I spent most of my young adulthood and late teenage years playing in bands with my friends. But it all started with a simple question.

One day, a classmate who eventually became one of my best friends casually asked, “Do you want to start a band?” Surprised and intrigued, I asked her what instrument she played. She said something about taking piano lessons as a kid.

“Well, do you want to learn how to play the bass?” I thought about the cheap, $ 40, midnight blue electric bass guitar I begged my dad to buy earlier that year from a stranger selling it on Craigslist. “I have one you could use.”

“Yes,” she said with the kind of confidence reserved for youth, “Definitely.” 

I took the bass to school the next day. As I handed it to my friend, not realizing how this little action would seal our fates and friendship for decades, we agreed to have our first practice later that week on the last day of our junior year of high school.

We’ve played together for years. On and off. And in different projects. We still tinker around to this day. Throughout all the years playing together, we learned our instruments, made lots of mistakes, and even more memories – like the great tequila embargo of 2014.

As the years accumulated, I wondered how playing hundreds of shows and writing countless songs would fit into the bigger picture of my life. Starting a band is a lot like starting a business. 

Even though my constitution will always require playing and making music for the sake of silly art and self-expression, I also learned many invaluable business lessons along the way. Here they are in no particular order.

Lesson 1: Having an idea isn’t enough; you must also sell it.

A band can only happen if everyone buys into the idea of it. Keeping the project going means you’re constantly selling ideas. Every song, every melody, every potential show requires getting your bandmates to buy into the idea that something is worth our time and energy. Then, after you clear that collaborator hurdle, you still have to sell yourselves to an audience. You’re always selling your ideas.

Before I started selling financial services, an arguably nebulous, intangible thing, I had to learn how to sell songs, another arguably nebulous, intangible thing. Eventually, we sold our songs through licensing deals for television, and that’s when I started to learn how to sell something to media gatekeepers. 

Today, I still have to sell my ideas to my collaborators, my team, the media, and to you, the reader.

Lesson 2: No one will give you permission, so you have to give it to yourself.

My friends and I started playing in bars across LA and Orange County before we were old enough to drink. I can’t remember how we figured it out, but somehow, we realized the law was in our favor. It was legal for folks under the drinking age to be in a bar as long as they were performing.

So we contacted bars and clubs, asking them if we could play a show. They’d agree. Then, on the day of the show, we’d let them know, “By the way, none of us are 21, but according to whatever section of the penal code we looked up as our evidence, we’re legally allowed to play inside the bar. See you in a few hours!”

We’d pull up to the bar, load our equipment, and then sit outside on the curb of many a Los Angeles bar until it was time for our set. Then we’d load out and drive home. 

I try to recall the boldness of my youth, to keep that spirit alive, and remember that sometimes, opportunity only comes knocking after you’ve gone out looking for it. 

Lesson 3: How to think about value from the audience's perspective.

For my friends and I, playing in a band was about writing songs and then playing those songs in front of an audience. The former we could do on our own, but the latter depended on convincing other people to come to our show.

At some point, I began to think about our shows from the audience’s perspective. What would make it worth the hassle of going to a show? How can we create entertainment value worth the cost of leaving the comfort of one’s home, looking for parking, and then having to pay for drinks?

This has become a framework for how I think about my work. If I want an audience to pay attention, I have to make something worthy of attention. How can I write emails worth opening? And articles worth reading?

Lesson 4: Listening is a vital skill for collaboration.

To play in concert with others, you must listen to them. You have to listen to the tempo, rhythm, and dynamics of where your sounds sit in relation to theirs. You have to pay attention to the subtle tones while also being able to hear the fullness and texture of the entire picture. When you harmonize, you have to listen to one (or many) sounds while simultaneously producing a related but distinctly different sound.

Many of us, especially in business, never build alone. We hire contractors and employees. We enlist collaborators. And we interface with gatekeepers.

Everyone has their own agenda, needs, and a damn dream they are trying to make come true. If I want to build or sell something, I must listen to the person gatekeeping the opportunity. I have to listen for what they’d need to make my project a “yes”.

Listening doesn’t mean you have to implement whatever feedback you might get. Sometimes, people simply want to be heard. The ability to demonstrate that you’re listening is a skill that pays dividends. 

Lesson 5: What creativity requires of me. 

I do not understand creativity. Yet, I’ve written a 60,000-ish word book, drawn maybe a couple hundred illustrations, have probably written at least a hundred songs, and have created two companies. Because I don’t understand creativity, I’m obsessed with repeating the process and watching the magic trick again and again and again. Here’s what I’ve observed.

Everything starts with an idea. An idea is a gift from the creative spirits. Sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you, but ideas are just like thoughts. They pop into your head, unprompted and uncontrolled by you. It just happens, again, like fucking magic.  

If I want these ideas delivered regularly, I must attune myself — my mind, body, attitude, and general disposition — to receive these gifts.    

Ideas come as a little whisper when making coffee in the morning or trying to sit quietly. I have to ask the idea to keep talking to me while I put my body into motion, making the idea come to life. This could be as simple as taking a note. 

If I keep the idea in motion, over time, that little whisper that I listened to manifests as a tiny motor inside of me, refusing to stop until it’s through. This is the process of serving the idea. And it’s required if you’d like to receive more ideas. Sometimes it’s difficult. But it’s an endless process, so just keep going.

Lesson 6: Write your own part.

I can’t say it better than Mindy Kaling, so here’s what she’s said about this subject in her book, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?:

“[...] Write your own part. It is the only way I've gotten anywhere. It is much harder work, but sometimes you have to take destiny into your own hands. It forces you to think about what your strengths really are, and once you find them, you can showcase them, and no one can stop you.”

What is playing in a band if not simply writing your own part? It’s true of business too.

Lesson 7: Waste time doing big, pointless art projects.  

Hiking is pointless. There are no teams, no leagues, no winners or losers, and unlike a sport like basketball, there is no real money to be made. But if you’re reading this and, unlike me, you value hiking, then you understand that something can be stupid and pointless but also valuable to your well-being. 

Pointless things can also be vital in recharging energetically or giving you clarity. Taking time away from being productive can paradoxically make you more effective when you go back to work. And big, pointless projects can be challenging, rewarding and teach you lessons applicable in all areas of your life. But you won’t know what that value is until you get on the other side of it.