Dying to Sing..

Waking up to a second chance in life means conquering fears of failure and daring to do what you always dreamed. Yet some dreams don't come without a long hard road of humiliation...

When I was eight years old, my brother asked me the classic childhood dream question on a trek down the railroad tracks behind our house. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A song writer," I said with surety.

I really can't remember a day in my life when I did not sing. Of course only rearview mirrors and shower doors were witnesses back in the day. I often shut my bedroom door, and lip synched stretched out in front of a 5 ft. mirror for hours. I convinced myself I was subbing for Brian Johnson of AC/DC, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith, or even Axle Rose of Guns and Roses. Girls were screaming and I was simply dangerous. But then the stereo fan kicked on and reality set in, I was just a dreamer. I needed confirmation from someone other than the mirror guy.

My amazing twin sister, Alicia, was given the luxury of being begged to sing by my parents growing up. They even resorted to bribery to get her on stage, giving her no possible room to doubt her pure talent. I remember my Mom offering her a pecan pie to sing "Over the Rainbow" for my relatives at a family reunion. She stole the show.

Sure enough Alicia shined all the way from Glee club in high school to K-State singers and paid gigs inspired by audiences watching her performance at Worlds of Fun. Today she is still outstanding and sings for audiences of over 5,000. My parents knew her worth and shouted it from the roof tops. Somehow, I just got lost in her shadow growing up and could only see "The Twin," written across my forehead. I longed for more.

Yet, my confidence was crippled and the ability to sing before others would only come through the aide of alcohol. One night after plenty to drink I would find my first confirmation from an unexpected source. Cruising down the back roads of Topeka to the next keg party, Tom Petty's latest release was screaming on the radio. I screamed along with him out the window at my highest decibels for the car pool and neighborhood to hear.
"Well I'm freeeeee...Free fallin'.........Now I'm freeeeeee...Free fallin'...."

David, my 6' 5", 240 lb great friend and driver that night, looked over to me, grabbed my leg, squeezed it, and shouted over the blaring stereo, "YOU SOUND LIKE A ROCK STAR!"

I remembered those words the next morning and for days after. But somehow it turned into a question, "I sound like a rock star?" Being sober and hung over, doubt settled in. I knew I needed a more professional opinion. I started calling vocal teachers in the yellow pages. I found a former broadway performer, Clark, an excellent fellow and teacher, who actually lived with James Dean in New York once. He was Legit. He could definitely give me some confirmation whether or not I was just a dreamer. I set up my appointment, brought in the piano music for "Sweet Child of Mine," and asked, "Can we do this one?" He looked puzzled of course but was willing. The piano intro began, and I shouted in my best nasal grit,

"She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky..."

Really there could not have been a worse sound than attempting Axle Rose over a choppy, happy piano accompaniment. It was like a spoof movie scene, made to send the audience hurling in disgust. I just wanted it to be over it was so painful to hear.

Carl however, stops playing after the second chorus, turns from his piano bench and says, "Mark, you have a wonderful voice!"

I thought, "You can't be serious! That was awful! And, I don't know if I want 'A wonderful voice.' "

I continued coming for weeks after moving from rock and metal songs to broadway. He even convinced me to audition for a musical at The Civic Theater. I sang two songs petrified before an audience looking for talent they would pay for. I went a little more tame with Elton John. They told me, "Great job!" Yet, still I doubted, did not see myself in the broadway world, and left confused and lost.

I found a store in town called "Sing Aloud!" A tiny shop stacked with tapes of karaoke songs and a studio to record in. Wow!!. I started spending all my money recording every song I thought I could sing. Poison. The Stones. Guns and Roses. Elton John. U2. The Beatles. Styx. The Doors... I created my own pile of tapes that would serve as my audition selection for any opportunity that might come my way.

One night at a keg party, I noticed two really big hair band looking guys, Kenny and Eric. With enough alcohol, I wandered their way. I found out sure enough they were musicians in a band and vitally connected to the world I was looking for. I asked, "So who's your singer?" They said, "we are still looking."
This was it for sure. The moment of truth! I had three audition tapes with me ready for exposure to the two most powerful opinions that would settle it once and for all.

I said, "Guys, I think I may have your singer. Follow me." They followed me out to my car. I played "Come Sail Away," karaoke version with Mark Brende the lead vocal.......We listened in silence. I held my breath and braced myself for the truth. Then suddenly at the climax of the song, they laughed out loud, chuckling, "Awesome!"

They gave me their address, phone #, and the song I would need to learn to audition for real. Sober. I had to sing, "Where the Down Boys Go," by Warrant. I was ecstatic, giddy, and alcohol was beginning to take over. Looking me over one last time at the party, some question was in their eyes, as I began to create a drunken scene before a large crowd of their friends before I drove home again intoxicated.
Daylight came however. I was scared to death. I wasn't sure what really happened for sure. Whether I really could stand before them sober was still to be told.

Yet, I bought the tape. I practiced over and over. The time had come. I arrived to their house in the daylight, no alcohol, still a stranger. We journeyed to the basement where guitar amps, a drum kit, and microphone stands littered the room.

The drums kicked in. I grabbed the mic. One audience member, a drummer named Steve, who would later become my life long friend, was all it would take to make the final call. He leaned in, listened, and at the end shouted, "Kick Ass!"

Officially, I was in a rock band. My first rock band at age 19.

However, our first gig would be my doom. I was so locked up, I ended up secretly drinking well beyond the limit to find the nerve to sing. My speech became slurred. I was hobbling as I approached the stage. Before the audience of 20, mostly musicians, that had the power to butcher me, I attempted to sing. Sure enough, I flopped. I was ridiculous. I forgot the words. I was off key. I had to ask the band to start the song over to find my place. We couldn't even finish two songs. The band was humiliated and wanted no more of drunk Brende. I was out.

My short-lived dream left me stripped, searching, and struggling in a pit of unanswered questions. It would be back to the drawing board to find my rite of passage. Little did I know, David, Clark, Steve, Kenny, and Eric all had a role in saving me that year. But the journey would still be far from over.