I’m thirteen years old and I love Avril Lavigne. I dragged my Dad to the concert in the middle of nowhere (Lowell, Massachusetts) just to see the girl. He obliged ever so graciously. Avril herself was actually pretty terrible. She was shy and awkward in front of all these people but I was more concerned with the man opening for her. His name was Butch Walker and he changed my little thirteen year old life. I was this punk ass kid that thought she was so cool and knew all this stuff about music. I was clearly a “punk rocker” because I listened to Avril Lavigne and Simple Plan. Clearly… But Butch, he was a real musician. He walked out on stage and he owned it. He approached the microphone and just looked larger than life filling that monstrous stage with his presence. When he touched a guitar it was like magic happening before my very eyes. It resounded in an explosion of intensity. I mean, damn. He was good. I went home that night after my first “legit” concert and I looked this Walker guy up. I typed his name into Google and wham bam thank you ma’am there he was. At that point he only had two albums available for sale. I talked to my dad and we bought the first one. And just like that we were hooked. It was that easy.
Damn, damn, damn I love you…
Very quickly Butch turned from an ordinary musician to something of an icon. He was everywhere, in my life anyway. The only person I know who might like Butch more than me would be my father. Once he got that album (Letters at the time) it was all over the place. He would listen to it in the car whenever he picked me up from school. I’d pop open the passenger side door and “So at last southern California sunsets like a long goodbye” would float out the speakers and bury itself in my ear. So At Last was and to this day still is my Dad’s favorite song. I can testify this by the number of times I have heard it repeated. Butch was not only in the car, but he was in the house. I would stay over on the weekends and Walker melodies would be blasting, not at any quiet volume, out of the stereo in his office. Butch was the go-to CD for any and all car rides, travelling, background music – anything.
Gradually our infatuation grew more intense. My Dad picked up not only Butch’s first solo album, Left of Self-Centered, but also all the albums he had made before with his band The Marvelous 3. Butch became a nucleus around which we could gravitate and come together. Butch was contagious. Once you listened to him it caught on like wildfire. It was like playing telephone. I’d whisper the lyrics in one ear through a song played in the car or a video I showed and suddenly they were an addict. The love of Butch spread to my brother, my mother and my friends. You just couldn’t help liking him. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I went to see his beautiful face again.
The next time I went to see Butch it was just me and my Dad, yet again. Ironically enough I was going to an Avril Lavigne concert, but this time I was there just for Butch. When he came on stage we were the only people in the stands who stood up screaming, yelling, and singing every single one of his lyrics dancing around. I don’t know if Butch saw us there, but I really hope he did.
What can I say? I come from race cars and pop rocks…
I own every single one of Butch’s five albums plus the couple of extras he has thrown out there. I have pretty much lost track of the amount of times I have gone to see him. They all blend together into one mind-blowing experience. Each time is unique but they all have the same intensity. He steps out on that stage. Sometimes he starts rocking the fuck out, pounding on his guitar. Other times, especially recently, he begins real quiet playing alone on stage with just the keyboard before moving on to guitar. Then his whole band is on stage and it is loud and beautiful and pounding against you, hitting you like a wave you hope never goes away. He sings real soft, letting the meaning sink into every lyric with so much passion that the whole place would go dead silent with only the words of the song hanging in the air. Other moments consist of pure intensity as he rips into his guitar, wailing, back against the floor, playing so hard the strings simply pop off. From Butch I learned the meaning of showmanship. He comes out there and plays like it is his last chance on earth. I have never been disappointed by him. And he really cares. He talks to the audience. Banter. Tells us a story. Tells us nonsense. But he is always right there with us.
I own every single one of Butch’s five albums plus the couple of extras he has thrown out there. I have pretty much lost track of the amount of times I have gone to see him. They all blend together into one mind-blowing experience. Each time is unique but they all have the same intensity. He steps out on that stage. Sometimes he starts rocking the fuck out, pounding on his guitar. Other times, especially recently, he begins real quiet playing alone on stage with just the keyboard before moving on to guitar. Then his whole band is on stage and it is loud and beautiful and pounding against you, hitting you like a wave you hope never goes away. He sings real soft, letting the meaning sink into every lyric with so much passion that the whole place would go dead silent with only the words of the song hanging in the air. Other moments consist of pure intensity as he rips into his guitar, wailing, back against the floor, playing so hard the strings simply pop off. From Butch I learned the meaning of showmanship. He comes out there and plays like it is his last chance on earth. I have never been disappointed by him. And he really cares. He talks to the audience. Banter. Tells us a story. Tells us nonsense. But he is always right there with us.
I got a lot through Butch. Mostly I learned a lot about music. I found out about a lot of cool bands. Anyone who tours with Walker Walker, as my Dad so fondly calls him, is always a talented individual and often end up successful. I learned more about myself and my own limits. When his Lets-Go-Out-Tonites tour came to the Axis in Boston there were sign-ups for karaoke in between sets. I actually went up and sang in front of the whole damn club. It was that old angry Alanis Morisette tune (what isn’t?). It was…invigorating. And I owe it to my old friend Butch.
Maybe it’s just me…
Butch was there for me when nobody else was. I would be pissed off, upset, confused and I would pop in that album, any of his albums, and it would speak to me, soothe me. Those lyrics would sing me a lullaby of relatability and confidence. He would tell me I know, I understand. This is happening to me too. This has already happened to me. I’ve gone through it and it is all going to work out okay. He would tell me stories of love lost, of people’s demises and how they ended up so far from where they began. He whispered tales of romance and rock and roll. There were songs about parties that ended badly and shoes that were lost in the process. Butch would talk about wearing his night clothes in the day time and how he was the best thing she never had. And I listened. I listened so hard with ears wide open taking in every single syllable of every verse, chorus and bridge inside me, internalizing, and letting it back out in whatever way I needed to. Sometimes I sang it. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I just jumped around with a hairbrush in my hand pretending to be the rock star I wished I could be. But every step of the way Butch was there taking me along for the ride.
Butch was there for me when nobody else was. I would be pissed off, upset, confused and I would pop in that album, any of his albums, and it would speak to me, soothe me. Those lyrics would sing me a lullaby of relatability and confidence. He would tell me I know, I understand. This is happening to me too. This has already happened to me. I’ve gone through it and it is all going to work out okay. He would tell me stories of love lost, of people’s demises and how they ended up so far from where they began. He whispered tales of romance and rock and roll. There were songs about parties that ended badly and shoes that were lost in the process. Butch would talk about wearing his night clothes in the day time and how he was the best thing she never had. And I listened. I listened so hard with ears wide open taking in every single syllable of every verse, chorus and bridge inside me, internalizing, and letting it back out in whatever way I needed to. Sometimes I sang it. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I just jumped around with a hairbrush in my hand pretending to be the rock star I wished I could be. But every step of the way Butch was there taking me along for the ride.
Butch will always be a huge part of my life. His songs mean something to me. I admire him for all the things he can do. I mean he plays guitar, bass, drums, piano, banjolin, sings, and writes all his own music. What more can you ask for in a hero? He brought my family together in ways I don’t think anything but music can. Butch is the hero for the masses. His fan base is small when you compare it to some other artists but we are tight knit, loyal and dedicated. Whenever I go to a show I see familiar faces. Butch is an artist who will keep playing until he simply can’t anymore. Music and Butch Walker are synonymous. And that’s why I love him.
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