I played a show just north of Boston around Christmas time years ago with a few other bands, some pretty famous, some simply great and on their way.

I was standing at the merch booth meeting fans with a guitar player from one of the bands that I was completely blown away by. They were signed to Columbia Records. It was winter and the snow was coming down outside of the auditorium.

The current weather conversation led him to mention that his band was headed back to Cleveland, OH after the show. It would normally be over a 10-hour trip on clear roads.

When I asked why they weren’t just staying the night, he said that he had to work on Monday morning. I asked, “work?” He said, “Yeah, I work at a gas station.”

I’ve never forgotten that. Major label…gas station.

My eyes immediately opened and the term “record deal” took on a whole new meaning.

He was a fantastic guitar player, I don’t recall him singing at all during the show or even having a microphone in front of him. Maybe that was it. It’s hard to have a side hustle as a solo performer for a lot of artists who don’t also sing. Then again, I’d worked at a gas station/convenience store long ago. It actually was probably my favorite job of all back then. I met a ton of people, got to see repeat customers, and learned a lot about them. There was never a lack of good conversation with them and those that I also worked with. Plus, at the end of the day, I could leave the job right there until my next shift. The money wasn’t great, but the job sure was.

Making room to grow

On a Tuesday evening, I decided to quit the cover band that I was in. It was at that same convenience store when during my shift, a friend of mine that I hadn’t seen in a few years walked in two years prior and asked if I’d been playing music. I had been, but nothing serious. He asked if I wanted to get together with his band. I agreed, and the next Sunday we rehearsed for 10 hours.

The next morning, they fired their guitar player and for the next two years, we built the band up bigger than it had been, got some great endorsements and sponsorships, and recorded a single that I had written. The area radio stations were all about us and pushed us like crazy. Every venue had a line out the door for each show that we played, and we played a ton.

On that Tuesday, I couldn’t shake the few conversations we’d all had about what was next. It was clear that they were happy right where we’d managed to be at that moment- cover shows, maybe record another song, filling venues and dance floors. Unfortunately, that wasn’t me. When I hit a ceiling, I either break through or quietly exit and move to the next building to see what’s inside.

I called a couple of the guys to try to schedule something to get together to break the news, but they knew something was up and wanted to hear it right then. I was out.

We had a last weekend bash at one of our favorite venues and played two packed nights to so many people who had supported us during that time. I remember the four of us standing with our backs to the bar at the end of the second night and someone coming up and asking why we were breaking up. Without saying a word, the other three all pointed their fingers at me.

With a little help from my friends

I started playing some solo shows at local clubs. Within a month or so, I borrowed some recording gear and spent the next three days recording three songs that I’d written while writing three more and recording those as well. I barely slept, but I was full of determination. I loved every minute of it. I had a plan. I had no money, but I had a plan.

Everything was recorded and mixed down, but I was financially strapped.

I had a good friend whose family owned a pizza place in town and another in the next town. He was a fan of the band that I’d just left and I shared my vision of going solo. I told him about the recording and how I was stuck on the financial part of it. He graciously offered to fund the duplication costs in trade for his restaurants being added to the liner notes.

If you can find a physical copy anywhere, you’ll also find their names. Both are still in business and doing just fine. I have a feeling that my release helped in absolutely no way, but man, I’m still so appreciative to this day for his generosity and friendship.

The best way to describe the release? Raw and stripped down. Clearly. Not. Polished. However, it was mine- my songs, my voice, something tangible. It sold literally zero copies on the night it was released to a bar full of people. Wanna hear that story? My podcast has “The Flannel Bandanna EP Story.”

It’s not you, it’s me

I hooked up with a fantastic booking agent who kept me very busy for the next few years. I flipped the solo thing to a duo, we played close to 250 shows a year and released the single “Goodbye” which got some serious love in the Boston area both on mainstream and college radio. That story? Yep, on my podcast- “The Goodbye Discussion.”

We had also released a live record that you may be able to find a copy of tucked away in a box in the closets of college students who are now all responsible adults.

Within days of the last duo show, I got a call from a management company wanting to work with us. Strangely, that was also on a Tuesday.

I’d definitely heard of them as they also promoted some of the biggest shows north of Boston. I broke the news that the duo was no more and said that if they wanted to work with me as a solo artist, I was in. The question on the phone was, “Well, you write the songs, correct?”

Yes, I do.

That began a few years of great shows, another record (“July”), and some great opportunities.

Remember that ceiling? If only I could see what others see as the top before I embark on that journey with them. If only we all could.

I hit it again. This time, though, I didn’t know where to go. So, I just played.

I played a bunch of cover shows while tossing in my originals where I saw fit. I played some shows with fantastic musicians, some names everyone knew, some with names everyone should know, and I’d made a choice to start over from where I was, which meant taking some steps back.

I pushed along. I played shows including some that were all original to areas where I knew I’d had a fanbase and was pleasantly surprised by the support that I’d received.

During that time, I also dabbled in some concert production efforts promoting some pretty great events.

When opportunity knocks

Fast forwarding a little bit, I performed a couple of shows with someone that I’d grown up with. We’d played in a high school band together and he’d gone on to do some pretty great things that generated him a couple of top 20 & top 30 hit songs.

We had just wrapped up the last date. Walking to our vehicles and saying our goodbyes as we left the green room, he stopped and said, “Come to LA and let’s make a record.”

Fast forward again, and the “Everything Has Past” EP was made. Incredible musicians and music biz pros.

Produced by Steve Bertrand (The Tories, Avion), “Everything Has Past” features drummer Kenny Aronoff (best known as John Mellencamp’s drummer), bassist Chris Chaney (Jane’s Addiction, Alanis Morrisette), guitarist Sean Woolstenhulme (The Calling, Lifehouse) and keyboardist Scott Simons (LA-based Solo Artist). Added to the mix were Grammy Nominee & Juno Award winner James “Jimbo” Barton assisting with engineering & world-class Mastering Engineer Tom Baker (Precision Mastering). The EP contains a power-packed punch of fresh, new material that will fit perfectly into the collection of any fan of today’s new rock music. Bertrand states of the new release, “Snow Patrol meets Kings Of Leon……the best recorded version of Sean McCarthy to date.”

That’s the write-up. It was another opportunity to get to another level, to break through another ceiling.

Since that record I’ve released a couple of singles and a live EP. I’ve put out some new and old demos of songs on other formats, written a bunch for film and television, and I’ve been focusing more on getting the music out to more people and performing.

If you’re reading this, thank you. Your time & support mean more to me than you know. I hope you like the music, I hope you’ll come to see a show or tune into a live stream.

https://linktr.ee/seanmccarthy

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After a show 4 hours from home with my band the other night, I slept at our drummer’s house who lived much closer to the vicinity of where the festival was.

I woke up quietly the next morning, careful to not bother anyone else. After quickly eradicating the sleep from my brain I flipped open my laptop to take care of a couple of things before they slipped my mind. A few minutes later the front door opened and our drummer walked in from the porch.

We exchanged good mornings and he asked if I wanted some coffee.

As I followed him to the kitchen he apologized for not having any cream while at the same time grabbing a gallon of milk from the refrigerator and slinging it in my general direction. I told him that it was fine as I poured coffee into the oversized mug that he’d slid in front of me on the counter.

I muckled onto the nearly full jug of milk and quickly realized that my body still held a little resistance to my mind telling it to wake up. I took my time and carefully added a couple of splashes of what I’m guessing was a low-fat version of the white stuff. The shade of my coffee barely changed, but I wasn’t about to be too picky. I appreciated the caffeine.

Good coffee is by far one of my favorite things. I’ve come to understand however, that good company makes even mediocre coffee better and can magically turn the worst coffee into something rather enjoyable.

The coffee was dark. The oversized spoon that I used for sugar had me toss in a terrible estimate of the amount that I normally take and the lack of cream didn’t add any richness to my morning beverage.

We headed straight outside and sat on the front porch. His company and our conversation made the coffee just perfect.

Where you least expect it

The best cup of coffee that I’ve ever had was at a pizza shop years ago. I’m fairly certain it was a last-minute family get-together or something of the sort.

Among what was left of the pizza and calzones on the pulled-together tables were a few different half-full bottles of soda that I just wasn’t feeling.

I asked for a cup of coffee…at a pizza shop. I expected exactly what you’re imagining. Bland, tasteless, and bad. Still, it’s what I was in the mood for.

4 creamers and 4 sugar packets in a typical restaurant-style coffee mug. If you’ve been doing it any differently, you should take my advice and give it a try. I put half of that amount of sugar in when I’m at home, but when I’m out and about and in control of what’s going in what I’m about to put down, 4 and 4 it is.

It was sensational. I have no idea how or why. I’d done nothing different than I normally do when served up java at any public eatery.

I took my time and savored every sip.

I’ve never been able to repeat that particular cup of coffee. I went back to look for the pizza place years later to find that it was no longer there. Gone, too, was any chance at another cup of whatever magic beans they were serving up that was better than any pie I have a hard time remembering from them.

Not quite room service

I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve spent in hotels. I’ll share this piece of coffee advice, though-

The coffee in the room? Brew it so that it fills the room with a fragrant aroma, but for the love of all that is coffee, don’t drink it. It’s going to be terrible and you’re starting your day off with a taste in your mouth that’s much worse than the stranger that you may have spent the night with who tucked out before the rest of the hotel woke up.

Brew it, get in the shower, and go to the lobby for coffee that you can actually drink.

You’ll thank me later.

Instantly coffee

Growing up in Vermont I’ve spent more than my share of time at hunting camp.

I’d arrive on a cold November evening before everyone else. Getting a fire started in the wood stove was the first order of business. A simultaneous second was to boil water in a small saucepan on the gas stove and pour it into a cup where I’d already added a heaping teaspoon full of instant coffee grounds.

A box of sugar cubes and some non-dairy powdered creamer had both been stored tightly in sealed containers since my previous stay months before. Two cubes and a spoonful of the creamer rounded out the hot drink that still brings me back to my earliest memories with family and friends at the start of deer season each year.

I’d sip it and reminisce in my mind while pulling up a chair next to the sound of the crackling fire while camp warmed up.

Whenever I’d visit my Mom, she’d offer me coffee. Almost always instant and almost always with skim milk. I’m not sure what skim milk adds to coffee if anything, but I can most definitely attest to the pleasure of drinking that same coffee at the table while catching up with her.

Straight up

I’m not a fan of black coffee. Just the thought of it reminds me of a sweet and bitter combination completely lacking in rich flavor. I’ve tried numerous times, but I just can’t seem to choose it as a regular option.

Although, if I’m sitting with a friend anywhere and black coffee is the only offering, it’s the best black coffee that I’ve ever had.

My favorite option

Whatever is missing from my normal coffee when I’m with someone that I enjoy being with can easily be replaced.

No cream? Tell me how you’ve been.

No sugar? Share something that makes me laugh.

Caffeine free? Spend a few silent moments together with me to remind me how much better life is with you in it.

As it turns out, it’s never about the coffee.

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I like pizza.

It’s the perfect choice for when you can’t come up with anything else to eat that sounds good at the moment. If delivery is an option, it’s great for when you want someone to bring your food to you. The funny thing about a pizza with your favorite toppings is that the price is different wherever you get it.

Weird, huh?

Dough is dough. Unless of course, it’s gluten-free. In that case, the ingredients might tick the cost up a bit. Otherwise, the necessary items to craft the perfect pie are all of the same general nature.

Why then, can I order a pizza from one mom-and-pop shop for much less than another in the same town? Why are the prices for a pizza from some wood-fired establishments sometimes twice that of another?

Every pizza is different. People’s reasons for liking their pizza of choice can be anything from the texture of the crust, the shape of the meat or veggies, or how one place cuts the same 14-inch pie into more slices than the place down the road.

The fact is, people pay what they pay for the pizza they like because of what it costs.

Read that again, I’ll wait.

Obviously, large pizza chains can toss out five-dollar pizza deals that a local shop can’t compete with. Because of that, they don’t even try to. They do what they do, they do it well, and they charge what they charge.

They also still sell plenty of pizza.

Everyone’s cost of doing business is what it is. I’m not even going to go into what I found when taking a few minutes to research how much it costs to make a pizza or the potential profit margins. It’s literally all over the place. There’s no single number for any of it.

There’s no rhyme and only a small amount of reason.

How does this relate to you and your business? I’m getting to it.

I’ve never met a successful owner of a pizza place that wasn’t confident that their pizza was top-notch. Years ago when they were trying out different variations and having their family and friends taste-testing them all, they arrived at what they felt was perfect.

Did they do a little area research to see what other pizza shops were offering? Most likely, yes.

Aside from putting a round pie cut into triangles into a square box the way almost everyone else did, theirs was unique. Some squares have success, but let’s face it, there’s a generally accepted pizza shape around the world.

What was the next step after crafting the perfect one-stop, table-top, goes-great-with-soda-pop supper?

Determining how much to charge.

The price of a pie isn’t determined by how much the competition charges. It’s determined by the costs associated and how confident the owner is in what they’re offering.

That’s it.

Pizza is never the same from one place as it is from another. There’s a uniqueness to it, just as there is to what you have to offer to your clients and customers.

What you determine to be the cost of your goods or services depends on a number of factors. Only you know your cost of doing business. The question is, beyond that, how confident are you in what you’re offering?

If you know that you have a great product or service and can deliver, that’s the next factor in setting your rate.

You might be surprised at what the final piece of the pricing puzzle is.

It’s not what everyone else is charging. It’s not what the average is.

It’s what people are willing to pay for it.

The most expensive pizza in the world costs $12,000.

Twelve-thousand-dollars.

For a pizza.

Yes, of course, it includes delivery so you won’t feel ripped off when you realized that it’s only 8 inches in diameter.

I’m going to say it again.

The amount that you charge for what you offer is what people are willing to pay for it.

Everyone isn’t going to be your customer. Some will sneer, snarl, and sneak right by to a cheaper option. Is where they’re going a better option? Who cares?

People who like your product or service will pay what you charge for it.

Concern yourself with those who see the value in what you bring to the dinner table and kindly move on from those who want the five-dollar pizza.

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The Ditch

When I was a teenager I headed over to a friend’s house on a hot summer night for a party and woke up in a ditch the next morning two miles away just as the sun was about to come up.

You’d think that it was the typical parents away on vacation opportunity for a school-aged party with a dedicated lookout for law enforcement. Quite the contrary. I’m fairly certain they were on the main floor upstairs tossing back a few drinks of their own and just letting us kids be kids.

Heck, they probably bought the beer keg.

It was kind of like the 80s movie Risky Business without the hookers. Then again, I wasn’t old enough to drive. How would I know what a hooker looked like?

Everyone’s parents said that we could all stay with friends for the night. Technically, we weren’t breaking any agreement.

Their father had parked a camper on a small piece of property across the street from the lake.

The plan was that a few of us would just crash there after the party. The odd thing was, the tall grass and sand bed that I’d just woken up from was a couple hundred feet before you would arrive at said camper.

Did I get dropped off just short of it and say screw it, this is as good a place as any? Did I even get dropped off, or did I actually walk to what could have easily been my grave if I hadn’t woken up?

I picked myself up along with my hangover and started walking along the paved road. There was dead calm on the lake and total silence all around. It was only as I approached our sleep venue of choice that I recognized it as the destination that I was looking for.

I opened the door and saw what looked like two dead bodies which turned out to be my friends who had also partaken in the keg ‘o beer. They were alive. I can confidently attest to that as I’ve seen images of them as grown-ups on social media over the past few years.

I claimed a table, or a bench, or whatever the thing was that had a cushion on it and passed back out.

I can’t remember a single thing beyond that moment, although I can still feel the headache decades later every time I think about that night.

I no longer drink keg beer unless it’s served at a bar and I’m certain of who has or hasn’t been sucking directly on the nozzle while someone pumps it up to max pressure. I also don’t agree to sleep in anyone’s camper at the lake anymore unless there’s a pillow and blanket waiting in the ditch.

I’m still on the fence about hookers and who may or may not be one.

The Beach

There were around twenty of us who hung out together most of that summer at the campground near my house.

Someone decided that it would be a great idea for us to all grab sleeping bags and crash on the beach. Sure, why not? It seemed like a good idea on a hot August night.

Then came the rain, the thunder, and the lightning.

I’m not talking about a light rain that makes you scurry from your car to the front door. I’m talking about a biblical event where Noah himself is looking down on you and wondering why you didn’t get in the fucking boat when he told you to.

Just like my previous ditch nap, I slept like a baby.

For a moment it felt like someone was pouring an endless bucket of warm water on my entire being. I have to assume that was my dream state just before I actually woke up.

The reality as my eyes opened felt like water from a large fire hose pelting my face and body directly from above.

Someone hated me.

Is that you, Noah?

It was strange. I looked around to see who needed rescuing only to quickly learn that I was alone. Not another water-soaked soul around.

I still question taking the time to grab my drenched sleeping bag while running off of the beach as the next bolt of lightning turned the sand next to me into glass.

I rounded the corner to the front of the row of campers that shared a common covered patio. It extended the entire length of my asshole friends who were sleeping soundly.

I had some questions.

I chose to find a vacant picnic table, get some sleep, and revisit my curiosity in the morning.

As everyone awoke, the conversation started.

Apparently, when the heavens opened up someone yelled, “Every man for himself!”

Clearly, every man didn’t hear the instructions because he was fucking sleeping while every other man, woman, and child ran for shelter.

Left for dead, I’m fairly confident that I survived the ordeal because I’ve seen images of myself as a grown-up on social media over the past few years.

The Girl

Shortly after the great flood of nineteen-eighty-something, I’d begun testing my newly discovered baseball skills with a girl that I’d met at the same campground.

I was pretty fond of her and I was about to learn the next morning that the feelings were mutual.

The teenage night on the beach ended abruptly somewhere between second and third base. There was no way that I could concentrate on my game with her father hollering her name like that.

C’mon man, can’t you see we’re busy here?

She was apparently out later than allowed and heeded the warning of my would-be killer had he come looking for her rather than shouting out to his innocent princess in the night.

She went in and I looked for a place to rest my head.

Spending so much time among the summer visitors gave me the opportunity to get to know everyone.

As I joined the last of the diehards in the early morning hours while they polished off their drinks, one of them offered me a spare spot in his trailer.

Barely keeping my eyes open and recently blue-balled thanks to dear old dad, I gladly accepted so that I could just go to sleep.

The morning came quickly and everyone within earshot was woken up by my sister yelling my name from the running car stationed in the general vicinity of my temporary sleeping quarters.

I say yelling, I’m sure she was just trying to speak clearly so that the correct “little bastard” appeared for the ride home that he didn’t remember asking for.

I made my way outside toward door number two, aka the back seat of the car. It was then that the look on my sister’s face verified the reciprocity of the girl’s feelings toward me.

I was wearing shorts and holding my T-shirt in my hand.

I can only equate what I must have looked like to me having been in a horrible fight with a vacuum cleaner. With wounds specifically around the neck and chest area, I clearly was the loser of the battle.

The sheer amount that my sister’s jaw dropped is still embedded in my mind.

I’d say that it was a look of disapproval and disgust, but was she truly one to talk?

I can’t be sure.

I do seem to recall that she had grown up in the same house near the same campground mere years prior. The difference? No older brother to so politely offer her a ride home after a moonlit evening on the beach.

I’m quite sure that she survived her reaction to my teenage walk-of-shame along with her disappointment in my lack of appliance-fighting skills at such a young age.

In fact, I’m certain of it as I’ve seen images of her as a grown-up on social media over the past few years.

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