Playing Music
- Submitted by: lehuukha
- Views: 1068
- Category: Arts
- Date Submitted: 03/21/2010 10:34 AM
- Pages: 6
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There’s no place like home.
By Kha Lehuu
I remember thinking when I was younger and in the crowd that I one day would be able to use the stage as my own world for half an hour. That I would just close my eyes and let my fingers and voice tell two to five minute short stories to fill up that half hour time slot. Up there I would have a sense of comfort, a sense of serenity.
When I was growing up I always heard music playing throughout the house. Whether it would be a traditional Vietnamese song or Michael Jackson, I would always get really into it. My father loved music and he loved his guitar. I can remember him playing it late at night after he put my little brother to bed and sang old Vietnamese songs at my bedside until I fell asleep. We weren’t rich at the time and we lived in a poor neighborhood, but needless to say the house was rich with music all the time.
I would wake up in the morning, take a shower, and get ready for the day and prepare for what could be a short hour drive to possibly a 22-hour drive to the next destination. Every day had the same routine, but the best part about this routine was telling the crowd my story. I remember my first tour, which was down the Midwest, hitting states from Wisconsin down to Texas while I was only 14 or 15 at the time. I was playing in a band with all older people, and with this came some perks and some downfalls. Why my parents would let me go out of state for a week to three weeks at a time is unknown. All I know is, it was an experience of a lifetime.
Driving down the interstate while looking at directions that you printed off the night before from Google Maps and not knowing where anything was can be quite the challenge, but singing along to a playlist on the iPod with friends you call brothers made everything that much better. I can recall getting lost multiple times, trying to scrounge up change because of an unexpected toll booth, or even getting pulled over by the cops. I realized that within...
By Kha Lehuu
I remember thinking when I was younger and in the crowd that I one day would be able to use the stage as my own world for half an hour. That I would just close my eyes and let my fingers and voice tell two to five minute short stories to fill up that half hour time slot. Up there I would have a sense of comfort, a sense of serenity.
When I was growing up I always heard music playing throughout the house. Whether it would be a traditional Vietnamese song or Michael Jackson, I would always get really into it. My father loved music and he loved his guitar. I can remember him playing it late at night after he put my little brother to bed and sang old Vietnamese songs at my bedside until I fell asleep. We weren’t rich at the time and we lived in a poor neighborhood, but needless to say the house was rich with music all the time.
I would wake up in the morning, take a shower, and get ready for the day and prepare for what could be a short hour drive to possibly a 22-hour drive to the next destination. Every day had the same routine, but the best part about this routine was telling the crowd my story. I remember my first tour, which was down the Midwest, hitting states from Wisconsin down to Texas while I was only 14 or 15 at the time. I was playing in a band with all older people, and with this came some perks and some downfalls. Why my parents would let me go out of state for a week to three weeks at a time is unknown. All I know is, it was an experience of a lifetime.
Driving down the interstate while looking at directions that you printed off the night before from Google Maps and not knowing where anything was can be quite the challenge, but singing along to a playlist on the iPod with friends you call brothers made everything that much better. I can recall getting lost multiple times, trying to scrounge up change because of an unexpected toll booth, or even getting pulled over by the cops. I realized that within...