I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing

Last week I watched a visiting cello prodigy jam with some local bands in a highly entertaining musical free-for-all that merrily crossed through several continents’ worth of genres. This column is not about him. (Maybe next week.) It is not even entirely about the sudden murderous impulse I had afterwards, when I was talking to him and he was telling me about how he travels all over the world, collaborating with different artists and absorbing different cultures and just generally having a grand time without ever having to work in the usual sense.

I thought: How come he gets to do all that and I don’t? I have to attend meetings, pester interviewees and freelancers and editors, and slam my skull repeatedly against a concrete surface until words pop out. All he knows how to do is draw a bow across some strings. He could have the IQ of a fishball and no one would care. I had the sudden urge to kill him and then wear his skin like a cardigan, and leave my life to take over his. I restrained myself because there were a few snags to this plan. First of all, the moment I would be called upon to play anything on the cello, my non-virtuoso status would immediately become obvious. Second, I think all the blood might be a giveaway. Third, I might have to end up working with Josh Groban in some capacity.

So I let him live to collaborate again. The dream of being a much-admired musician instead of someone who writes about music, though, is an old one. When I think about it, it’s almost amazing that I never learned to play any instrument, considering that two of my best friends from high school had music coming out of their very orifices (a pleasant mental image; yes, you’re welcome). There was Allan Tabilog, a genius guitarist who quoted extensively from the Sex Pistols and The Cure for an English project, introduced me to The Smiths via “Hatful of Hollow” and “Meat is Murder,” and who combined wild creativity and quiet humility in a way I have never seen since (and who, when we were in freshman year, went around asking the girls in a loud voice, “What’s oral sex?” until they ran away); and Jason Baluyut, who composed his own songs on a Yamaha keyboard, was prone to launching into an impressive Michael Jackson impersonation complete with crotch-grabbing dance moves, and who once delivered a spirited, unforgettable rendition of Fra Lippo Lippi’s Beauty and Madness in front of the entire batch, devoid of shame or restraint. (Jason continues to perform to this very day, as a member of an a capella group in New York City.) With an inborn inclination towards music appreciation and those two as my closest friends, I’m surprised I never became any sort of performer, or convicted pervert.

Ishould have been in a high school rock band at least. But there were a couple of good reasons why his never happened. First and most relevant was an appalling lack of ability. I have to admit, I didn’t have the patience to learn how to play an instrument, nor the confidence or skill needed to be a frontman. (In the days before rap-metal and pogi rock, frontmen generally had to be able to sing, to some degree.) This was perhaps less due to an utter absence of talent than to a self-image that did not include such possibilities. Curled up in bed with a book — yes; prancing around onstage — no. (I imagine this is less of a problem for people today, now that all sorts of types — athlete, geek, or outright freak — can be seen in a band.) Second, I could never settle on a band name. While there isn’t necessarily a correlation to greatness — there are great bands with perfect names (The Clash, Queen) and great bands with stupid names (Prefab Sprout, The Beatles) — I can easily imagine myself paralyzed by indecision. God only knows what will happen when I have to name a child; he or she might end up being called TBD or Working Title Katigbak.

Of course it may not be too late. It’s not unheard of for a music journalist to defect to the other side and become a musician; in fact, there are a couple of very successful examples that come to mind. Chrissie Hynde was a writer for the NME before she found herself in iconic ‘80s band The Pretenders. Neil Tennant was the assistant editor of Smash Hits before achieving global pop stardom as one half of the Pet Shop Boys (in fact, a major turning point of his musical career was when he went to New York to interview The Police, and also squeezed in a meeting with Bobby Orlando, who agreed to produce their first single, West End Girls).

It will probably never happen, though. For one thing, I can’t spare the 10,000 hours that extensive research has determined is necessary to master a complicated skill (like playing the cello, or being in a gay pop duo). And then there’s my belief that if there’s one thing worse than being an underpaid, on-the-edge-of-burning-out writer, it’s being an underpaid, on-the-edge-of-burning-out writer who is now in a crappy band.

So I’ll keep doing what I do. And dream of a day when I can watch pigs soar overhead while I skate across Hell’s suddenly-still surface.

Further listening: Cello genius Dave Eggar’s newest release, “Kingston Morning”; “Get Close” by The Pretenders (that’s the one with the excellent Don’t Get Me Wrong); and “Very” by the Pet Shop Boys (not the one with West End Girls, but quite possibly their best album)

The return of Area One: Those of you who love the Beatles (which I’m guessing is about 99 percent of you, with the one percent being my friend Joey, who prefers Slayer) would do well to go and watch the legendary Area One, who among other things do the best renditions of Beatles material ever, not counting the Fab Four themselves (and some UP-based fanatics may even argue that point). They’ll be starting another classic run of performances at the Hard Rock Cafe at around 9:30 p.m. this July 6, now that Bert de Leon and John Lesaca have returned to the fold. Pinch-hitter Mcoy Fundales (of Orange and Lemons/Kenyo fame) will be staying on, and continue to lend his talents to the magical mystery mix.