were in the dream, too. They were young and healthy and nearby. They didn’t seem to be concerned about the equipment malfunction. But then the weird part came. It doesn’t make much sense from any logical perspective, but Sting was there in our Nicktown house. And since it’s a dream, why not? The Sting who does yoga and takes himself very seriously. You know, the guy who sang for The Police when they were the biggest band in the world. When Sting shows up at your house, or in your dream, you want to chat with him and pick his brain. You might want to find out why the hell he’s there. I mean, I play bass, just like Sting. And 1980s me fronts a band, just like Sting.
The larger problem in Dreamville was that Sting was in my house, and I wasn’t wearing pants. I don’t know a lot, but if you’re going to chat with a rock star, you should probably wear pants. I stood there in my underwear, embarrassed and unable to approach the former Gordon Sumner. And it was my dad who finally came to the rescue. He escorted me to a table that happened to be in the room when I needed it most.
In this sense, dreams can be a little like Hollywood, or the A-Team, or those survival guys on the Discovery Channel who inevitably find a backpack that has just the right items. So yeah, a table filled with jeans. Dad and I tore through that convenient pile of denim until we found a pair with frayed thighs and holes in the knees. Really, they were perfect 80s jeans, and my dad helped me find them. I don’t know how the conversation with Sting might have gone after I donned the jeans. I woke up and never found out.
Before I try to work toward some larger point, I should mention that I woke up at four o’clock Thursday morning with old recordings in my head. I wrote and recorded songs through most of the 80s. I made a lot of recordings by myself, and I recorded things with my friends. Some of those recordings have been digitized, so I crawled out of bed before dawn and went to my computer; maybe I thought about them for a reason.
I dug through files and found a song that featured me, Charlie Farabaugh, and Tony Mastran, recorded on December 7th, 1989—the same Charlie and Tony who appeared in my dream. The recording is good, though the lyrics aren’t great. The lyrics might be a little embarrassing. But I did write them in my 20s, and I’ve already forgiven my younger self for penning such trite bullshit. The younger me was trying hard, though, so he gets an A for effort.
What does this all mean? And why, in the last week or so, have I been thinking intently about a decade long past? I was learning how to do something then—write songs—and proving to myself that I could do it. Those are two very different endeavors. Learning a craft is one thing; knowing you’re an accomplished craftsman is another. Anyway, I mostly kept my bandmates out of those 1980s recording sessions because it felt like something that was mine. The proof I was seeking—that I was capable, or worthy, or talented—could only be found through my own efforts. I liked the results, even if the finished songs I put on cassette tapes were imperfect. But maybe I didn’t like them enough.
My biggest dream back then was to be a successful songwriter. Maybe a record deal for Gerry Stanek. I worked like a man obsessed. And then something happened. Some time in late 1989 or early 1990, I was offered an audition. A band in New York City, already signed to a big label, needed a bass player. I jumped at the chance.
To make a long story short, I passed the audition and left everything behind. I said goodbye to my Pennsylvania bandmates, and I said goodbye to all those songs I’d written. I bade farewell to the countless hours I’d spent in my parents’ basement writing and recording music. I said goodbye to every shred of evidence that said I was capable, or worthy, or talented. Maybe because I didn’t trust what I’d found. And maybe because I didn’t really believe I was good enough to make it on my own. I put all that experience in a metaphorical box and sealed it with packing tape.
I chose the easy road.
Playing bass was like breathing for me. I didn’t even have to think about it. So sure, I passed the audition and was chosen over a hundred other guys from around the country. I quickly moved into major label land with a band called The Lost. A year and a half later I saw my own mug on MTV and in Rolling Stone magazine. It was some kind of victory, I suppose. But even then, the victory felt hollow and not nearly as satisfying as I thought it might. It wasn’t my victory.
By the time I arrived in New York, I had played well over a thousand gigs. I’d written a hundred songs—or more. I’d taken the time to master a craft. And those New York people were quick to devalue that work. I was the right guy for their band, but I wasn’t perfect by any means. Time spent in cover bands? That meant nothing to them, especially in provincial Pennsylvania. Here in the big time, I needed to look a little more rock and roll, and I needed to know my place as a sideman for someone else’s dream.
It was pretty clear that I would never write a song for The Lost.
My early days in New York were marked by confusion and loneliness. I was in a world I didn’t understand. I was wanted and needed by these people, but they felt it necessary to dictate what my life should look like—what I ought or ought not to do. They needed me and wanted me on terms that would be defined only by them. And I went along, partly because it’s not easy to admit defeat and go back to Nicktown, and partly because I wanted those bragging rights: I’ve been on MTV. I’ve been in Rolling Stone magazine. I kept my mouth shut and worked hard.
There’s no doubt that I learned a lot of lessons in New York and on the East Coast. A lot of what I did was positive and enriching, and I would stay there for most of the 90s. But still, there was always the nagging idea that I’d said goodbye to the hot blue center of my own dreams. To use another metaphor, I’d purposely snuffed out that candle. I’d let down my friends, sure, and that’s bad enough. But the certain irony of the situation was that I had ultimately let myself down. Even in the middle of so-called success, knowing that you’ve stifled something important can weigh you down.
I left The Lost in the middle of 1992 and found other opportunities. I’d finally had it with keeping my mouth shut. I moved into bands where I made real friends, with exciting adventures and lots of great music. Still, I didn’t allow Gerry Stanek’s music to come to the forefront. I built an impressive resume and failed to trust myself to chase the one thing I wanted.
I’m not big on nostalgia, and I don’t spend time wallowing in regret. I don’t want this to look like regret. There’s a lot of value to what I did in the ancient 1990s. What I finally discovered in the last eighteen months is that there was more value to what I did in the 80s because I was on a path that was my own. My aims and work and passion were directed toward finding the best of myself. If I’d have trusted myself then—if I’d believed the proof I’d compiled in my parents’ basement and on hundreds of stages in Western Pennsylvania, I might have passed on that New York audition.
I might have realized that I didn’t need to step into anyone else’s dream to find myself. The power and connections I needed were inside me all along.
If you hear about me writing and recording songs as I approach my sixtieth birthday, you might recognize that my intentions feel pure. I’m not trying to revisit the glory days of my 20s. No one needs to tell me to grow up or give up. I’m really just aiming at the best part of me. I’m reaching for potential—potential I’ve ignored for a long time. I don’t need to be anyone’s sideman. The jeans I found with my dad in the dream? They might be a perfect fit.
I understand that people my age think about retiring, but I mostly think about work: the work that pushes me toward a place where I’m capable, worthy, and talented. I’ve come to believe that the work itself holds something called happiness. Beyond the well-being of my daughters, that work is all I ever think about.
I believe the greatest sin lies in not reaching your potential, in not using the gifts you’ve been given. In a way, I’m making up for lost time; I’m atoning for sins committed. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be lost in writing or recording a song, doing something that was clearly defined in my mind quarters a long time ago. The eight year old me who wrote a song was on to something. He made up words and put a couple of chords to them because there was pure joy in the act. He knew, somehow, that it was exactly what he was supposed to do.
I work hard every day to get that message to my daughters: there’s no law that says you should stop your youthful enthusiasm when you’re an adult. There’s no age limit on creativity. There’s no age limit on anything, really. Carry your joy and curiosity with you at all times; trust it and nurture it; don’t let anyone steal it or tell you that it doesn’t have value. Find the thing you were born to do and do it with all your might. If you can manage to do that, you might just find the real meaning of happiness. You’ll feel a lot better when you look in the mirror. And I’m quite certain that none of your victories will feel hollow.
Hey, Gerry. Just curious if you've ever seen this?
https://heavyharmonies.com/cgi-bin/glamcd.cgi?BandNum=2159&CDName=The+Lost