Finding the Soul

I remember Shane. Of all the musicians I ever met or played with, he was the most raw.

I first began auditioning for bands in 1989. I started with a fun big hair glam band singing about girls to stay away from or lust after. I joined a biker bar band shortly after singing classic rock to drunks who lived in bars "where everybody knows their name." I then landed in a metal band we called Rock Mafia, a "guard your daughters from" kind of band to say the least. That band ended when the drummer didn't show up for practice one night. He was arrested for 8 robberies over the weekend attempting to maintain his cocaine addiction.

Then came Peacemaker. Today they are still my brothers. I would serve them in any time of need. Though we played for less than two years together, they were some of the most unbelievable times and friends to me.

I wish I could go back in time for one more conversation with Shane, the guitarist, who took his own life last year. I will never forget his authenticity, style, and mystery that made him one of a kind.

Shane played with the most heart. He moved me from thinking music to feeling music. He gave me a window not just to good lyrics and chords, but to the soul, my soul. When I finally showed up to band practice having written about my soul, not just girls or stuff that passes by, that night became a rite of passage. Shane gave me the look you know you only get once in life, perhaps twice. He grabbed me by the collar with his eyes, as if he saw a boy die and a man arise, and spoke in declarative authority, "I f 'n love you MAN!" My interpretation was, "Mark, you finally arrived," or "behold there is the man I knew was there!"

Somehow a facade fell from existence that day. Little did I know how many still masked my calloused and frail soul.

We played in bars in Topeka, Lawrence, and the Kansas City area for the next year maturing as a band and developing a small following. We went from writing cheesy songs about being harassed by telemarketers to songs about the real pain that was having it's way. I remember being on top of a table in the middle of a bar with the mic stretched as far as it could go shaking my head and screaming "Where have I gone, where did I go wrong, Oh God color me. Don't leave me in this shade of grey!" I was becoming raw and my soul was alive to the reality that something was dead. Something wasn't right.

How long can we run with the wrong message before we find a dead end? And how long can we suppress the right message before we cry out from the pit? The soul has something to say on the issue and we may just need a Shane in our life to help us get there.