Confessions of an Aprés-Ski Rockstar

By Tyler Hansen

When I was younger I dreamed of life as a rockstar. I romanticized living out of a suitcase in the hotel room of some nameless town, longing for the sweet embrace of my wife and kids while trudging through middle America serenading cheese-eating fans. The fantasy came with all the trappings; fame and glory and addiction and irrationally tight pants. As a chronically not-goal-driven person however, I didn’t devote myself to the perfection of my craft or spend late nights plumbing the depths of this shared human experience to write the next great American album. Nor did I move to L.A. or Nashville or Brooklyn to pay my dues as a starving artist. No, there was far too much fun to be had with all the procrastinating to do and by God, I was going to do it! If I’ve learned something about myself, it’s that procrastination is the one thing I don’t struggle procrastinating with.

Despite my lack of discipline, sacrifice, and raw undiluted talent, something happened. Fast forward to today, and those rockstar dreams have become a reality of sorts. “Of sorts” being the operative phrase. Have I flown on a private jet to a gig? Yes. A sum total of one time. And because I cut the smallest figure of the band members, I was asked to sit on the toilet, which doubled as a passenger seat when needed. Have I travelled overseas to play music? Yes. For the nuptials of a German couple that also had their guests stand in a circle listening to “That’s What Friends Are For” while gazing into each other’s eyes. So maybe they didn’t have the best instincts. But hey, they hired me.

My point is: the dream has come true. In perhaps the least sexy way possible.

Question: what do objective opinion and aprés-ski rockstar have in common? Answer: they’re both contradictions in terms. There’s just no way a “maybe” is definitive and even more so, there’s no world in which an aprés-ski musician is a bona fide rockstar. No, in the scheme of things there are rockstars, then there are struggling artists, then there’s 50 feet of crap, then there’s aprés-ski musicians. For clarity’s sake, I’ll add that the lowest rung of the ladder is also occupied by wedding singers, a club I am also a proud member of.

So–just like an AA meeting–hi, I’m Tyler and I’m an aprés-ski rockstar. This is my story.

Integrity. I occasionally hear stories of musicians who refuse to trade their artistic integrity for the sake of success. No, they remain true to themselves in the face of overwhelming commercial pressure to become something else. They’re usually handing me my order at Starbucks. Artistic integrity is great so far as it goes, but it doesn’t necessarily put food on the table. As an aprés-ski rockstar, artistic integrity is hard to come by but it’s not entirely abandoned. My version? I refused to learn and play “Rocky Mountain High” for fear it was just way too on the nose. Once I struck those chords there would be no coming back from that abyss. Then I had kids. And those kids needed shoes. So I learned the John Dusseldorf “classic” and am now willing to play it if the price is right. And the price is always right.

Adoring Fans. Inside pretty much every performer is a gaping maw of emptiness that can only ever be temporarily filled by the praise of others. Was it our childhood? Was it hardwired somewhere deep inside our DNA? Regardless of its genesis, it’s a nearly universal truth. Rockstars get that void filled by full stadiums singing along to their every lyric. Apres-ski rockstars get that void filled by the jabroni in 10 p.m. ski boots doing shots of Fireball singing along to the lyrics of “Piano Man” incorrectly. The disease is the same. The analgesic is different.

Drugs. To cope with the demands of global travel, nonstop media appearances, and the ever-present gaze of a judgmental public, many rockstars turn to destructive drugs like heroin, cocaine, or Scientology. We aprés-ski rockstars are no different. We face pressures like rent payments, crippling self-doubt, and the unkind jeers of wayward six-year-olds. To cope, I abuse things like Flomax to keep my aging prostate in check – though that’s pretty bougie. Let’s be honest, I can only afford the generic version. I also have a hefty ibuprofen dependency to help offset the pain in my decrepit ankles. They may not make an episode of Intervention about my drugs of choice, but go on a road trip with me when I’ve forgotten to take my pee pills and you’ll see just how real the struggle is.

Benefits. I feel like I’m being ungenerous because I’d be lying if I said being an aprés-ski rockstar didn’t come with benefits. For all our modest vices, the perks aren’t half bad. There are no mansions or supermodel groupies. No tricked out tour buses or seven-figure paydays. But occasionally, if I’m feeling bold enough to ask, there’s a shift meal. And on a good night, I’ll bring home enough to pay for a nice dinner date with my wife, which is more valuable by far than any estate on the French Riviera. I mean valuable from the perspective of sentimentality. If we’re talking valuable from the sense of value, then yeah, the mansion’s the clear winner.

Opportunity. I heard a story of one of my musical heroes throwing a fit onstage because he felt the audience wasn’t paying him the attention he was due. This guy was playing for 90 minutes and was probably getting paid enough to buy a luxury sports car.  And he was playing to thousands upon thousands of people through a state-of-the-art sound system. But he got bent out of shape about it. We long-suffering apres warriors have no such scruples. Our demand list is pretty small. Does the venue have heat? Great. Is the sound system from after the Reagan administration? Even better. Will there be anyone, and I mean anyone, there? Yes? Say no more.

Despite the small crowds, the abandoned integrity, and the drunken hecklers, I could not be happier with my place in life. I’m genuinely grateful for every minute of it. Why? Because it was never a guarantee and it was never really mine in the first place. Even this little modicum of an opportunity feels like something to cherish. I’ve reached a point where I’m happy to abandon my dreams of fame, fortune, and all the other trappings of being a rockstar for what I have in their stead.

I have kids whose lives I’m present for. When they need a cheering voice at a ski race or a dad who has no clue how to help them with their algebra homework, I’m right there.

I have a wife who doesn’t have to know her husband through nightly phone calls. Instead I come home at the end of my gigs and sleep in the bed I share with her. And as I age, I come home earlier and earlier. Rockstars can keep their night-owl lifestyle. Going to bed at 9:30 is a mark of a successful life in my book.

I have people who love and appreciate me for what I do. I have the occasional moment when an audience is actively listening to what I’m doing. And I have the gift of sharing an emotional experience with strangers. There are few better feelings.

Is it glamorous? Full of promise? Will it mark history and speak to the countless masses? Does it pay the mortgage? In a word: no. But under 50 feet of crap is apparently just where I’m supposed to be – I couldn’t be happier about it.

Tyler Hansen lives in a hobbit house in the middle of an aspen forest with his wife, two sons, and a dog named after a Will Ferrell character. A graphic designer and musician by trade, he’s a fan of smoking pipes and smooth jazz.