You Said To, “Shout, Shout, Let It All Out.”

And so I did, to devastating consequences. But, let me just take it back to the beginning to offer a better explanation…

I love music. Always have. When I was younger, I lived to sing and could hear a song a couple of times with an uncanny ability to remember all of the lyrics. The old adage of singing in the shower was my truth; fully clothed, I sometimes took advantage of the perfect acoustics in ours to belt out a tune as though performing to adoring crowds. And, for some odd reason, as a young child, I thought you had to be “British” to be the best of bands…(with the exception of The Doors, they were other “wordly” and worldly”...)

Before my time, my 19 year old mother was such a Beatles fan that when she accepted my father’s marriage proposal, which required moving to London, she insisted on living on Abbey Road. He was happy to oblige and my older brother was blessed enough to take his first steps in spaces where Ringo had taken significant strides.

I was born in Toronto and I don’t remember any Canadian musical influences. It was all the songs of my parents’ generation I cherished: The Kinks, The Animals, The Stones, to name a few. So influenced by their British background, it only made sense when I was transported to Las Vegas, I would favor the dulcet tones of lovely British boys from working class backgrounds that included Sheffield (Def Leppard) and Birmingham (the incomparable Duran squared…)

I, like most delusional American teens, believed I was going to marry John Taylor, befriend Roger Taylor, and tolerate Andy Taylor from the band. (Poor Andy, he deserves props, especially for his guitar solo when Belinda Carlisle went solo…but I digress) I loved them so much and, at a time where we couldn’t communicate with lightning speed over The Internet, we as tweens and teens appreciated a different kind of tactile experience than texting with nimble, young fingers… I’m referring to draping our bedroom walls with posters of the beautiful boys who wore more eyeliner than we did…

Thanks to my mother’s appetite for travel, I was proud to show off to my friends the unique Duran Duran posters she brought back from London, which seemed a planet away. And there they were on my walls with their ilk and their pet project, Kajagoogoo. And, for some reason, Tears For Fears was never one of the bands I favored enough to tape to my memories on the four walls my father paid for and afforded me.

They were talented, without question. And I never changed the station when their songs wafted through the car radio while I learned to drive. They were British, so that definitely gave them an edge. They were hip and mod but, for some inexplicable reason, their talent fell through the cracks of my adolescence like another brooding Brit, Adam Ant. And then, many years later…

I took my love for language and created a career as a writer. Blessed with and humbled by a talent to take words and manipulate them for effective expression, I sold scripts and was hired by a production company or nine to re-write projects for the screen. There was a lot of success before some inconceivable life events (as we all are challenged by) derailed my career and introduced such foreign concepts as suicidal ideation into my thoughts where words for sale used to live rent free.

At a particularly low point, a childhood friend named Perry offered a bit of a life line. When I was many a mortgage payment behind, he offered me the chance to pen his passion project as a writing partner. This was a new dynamic for us as, three years older in age and about a century smarter in thought process, I always found his intellect and his moxie intimidating. But, the project unfolded beautifully and he was appreciating every page as much and I was to be able to produce them. Somewhere in the writing process, Perry shared that he shared our script with his friend, Roland Orzabal. RO was and still is one of the principals in Tears For Fears and his effusive and complimentary feedback brought sincere tears to all of my fears: Fears of whether I could still write, fears that spoke to my self worth, the deepest fear that I just wasn’t good enough or deserving enough to be part of the planet anymore. Sadly, his words weren’t strong enough for me to actually believe in myself and not self destruct in such a spectacular fashion most of my friends haven’t forgotten it a decade on. For dramatic expression of my pain, I could have one an Oscar..

However, I never forgot what Roland Orzabal said and how it impacted my damaged soul. Somebody who could inspire over 4 decades through his imaginative words, appreciating mine? It was heady, to say the least. So, when given an opportunity to celebrate his lyricism as a form of thanks, I did. Performing in Las Vegas as they did almost 40 years ago when I wasn’t allowed to attend their concert here in Sin City or home as I knew it, I stood up for their artistry, I swayed in support of their transcending tunes, and I acknowledged silently as a human being the suffering, losses, and challenges they too were forced to contend with in the decade since Roland appreciated my writing. Thank you, Roland and Tears For Fears for making the soundtrack of my life that much sweeter and more meaningful.

And now, in the proverbial spirit of living lyrics out loud, I’m going to “shout, shout, let it all out” because these are the things “I can do without.”

“I’m talking to you…Come on…”