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In this nostalgic episode, Aaron reflects on being in a high school band in the nineties, a time when demo tapes and battle-of-the-bands showcases felt like the only shot at stardom. He shares the story of Spice, his high school’s annual talent show, and how it became a beacon of hope for a group of teenage dreamers.
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Unlock the power of storytelling in just one hour with Aaron Calafato. Gain actionable insights and tools to transform how you connect and communicate—in work, life, and beyond.
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Birce
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Music: thomas j. duke
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
If you were in a high school band in the nineties, it didn’t matter what kind—alternative, grunge, punk, progressive rock, hell, even nu-metal—your chances of making it were slim. Compared to today, with all the platforms and opportunities for exposure, the ability to find a niche and reach a global audience just didn’t exist. Back then, you had a few options: house parties, battle-of-the-bands showcases, or—if you were really serious—you packed up, ran away, got in a van, and drove to a big city to gig until something happened. Until you got your break.
But where I grew up, we had one more thing.
In the nineties, there was an event at our high school every year that my bandmates and I believed had the potential to make our rock-and-roll dreams come true.
And I’m going to tell you about it—right after the music.
I still can’t wrap my mind around it.
I go upstairs and see my oldest kid playing guitar. He’s got all these different instruments, plugged into the computer. He can stream online, upload to YouTube, download onto an SD card, re-upload back to a drive. He can share musical files with people around the globe.
And I think about what we had to do just to record.
It was a disaster. The microphones—we couldn’t afford the right ones. Studio time? You had to rent it. And those studio owners? They were like mafioso kingpins. You’d walk in, and they’d charge the hell out of young musicians just to get a few songs down.
And why were you trying to get a few songs down?
Because, in addition to the house parties, showcases, and endless gigging, another way to get your music out there was to make a demo tape. But to do that, you had to go into debt. All four or five of you in the band were working overtime just to pay for the studio. If you didn’t have your songs together, you’d waste your time—and that meant more money. You’d go broke just recording a couple of tracks.
And then what?
You had to buy postage. You had to research record labels, find the right ones, send your demo out. Next thing you know, you’re thousands of dollars in debt, and your tape is sitting on some executive’s desk, collecting dust. That was a year of your life.
Welcome to 1994.
You’re in a high school band. That’s life.
You see Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Smashing Pumpkins on the covers of magazines, and you’d do anything to open for a band like that. But how? What can you do?
And hey, I’m a guitar player. Forget about it. That’s more money—electric guitar, cables, amp, pedals. And then the sweat equity, the time to actually become a good player. I was extremely competitive. I’ve told so many stories about my guitar playing on this podcast—go back in the archives, you’ll hear them. It was crazy. I became a shredding machine.
So I had the skill, the equipment, the bands. But even then, there was a wall between you and opportunity. Between you and the public.
So then what?
Well, what many didn’t have—the thing I was teasing at the beginning of this story—was what we thought set us apart.
It was the annual talent show called Spice.
I can’t even remember what the acronym stood for. Anyone listening from my hometown is probably saying it out loud right now—Student Performance Something Something, who knows? Doesn’t matter. It was an annual talent show at my high school in Medina, Ohio.
Now, hear me out.
This whole story came to mind because, in 2025, I’m back in my hometown. I boomeranged back. And every day, I walk through memories. I live two blocks from where I grew up. I visit the places I spent time as a kid—because now my kids are spending time there. It’s like I’m intersecting with the superstring theory of my own past.
And my oldest son?
He’s in Spice. He’s playing the trumpet. He’s killing it.
And I sat there, watching his show, wondering:
Do the kids playing in Spice today think about it the way we did?
For us, it was no joke.
The tryouts were brutal. Tons of people didn’t make it. You wouldn’t make the show if you couldn’t deliver—if you weren’t good, if you didn’t have a talent.
I remember our band practices leading up to the auditions.
We were like, Guys, stop screwing around. Get this song locked down. We have to be tight. We have to deliver.
And you might be thinking, What’s the big deal?
I’ll tell you.
If you performed in Spice, you got to play two days in a row—at school, in front of all your classmates, multiple periods a day. And it was a sold-out crowd.
That’s rare for any artist.
That’s your moment, right?
Ask anyone who went to high school with me. They might not remember much—maybe that I had a weird haircut, wore jeans that were too long, and was five-foot-five, 130 pounds.
But if they dig deep enough into their high school memories, they might remember me shredding on stage.
"Isn’t that the guy that ripped it on guitar?"
Oh yeah. That was me.
And then, beyond the school performances, Spice had shows open to the public.
You could invite friends, family, people from out of town. You could even send invites to record executives, independent labels. There was always that third cousin or uncle who knew a guy in A&R. You could dream—maybe someone would show up. Maybe they’d hear you.
That’s why that moment was so important.
And we played like it was that important.
Now, as a 41-year-old man, I know the truth.
No one in that audience was going to change our musical destiny.
But back then?
Back then, we believed.
And I don’t know if it’s easier now to make it as a musician. There are more platforms, but that also means more saturation. Maybe it’s harder now than it was back then.
But for me, for my high school bands in the nineties—
What made it magical was what we didn’t have.
But what we did have was audacious hope.
And we also had Spice.
That high school talent show—the one that, in our minds, had the potential to make our rock-and-roll dreams come true.
