Memoirs of a Rock Wife
It’s not uncommon to grow up fantasizing about marrying a musician: being serenated to on the reg, having love songs about you reaching #1 on the charts, and ultimate bragging rights for being THAT girl. I’m not ashamed to say that for me, my first “rockstar” crush was Lance Bass from *NSYNC. Of course, years later I learned I was barking up the wrong tree as I am lacking the Y chromosome and a set of lap meat for Mr. Bass’ taste. Not gonna lie … I was hurt when I found out … but hey, there are a lot of heterosexual fish in the sea. As I got older, some of those fish I crushed on ranged from guppies like Tyson Ritter from All American Rejects, to clown fish like Billy Joe from Green Day, to hammerheads like Sully Erna from Godsmack. Sully was where I hung up my fishing net, though. Not only was Erna the literal size of a 5th grader when I met him (note: I am 5’10’’ barefoot), but I had just bumped into a sturdy 6 – foot 4- inch “knight in ripped jeans and Mastodon shirt” on my way into the venue. The first words I could muster to him, the words that changed both our lives forever were, “Hi. You’re fucking hot.”
In most cases, to be married to a rockstar, you must first date a rockstar. As the girlfriend of a musician, I volunteered to put in some work to show him my support. I wasn’t getting any songs written about me (arggg!) like I fantasized, but I was told by him and several other song writers that it’s easier to write when you’re sad or mad. Being in a happy relationship isn’t much fuel for a rock song. Fair enough. A word from the wise: if you want a love song, date a country singer. If you want excitement, date a rocker! So, there I was, thrusted into this new, crazy lifestyle: I was carrying amps and guitar cases backstage in my mini skirt and high heels. I was slingin’ CD’s and t-shirts while chugging beers behind the merch booth. I helped plaster posters on street lights and tagged along to all the rehearsals. I took initiative, I kept my cool, and I looked fly doing it all, if I do say so myself! And guess what? He put a ring on it.
Following a wedding and some babies, being married to a rockstar is a whole new ballgame. I paid my dues in my girlfriend days and … you know … popped out his offspring n’ such, so I’ve pretty much been relieved of my merch booth and show promoting duties. I do still carry gear though because that’s about the only cardio I have time for. Speaking of time … those little sperm nugget kids sure suck up a lot of it. Going to a show isn’t just throwing on some fishnets and head out the door anymore. Now it’s an entire process that takes at least a week to plan, no joke. They’re lucky they are cute, I tell ya. Questions of touring comes up quite a bit: How will you manage the kids by yourself? Won’t you miss him? What about groupies? Look. As a wife of a musician, you cannot kill yourself with worry. Yeah, some rando whores will probably flash their titties here and there. Whoopty doo. Yeah, doing the parent thing alone will be difficult but parenting, in general, is difficult. The kids and I will survive. Will I miss him? Um … duh. But I’d be a terrible wife if I kept him from fulfilling his ambitions. I refuse to be some bitch-ass dream crusher!
Most musicians will tell you that there are the flakiest of flaky people in the business. If you can’t think of a single flake in your musician bubble, it’s definitely you. I’ve seen so much drama started between band members, it’s enough to make high school girls look like mute nuns. But hey, musicians are passionate so what should you expect? However, if it weren’t for my husband I wouldn’t have been introduced to some of the most inspirational, kindest people I’ve ever met. Some, I consider my best friends. Others, I consider my brothers and sisters. I’ve been involved with music all my life but never put forth the dedication to pursue it. Having truly talented dream chasers in my constant presence has given me more appreciation for music than I’ve ever had. I can’t imagine being married into any other profession that shows the amount of support and generosity for each other that the world of music does. Even hairy, scary punk rockers and metal heads hold up lost shoes and keys in the middle of the mosh pit in hopes to thrash into its owner at some point. That’s so fucking considerate!
In honor of my audience, I wasn’t intending on writing a love story. My goal was to give a bit of a glimpse from the sidelines. I may not be a player, or a coach, or even that guy who’s hired to move the coach out of the way when a player comes crashing through. But as the wife of a rockstar, I’m just happy to have a ticket to the game.