Rock ’n’ Roll Never Forgets. But Sometimes It Misplaces Its Keys

The drummer is writing song titles on a whiteboard. The lead singer is pouring herself another glass of water. The rhythm guitarist is checking her daughter’s soccer schedule.

Both the bassist and lead guitarist are wearing the same shade of tan Dockers.

This is not the beer-and-weed-fuelled bacchanal I (barely) recall from my misspent young adulthood.

But playing in a band again, and at an age when most people with real jobs would be retiring, is the life hack I didn’t know I needed. If not a renewed sense of purpose, it has at least given me something to do on Wednesday nights.

It comes from the basement

Before joining this new outfit, the Bitchilantes, 30 years had passed since I last tuned my electric guitar. Thirty-four if you were to ask my former bandmates.

In the first half of the ’90s, I played in a punk/alt-rock/alt-country reduction called Foam. Grunge was taking the world by storm, one monosyllabic grunt at a time. Our name also reflected the ad hoc nature of the group and our ambivalence at finding ourselves in one.

Later, with a new drummer, we would rebrand as Sourpuss, a moniker that reflected all of the above with the bonus of evoking the name of a brand of brightly hued liqueurs. Fireball would have been good, too.

We formed in the basement of a rented bungalow on East Broadway. Illuminated by one bare bulb, surrounded by our own childish graffiti, and doing untold damage to our eardrums, we’d thrash away at our instruments, only stopping when we ran out of weed, beer or patience with the rhythm guitarist’s Ren and Stimpy impressions.

Band “meetings” often followed. These usually began with a discussion of an upcoming show if we had one or whose turn it was to look for one if we didn’t. However, the meetings soon devolved into a diss session about other local bands, particularly ones we considered part of “the scene.” Never mind that we would have given up an internal organ to be part of said scene.

We also usually made some time to mock a band whom we, due to proximity (a roommate was friends with one of the members) considered our arch-rivals. This was a folk-rock outfit composed of real musicians, one of whom had the audacity to occasionally play a mandolin. Sorry, Memory Day.

Out of the basement, into the well-lit main-floor media room

Playing with the Bitchilantes is at least two tax brackets and several blocks away from those days.

For starters, there’s the environment.

Practice takes place on the main floor of our drummer’s lovely, clean house. There is no graffiti on the walls and the plumbing works. There are multiple light sources.

Instead of cranking our amps to 11, we wear headphones. We plug these into some kind of box — I never was tech-savvy — so only we hear ourselves. The house’s other residents, never mind neighbours, remain blissfully unaware of our fumbling attempts at the Hives’ “Main Offender.”

Band meetings are held in a group chat and consist of sharing photos of potential co-ordinated stage outfits.

Then there’s the band itself.

No one wears a wallet-chain, a long-sleeved shirt under a short-sleeved shirt or a bandana. So far, at any rate.

During practice, no one shares his or her impressions of Nickelodeon cartoon characters.

Yes, there are women in the band, two of them to be exact. The coed environment ensures eye-opening digressions on perimenopause, something I hadn’t realized was lacking in the all-male lineup of Foam.

There is no beer and I’m 99 per cent sure that no one’s on anything stronger than the occasional gummy. Though if anyone is, it’s probably one of the two members with a spouse and kids.

In fact, where every Foam/Sourpuss practice seemed to be an overt attempt to hurry early-onset dementia, these later-stage efforts at rocking out may be better for brain function than Wordle and pickleball combined.

Playing an instrument, memorizing lyrics, debating the merits of Steely Dan — all have been shown to bolster cognition. Especially the Steely Dan part.

Just ask science.

“Our findings indicate that promoting musical education would be a valuable part of public health initiatives to promote a protective lifestyle for brain health, as would encouraging older adults to return to music in later life,” Anne Corbett, a professor in dementia research at the University of Exeter, told the Times last year. Corbett is one of the authors of a study that found singing can result in better brain health in older age.

“There is considerable evidence for the benefit of music group activities for individuals with dementia, and this approach could be extended as part of a healthy ageing package for older adults to enable them to proactively reduce their risk and to promote brain health.”

That said, Corbett obviously hasn’t heard the Bitchilantes’ version of “Blitzkrieg Bop.”

No sleep till the legion

Along with promoting brain health, playing in a band again after all these years has given me a new appreciation for the guitar.

I was never the type of musician to go down to the crossroads, or even take the SkyTrain, to trade my soul to the devil in exchange for mad skills. I’ve never dreamt of being an Yngwie Malmsteen or Eddie Van Halen. I’ve never slept with my guitar — or anyone else’s. Despite what you may have heard.

But after years of letting my Stratocaster languish in storage, I’m rediscovering the joys of incremental improvements. I’ve even gone so far as to attempt parts, like a Jimmy Page guitar solo, that I once considered out of reach. Turns out I was right, but so what?

Nor do I take for granted the weekly ritual of group practice. Where a Foam gathering often felt like a job, albeit one with a very lax HR department, I now view getting together with a group of people to play music as a rare and unique opportunity.

It helps that the stakes are lower — at least in most ways.

Where three of the five insecure egomaniacs in Sourpuss wrote songs, resulting in no end of passive aggressive needling and lobbying, the Bitchilantes are content to cover other people’s material, so long as it doesn’t involve more than four chords or a drop-D tuning.

Foam/Sourpuss expended a lot of time and energy trying to get gigs at the city’s more prestigious venues. Today, a gig at a legion would feel like winning a Juno.

Not that this hobby is nothing but a lark.

Increasingly, kicking up a racket with a bunch of fellow lefties feels like an act of defiance — not just against encroaching decrepitude but against the shifting geopolitical reality around us.

Sometimes, the only sane response to the headlines is to play “Rockin’ in the Free World” with some fellow angry citizens.

As long as everyone’s home by 9:30.