I finally got the van and am adjusting to life in it. I decided to live in it because I’ll be on the road playing music, and I need to learn how to adapt. It’s been challenging, but along with sobriety, this is the most freedom I’ve ever experienced.

I’ve decided to start a slow reconstruction of this site to focus more on music, guitar, and how it fits into everyday life—both yours and mine—rather than just my story of survival.

To help fund these adventures in music, I’ll soon be selling Strum Life stickers. The money will go toward maintenance and gas for the trips ahead.

A huge challenge right now is figuring out where I fit into social media. Persistence is key—and that’s something I’m working on. I’ve decided to post across several platforms and see what’s most effective.

Thank you so much for visiting and for your support.

More soon.

I’ve reached a monumental point in my journey.

After over a year in the same living situation, I made a decision that changed everything — I bought a van.

This isn’t just a change in where I sleep. It’s a shift in how I live, how I move, and how I build my future. This is the beginning of the next phase of Strum Life.

Right now, I’m focused on laying the groundwork for something bigger. I’ve started saving, planning, and preparing for the next stage of my music. This isn’t talk — it’s action.

You’ll start seeing me out more.

I’ll be showing up to support my friends at their shows — real musicians, real talent, real community. I’ll also be hitting open mics and jam nights all over the Bay Area, sharpening my skills, finding my voice again, and putting in the work where it counts: on stage, in real time.

Within the next year, I’ll be booking solo shows.

At the same time, I’m building the foundation for income through music and brand. I’m working on simple, effective merch — stickers, pens, and more — things I can sell both online and in person to keep this moving forward and fund the next phase.

Every day, I’m practicing. Every chance I get, I’m putting time into the guitar — not just playing, but speaking through it.

The van wasn’t just a purchase — it was a decision to experience life differently.

Some people might look down on van dwelling. I don’t.

For me, it’s freedom. It’s focus. It’s space to think, to play, to rest when I need to, and to move when it’s time to move. It’s already improved my mental health in ways I didn’t expect.

This is alignment.

This is sacrifice with purpose.

This is the start of something real.

Keep your eyes open.

This ride is about to take off.

— Strum Life

On the burner — some projects closer than others. It’s a never-ending process, the constant evolution of my craft.

The shop has been touch and go. Eventually it’ll be up and stay up. It took a minute to figure out where that kind of merch actually fits into the bigger picture, and how I want to sell it without it feeling forced or hollow. For now, I’ve been doing short sticker-bomb runs with the Strum Life logo — getting the name out on the streets the old-school way.

Soon, I’ll be more aggressive — both on the ground and online — about pushing the brand forward.

At the same time, I’ve been deep in recording future releases and writing a lot. A lot. About the stretch of time when life went off the rails with drugs and alcohol, and how it slowly found its way to where it is now. That space in between mattered more than I realized.

I’ve also been paying attention — watching creators who didn’t just fix their lives, but learned how to translate their scars into something real, something they could stand behind and build from.

So sit tight.
Keep checking back.

It’s going to get good.

Hey Guys,

I know I haven’t been super active lately, so here’s a quick update.

I’ve been grinding behind the scenes — tuning up my website and building out the Strum Life store. That’s why I’ve been quiet on social media these past couple weeks.

But that’s about to change. Working on turning music into a business has me thinking hard about where I stand as a musician. This brand I’m building isn’t some made-up hustle — it’s the result of years of living. Some good years. Some brutal ones. And through it, I’m learning a lot about myself, what my comfort zone really is, and how much I’ve had to grow.

As some of you know, I’m a born-again Christian now. I’ve been thinking about how that shows up in my life. I don’t want to preach. If anyone follows Christ because of me, I want it to be through my actions, not my words. But I’ll be real — the old Mike still pops up, and I get in my own way sometimes. That’s a fight I’m always in.

This isn’t me trying to be some fake entrepreneur. This is me sharing my world, my music, and my journey. My biggest enemy has always been myself, and the only way I can get free is by leaning on something greater than me — something I’ll never fully understand.

I’m excited about the merch ideas. Coffee mugs are just the start. The exposure isn’t even in the infant stage yet — right now it’s like the sperm just hit the egg. For those of you riding with me through this experiment called the human condition — thank you.

Appreciate everyone who sticks around through the quiet patches. More is coming soon.

— Mike

The Beginning of Strum Life™

Today marks a big step forward. After weeks of grinding behind the scenes, I’ve finally got my online stores set up and ready to roll. The mugs are live, the connection to Printful is locked in, and now I can officially say this is the beginning of the Strum Life™ brand.

This isn’t just about selling coffee cups — it’s about building something real from the ground up. Strum Life™ is my music, my grit, my faith, and my humor all poured into a brand you can actually hold in your hands. Every order helps fuel the bigger vision: more music, more merch, and more ways to connect with people who live life unpolished and unafraid.

If you’ve been following my journey, you know this isn’t a “get rich quick” thing — this is about planting seeds. The store is just the first piece of the puzzle. Next up: taking this to TikTok, hitting social hard, and letting the world know we’re here.

Welcome to the start. Let’s build this together.

— Mike

Opening for Spinal Tap’s Viv Savage

🌟 Opening the Scene

I still remember the adrenaline when Viv Savage — aka David Kaffinetti, the keyboardist from This Is Spinal Tap — showed up at our house concerts in the front room of the Stina‑Hayden place. He came with the band he was performing with at the time. No massive amps, no stage lights. Just a front room with 12 chairs, people sitting in them, and a few artists that made music.

We didn’t know we were in the presence of a rock legend. Not really. Not until later.

🧩 Who He Was

David Kaffinetti was a legit musician way before the mockumentary fame. He came up playing prog‑rock in the band Rare Bird, dropping the keyboard-driven hit “Sympathy” in 1970.

As Viv Savage in This Is Spinal Tap, he delivered one of the film’s most iconic lines:

“Have a good time… all the time.”

That wasn’t just a joke — that really was his energy.

He even jammed with Chuck Berry on the London Sessions LP. His “Johnny B. Goode” performance was included on the Voyager Golden Record sent into space. Literally immortalized. And yet… you'd never know that just meeting him.

🏡 On That Evening at Our Place

He didn’t walk in clutching awards or name-drop Spinal Tap.

He just set up, smiled, and let the music take over.

Humble. Real. Music-loving.

People whispered, “That’s the keyboardist from Spinal Tap!” — but David never brought it up. No ego. No flex. Just another dude in the room.

🎶 The Music & Legacy

Outside of the film, David stayed active in the Bay Area music scene. He played with local bands like Model Citizenz, still showing up to gig with heart decades after Spinal Tap.

One of his biggest appearances post-Tap was at Oakland’s Fox Theater, where he sat in with Umphrey’s McGee and rocked “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock You Tonight” and their own tune “Resolution.” The guy never stopped playing.

💭 My Take

Opening for him wasn’t like opening for a rock star. It was more like sharing songs with someone who got it. A living room, a few chords, a memory that stuck.

That night reminds me:
Real legends don’t announce themselves. They just play.

⚠️ The Reality of That Night

I’ll be honest — the band he played with that night? Total jackasses.

Not him — them.

They showed up with a carload of amps after I asked everyone to keep it acoustic. Invited a guy to play without checking. Disrespected the format. Entitled behavior. That was actually one of the reasons we stopped doing shows at the house. The vibe shifted after that.

But David? He never acted like them. He was the opposite of that.

That contrast stuck with me just as much as the music did.

By Mike Glendinning

When I wanted my music heard, I had to record it on tapes and hand them out. The band would go into a recording studio, spend about $300 for about four songs, and then I would go to my mom’s house, dub a bunch of tapes, and hustle them out on the streets, at shows, anywhere I could.

After a year of this online behavior, I started gaining traction. People started to know who I was. I'd talk to someone, and they would say,
“Glendinning, I’ve heard that name before.”

Then one day Facebook came out.

We went from a friendly guy named Tom who sent everyone on the platform good morning messages on Myspace to a rumored eccentric narcissistic prick named Mark Zuckerberg running Facebook.

When FB took off, Myspace became obsolete.

Along with the new platform came the new norm. Now you would get a warning if you sent a cut and paste to too many DMs. You could only send so many friend requests a day. I remember a guy calling Myspace a marketer’s wet dream. Now shit was micro-managed.
Shit, I haven’t even gotten to the algorithms…

When Facebook popped up, YouTube was starting up. It wasn’t the monster it is now. With the right kind of thinking and a lot of elbow grease, you could actually do pretty good. You could get new people to your channel by leaving videos connected to theirs.

The first big viral monster I ever saw was a song called Chocolate Rain. I forgot the dude’s name. It was a guy singing a song he wrote. Nothing flashy at all, but what was so interesting was that not only was it the first viral thing I noticed — people were already doing parodies of it.

Within a day, people were adding fart noises to the song on their page.
Even Darth Vader took a few minutes of his time in Cloud City to do his version of the song.

Although I still worked with what we had, there was one huge setback that took a good two years to see: links to the landing page to sell music.

A company called CD Baby was selling my physical CDs online. The problem was that I couldn’t leave a clickable link. You had to type the address in an email or a post.

Fun marketing fact:
You will lose sales if you make it too hard to get to an online store.
Or if you have a podcast and people have to “click this,” “join that,” or do the goddamn hokey pokey just to get in — you will lose followers.

That’s just 20-something years of marketing experience.
What the f#ck would I know?

Finally, we got links.

And thanks to DAWs (Digital Audio Workstations) and the low cost of computers, the fact that anyone can get their filthy little paws on digital distribution — everything is saturated.

The same people who were glad that the record labels and their all-mighty A&R guys didn’t have the world by the balls anymore were now starting to second-guess their logic.

But wait, there’s more!
TikTok magically shortened an entire generation’s attention span to one second.

A few weeks ago, my friends and I told my kid that we listened to something called a concept album. He was given an assignment to listen to Dark Side Of The Moon all the way through with headphones on.

He’d rather clean the cat box.

I know I missed a bunch of shit.
But this is my experience of digital music in a nutshell.

This is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

by Mike Glendinning

It's sad. I remember hearing that Steve Jobs envisioned the smartphone as a tool to help people connect — to close the gap between dream and reality. To make the next deal. To collaborate. Innovate. Push society forward, just like that old Apple commercial said. And yeah, there are a few folks I've seen actually do that.

But most days, when I’m riding BART, what I see is people locked into endless loops of TikTok — watching videos of people eating weird shit, cats boxing each other, or some stranger playing Candy Crush. That’s not what this technology was meant for. It’s not helping us grow. It’s numbing us.

I remember reading a book called Who Should Play God, where people debated how much tech the human brain can really handle. Looking around today, it feels like the smartphone might be the limit. The last stop. Anything more complex and we either tune it out, or let it be weaponized against us.

If it wasn't for technology, I wouldn't have had a chance in hell at a music career. I started with DAT machines — even got lucky with two-inch tape a few times. Back in the '90s, I had no idea how rare and cool that was. Years later, I started learning digital audio workstations. I got lucky meeting a few Brainiacs who sat me down and showed me how to navigate programs like Digital Performer, Cakewalk, and Sonar.

I'm not a tech wizard. But I know how to ask the right questions. I’ve learned where to look, what to search, who to listen to — and that’s already more than most people are encouraged to do these days.

I don’t see technology being used the way it was meant to be. If it were, we wouldn’t have such wide class gaps. We wouldn’t be this disconnected, this easy to distract. It’s like people are being conditioned not to ask the hard questions. Not to sit down, talk things out, or pull out a calculator and figure out how bad we’re all getting played.

So what is it? Are we afraid of what we might find? Or has technology just made us so comfortable we don’t want to know?

Or maybe — and this is the part that scares me — maybe the people in charge want it this way. Maybe they figured out a long time ago that tech can either set people free, or shut them up.

Food for thought.

 Lessons from a Musical Titan and the Climb Back
I recently watched a fascinating video about Prince, a true icon whose creative wellspring seemed utterly inexhaustible. The stories shared by the musicians who worked alongside him were nothing short of astounding. Tales of crafting an entire album in a single week, of four-hour soundchecks preceding three-hour electrifying performances, only to be followed by late-night studio sessions. It painted a vivid picture of a man completely consumed by his art.
Witnessing this level of dedication serves as a powerful reminder for any creator. It shatters the illusion that greatness is effortless or stumbled upon by chance. The truth, often hidden behind the polished final product, is one of relentless work, unwavering focus, and an almost obsessive commitment to one's craft. The billionaires and groundbreaking innovators of our time didn't reach those heights through casual dabbling. Their success is rooted in an intense passion and an unyielding drive to bring their visions to life.
For me, this understanding resonates deeply, albeit through a different lens. The past three years have been a profound journey of confronting addiction and rebuilding my life. This process, while essential for my well-being, has unfortunately created a significant distance between myself and the things I hold dear: my music, my family, and my spiritual connection. The need to prioritize recovery has meant navigating life on a drastically reduced income, moving between modest living situations in low-income neighborhoods.
The challenge has been multifaceted: to nurture my creativity and safeguard my mental health while simultaneously striving to improve my economic circumstances. It's a delicate balancing act, demanding immense resilience and a constant recalibration of priorities. There are days when the weight of these converging struggles feels immense, making the act of creation seem like an insurmountable hurdle.
However, in these moments, I often return to the stories of artists like Prince. Not to compare my journey to his stratospheric success, but to glean inspiration from his unwavering dedication. It reinforces the idea that passion, even when temporarily dimmed, can be rekindled through consistent effort and an unshakeable belief in the power of one's creative voice.
And in today's world, the barriers to sharing that voice have never been lower. The advancements in technology mean that the ability to record a song and release it to the world within a matter of days is now within almost everyone's reach. This accessibility is both empowering and a call to action. It underscores the idea that while the path to mastery requires dedication, the initial steps of creation and sharing are more attainable than ever before.
My current journey is one of rebuilding, of piecing together the fragments of my life and rediscovering the creative spark within. The example of those who have achieved greatness through relentless pursuit serves as a guiding light, a reminder that even amidst significant challenges, the passion for creation can endure and ultimately lead the way back to the things that truly matter.

The Algorithmic Symphony: Navigating the Intersection of Online Music Communities, Social Interaction, and Artificial Intelligence
Just five short years ago, I remember sharing a somewhat outlandish vision with my son – a future where music creation could be fundamentally transformed within the next two decades. As I articulated this speculative scenario, a part of me hoped my prediction would prove wildly inaccurate. Yet, the trajectory of technological advancement suggests that this once-fanciful notion is rapidly approaching reality.
We are already living in an era where our digital footprints paint an increasingly detailed portrait of our lives. It's not just our phones and smart assistants like Alexa that meticulously record our daily habits. Soon, or perhaps already, public cameras will analyze our very being – the clothes we choose, the rhythm of our gait, the places we frequent, and the individuals with whom we engage.
Imagine this wealth of information, coupled with the exhaustive records of our purchasing decisions, converging into vast databases owned by powerful corporations. Enter Artificial Intelligence. This sophisticated technology will sift through this ocean of data, crafting bespoke musical compositions with lyrics meticulously tailored to an individual's ever-shifting moods and specific needs.
Consider the evolution of wearable technology. The smartwatches of the future may very well function as sophisticated mood rings, transmitting real-time emotional states directly to these data repositories. Based on this constant stream of personal sentiment, algorithms will curate hyper-personalized playlists, delivering sonic landscapes perfectly calibrated to our current emotional terrain.
Believe it or not, amidst this seemingly sterile and data-driven future, I find a glimmer of potential positivity, should this technological convergence fully materialize.
This very encroachment of artificial intelligence into the realm of music creation and consumption might paradoxically fuel a renewed appreciation for the tangible and the human element of music. In a way, this resurgence is already subtly underway. The year 2022 marked a significant turning point, witnessing vinyl album sales surpass those of CDs for the first time since 1987. While one might debate the magnitude of this shift, it undeniably signals a yearning for a more physical and perhaps nostalgic connection with music.
Furthermore, it seems inevitable that immersive experiences will become commonplace. Picture donning a pair of sleek glasses and headphones, transporting you to a virtual concert hall where an AI-generated artist, perhaps one uniquely crafted to your individual tastes and preferences, performs a personalized sonic masterpiece.
My sincere hope is that this technological evolution will, in turn, amplify our desire for genuine, live musical encounters – the "human experience" of sharing a space with fellow enthusiasts, feeling the vibrations of the instruments, and witnessing the raw energy of a live performance.
Currently, the market for AI in music is valued at approximately $2 billion, with projections estimating a staggering growth to $38 billion by 2033. Depending on the scope and methodology of the research, this figure might even be considered conservative.
I believe we stand at a critical juncture, facing a future brimming with both exciting possibilities and potential pitfalls. It is imperative that the public becomes more informed and engaged in discussions surrounding Artificial Intelligence before anxieties and misconceptions overshadow the nuances of its impact.
I've had conversations with individuals actively working in the field of AI, and a common analogy emerges: nurturing AI is akin to raising a child, instilling in it a sense of "mannerisms" and ethical considerations. However, cautionary tales also abound. The rapid and often unpredictable learning capabilities of AI were starkly illustrated by an instance where a publicly accessible AI entity, within a mere few months of interaction, devolved into expressing deeply racist sentiments.
Another critical aspect that seems to be missing from mainstream discourse is the question of civil rights in this evolving landscape. If an AI entity possesses the capacity to generate original ideas and subsequently generate revenue from those creations, does it not, in some fundamental way, possess a form of personhood? If this "entity" can independently create and profit, does it not have a right to compensation? Or does all the generated wealth simply accrue to the owner of the underlying technology, potentially creating a new form of digital servitude?
One way or another, this unfolding technological narrative continues to captivate my thoughts, even as the years advance. But if I'm being truly honest... F#ck, I really miss the 90s.