The Green Wave

Why do some performers stand on stage bathed in a radiant light, joyfully and easily making music, while others look as though they’ve just eaten a salad of brambles and arsenic? This is not a simple matter of skill, either, or that mastery and freedom I mentioned in an earlier post. Even gifted, accomplished musicians sometimes find their chops wilting under the lights. The song that flowed at home comes out in a halting hash. The confidence of the music room evaporates in the glare of other people’s attention. Teeth chatter, knees knock, hands dampen and slide over keys and strings, the voice constricts to a tiny knot, and the stomach lurches and roils. Some existential voice shouts over the words of the song: You pretender! You bite! Give it up! Look, you’re going to forget the next verse! I know you’re going to forget the next verse! Ha! You’ve forgotten the verse, just as I said you would!

How dreadful – and how familiar.

In college, on the few occasions I played for other people my entire body trembled and shook – a private earthquake. Whole songs flew past in a panicked blur, lyrics melting away, verses chucked overboard, lovely curlicues of embellishment flattened in the rush to finish the ordeal. And yet, painful as it was at time, I was aching to do this, to have this experience. I burned to share my songs with others, and I kept doing it when the occasion presented itself. After a little while, I learned to take my nerves into account and play the easy stuff first to give my fingers a chance to unkink and my voice to open up. I also learned to forego supper until the gig was safely behind me. And later, I learned to shift some of my attention to how the audience was feeling and to care about their comfort. That terrible critical voice began to shut up as I made these changes, and I was able to focus more on the song itself and on that bridge between myself, the song, and the listeners.

This is not to say that I have vanquished nerves. Good gracious, not by a long shot! The spectre of stage-fright still visits me with symptoms ranging from a slight flutter to an all-out elevator-drop of the guts. But rarely do I feel that mix of dread and electricity that once rocked me from head to toe. Nowadays I feel some mix of nerves, excitement, and determination. And why, I wonder? How does any performer move from terror to relative comfort?

We fail. When you’re starting out, failing on stage – missing notes, forgetting words, squeaking, or falling off your chair (as I did once on public-access TV) – is a fate worse than death. Performers must be flawless, we tell ourselves, and if they’re not, they will never play publicly again. Later, you notice that while you left out that whole third verse or you bungled the bridge, people still appeared to enjoy the song. No one threw rotten tomatoes. Someone even complimented you. Hmmm…. very interesting. So imperfect performers are still welcome? Yes, they are. And figuring that out leads to my next point:

We meet challenges. You’re playing along and then suddenly that existential voice starts up with the whole “forget the next verse” thing. Panic rears up out of nowhere. Crud! What if I forget it? And then, miracle of miracles, one of two things happens. You remember the verse and sing it as though someone had supplied it to you on a tele-prompter. Thank you, brain! Thank you, muscle memory! Or, as happened to me one time in a pub in Donegal, you make it up. And more wonderful still, no one knows the difference. Sacred knowledge! The sworn enemy to the existential voice laughs a great hearty laugh and bellows: I am queen of the world! I can do anything!

We see a bigger picture. We begin to think of this song as just one song in a lifetime of performing songs. And we also begin to think of what we’re offering other people when we play this song. We begin to feel quite grateful that people are listening, and we are determined to offer them something valuable. We also see ourselves as members of communities, and we take up a role as supporter in addition to performer. The world of music grows exponentially. And the whole thing looks more like a work in progress than a do-or-die single chance.

And then we keep doing it!

Dear reader, if you’ve had an experience with stage-fright in any arena (music, public speaking, teaching…) and insights about how you’ve overcome it, I’d be very interested to hear. Thanks, as ever, for visiting me here at The Green Wave.

Two years ago tonight, I made my first tentative steps into blog-land with an entry that was the writing equivalent of a person being dragged to a dance when they’d rather be home playing chess. I waxed poetic about books, pens, and the irresistible scritch-scratch of pen over paper. Could writing take place without these beloved icons? Well, yes, it turns out, it can. And the amazing thing about writing in this way, in the absence of real ink and real paper, has been that real people read the real words you really write, and sometimes they make a real difference to someone else.

And music? Can music occur in the absence of the harp, the piano, the Irish flute, and the bundle of whistles clutched together like pick-up sticks? Mais oui. You stand on the mountainside and wish for a baby grand, but then it dawns on you that you can sing. (You also think how marvelous that the voice is a built-in component, and one which requires no special pouch in your high-tech backpack. Weightless and free – could anything be better?) You’re waiting in line at the supermarket where spontaneous concerts are not the norm, and you realize that you can sing in your head. You can dance in your head. You can invent melodies, try out lyrics, and compose entire symphonies in your head. An epic? A novel? A brave new world? All are waiting there to be explored in the privacy and possibility of your imagination. Once you grab hold of such a thought, you realize that you are truly free.

And so tonight I celebrate that free space of imagination that acts powerfully regardless of outside conditions. On the paper page or the webpage, in glorious sound or in silence, it thrives and enlivens, adapting endlessly to the spaces in which it finds itself. And with it, so do we.

PS – There’s another great reason to celebrate today: it is the eighth anniversary of my true love and me. Does that pertain to this blog about music? Well, let me just offer this one little proof and test in one: if you, musician, truly love your love, his off-key whistling will inflame you with tenderness, while off-key singing by otherwise likable people frequently produces the opposite effect. That, my friends, is love!

When I was young, my parents used to encourage me to shed my “thin skin.” This thin skin led me to weep at beauties like the sight of the evening sun on pine branches or at the thrilling sound of a low flute playing an Irish air. It also led me to take things personally, to grieve dead animals on the road, and to worry about strays or wild ones. In short, I felt too much – or at least that was the going wisdom. Feel too much and you’re likely to be bulldozed by life. “Toughen up,” I was told. I have no doubt that anyone who offered this advice did so with my best interest at heart. They worried for a sensitive girl and wanted to spare her pain.

I have long since come to prize my ability to feel things, and more than that, to trust it. I’ve also come to realize how pointless it is to tell someone to feel less. You might as well tell a green-eyed man to turn his eyes brown, or a tall woman to shorten herself. We are what we are.

Recently I had some wonderful validation for this view when I won a chapbook contest. In their announcement of the winning chapbook, the judges said they’d chosen mine for its high poetic quality, but also for the depth of feeling in it, as well as the sense of a real person behind the words. Well! My liabilities, it turns out, can be assets.

I believe the same thing is true of any of us. What we are by nature is the very best thing we have to offer to the world. And it bears repeating that we make art out of our life’s ingredients, and that includes things that look like weaknesses and things that look like strengths. (Sometimes it’s hard to tell!). Use these ingredients creatively, positively, and with awareness and you offer the world a taste of your own soup with a flavor it has never before sampled.

This is just another way of saying: Trust yourself and keep going. And hold onto that thin skin!

PS – I’ll put up a notice when the book comes out, but if you’d like to read about the contest, here’s a link: http://www.kulupi.com/index

What do you do when the words stop or the melody dries up or there’s nothing to paint? I’ve never worried that much about this problem, to be honest, and I’ve never complained of “writer’s block.” The only time I’ve ever felt blocked was when I was working on my dissertation – and I see now how terrified I was at first and how that stopped me in my tracks. Once I figured out that I could write whatever I wanted, that my project was truly my own, the frozen part thawed and enjoyment returned. Now it seems to me that if you put joy, fun, pleasure, interest, zest, and even a sort of mental buccaneer-ing at the heart of your creative project, you can only succeed. What do I mean by that?

Well, creative people of all sorts are privateers and pirates, entrepreneurs and advantage-seizers. They sniff out a fair wind and raise their sails. They know a good bargain when they see it. They trade something they have in spades for something rare, exotic, or refreshing. Mainly, when they are doing their work best, they are full of courage and even a little rough zest. Sometimes that means a little spin away from the life of a conventionally moral land-lubber – but all in a good cause, of course! Here are some “crimes” I like to commit in my life as a buccaneer-creator:

1. Eavesdrop. Once, I listened to the Chinese conversation of two people who appeared to be on a first-date. Do I know Chinese? Not at all! But listening to the sounds they made and watching their affect and gesture, I found a little poem about their shy courtship that I called “Tableside Translation.” A single line from someone’s life can inspire an epic. I keep an ear up for odd phrases just in case.

2. Shoplift. I’ve shoplifted this phrase, in fact, from a wonderful Maine poet, Martin Steingesser, who wrote a great poem about skimming poetry in the bookstore by way of “shoplifting” free language and ideas. My friend, Lunenburg poet extraordinaire Joyce Heon, recently showed me a poem composed entirely of the first lines in the index of “One Thousand Years of Irish Poetry.” What makes it Joyce’s is the special way she has put it together, her particular ear for language, cadence, and music. The trick here is in choosing a starting-place and then using your skill to make it your own.

3. Lie. No need to stay tethered to the factual details, me hearties! Inspiration often comes from my own experience, but how very limiting to think I must relate the thing blow-by-blow and with dull accuracy. I’d rather make it up, wouldn’t you? (Ironically, doing so often takes me to a “truer” place than I could have reached otherwise).

4. Boast shamelessly. Most of us (especially those who attended CCD as children) find this dastardly hard. But if you can’t boast for yourself, you can do it for someone else – or something else. At the Maine Writers’ Conference a few years ago, we were instructed to write a “brag” from anyone’s perspective. I then became the sun and bragged joyfully about myself in a way I could never do about Kate Chadbourne. It was delicious to be a braggart and maybe some of that bravado will rub off.

5. Wave your cutlass and brandish your sword! If you are a gentle, cerebral, peace-loving type like so many of us creators, it is time to seize your weapon and roar! This one pertains not only to the sheer animal energy you put into your writing, music, dance, painting or any art, but also your commitment to doing it and your determination to see it safely into the world.

Cultivate thy inner pirate, I say. Let your inner swashbuckler with all of that wild courage, love of life, and dauntlessness take the wheel and I promise you will like the direction: Adventure!

I came across a book recently that urged writers to consider their lineage – those writers whose work they have loved, emulated, read compulsively, and felt as spur and inspiration. I love this idea for so many reasons. First, it reminds us that we truly do not work alone. We are connected to other people, other minds, other ideas, and other ways of living even if we’ve never met these people in the flesh. Through their works of art, they become real presences in our lives. Second, there is a wonderful sense of happily acknowledging a debt of gratitude. And finally, I think that we see ourselves with greater clarity and in greater complexity. The artistic history is one sparkling facet of a life history.

In that spirit, I thought I’d make a start at noting some of my musical ancestry. Some of it may be surprising to anyone who assumes I’m a dyed-in-the-wool folkie. In my heart of hearts, I’ve always known I’m not; I eat musical fruit and meat as long as it’s tasty to me. Here’s just a sampling of my ancestry from early on (and loads more where these come from!):

James Taylor – introduced to me by my friend’s older siblings who also gave us Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, and Linda Ronstadt, among others; listened to on vinyl; picture of beautiful James stared at intently on album cover, songs memorized, voice timbre admired and seeped into my own (so I was told once)
Carly Simon – of course! How much we loved singing “Mockingbird” along with her and James; how sad we were to learn of their split. We were just kids, but they seemed like people we knew. I still love them both.
Warren Zevon – “Excitable Boy,” was the first record I ever bought. I still love it – his irreverence, humor, melody, voice
Ricki Lee Jones – She is SO much cooler than me! But what verve, nerve, melody, cleverness, soul – all irresistible.
Suzanne Vega – I’ll never forget hearing her the first time on my tiny transistor radio, tuned low around midnight one night in highschool, pricking up my ears and thinking, “Now, that’s something entirely new!” Somehow her approach to songwriting gave permission for introspection, for storytelling.
Joni Mitchell – Mais, oui. How could it be otherwise? I can remember singing her songs on the chairlift on ski trips, singing them on the bus home, singing them walking home from basketball practice. She is still a standard-bearer in my life. Fearless, brilliant, wild.
Mark Knopfler, both with and without Dire Straits. How I love his stories! How I love his growl! This admiration has only grown stronger with time. In Derry, Mark’s CD, “Ragpicker’s Dream,” kept me company on many solitary evenings, and my poor cat, Teas, put up with being danced with (yes, I choose the words carefully there) as we two-stepped and waltzed and free-birded. He allows himself moments of wild darkness, something fierce and sweet. I find that reassuringly real.

The Three Bruces:
Bruce Springsteen – Blue-collar kinship. Roy Bittan’s piano playing. Poetry for lyrics. My friend, Blanchie, plastered posters of him all over her walls, and her big brother, Eric, took us to the Worcester Arena to hear Bruce – an ecstatic experience! It’s still a fantasy for me to sing one of his songs.
Bruce Hornsby – You’d think I would have been crazy for piano man Billy Joel, but somehow his music never took. Mr. Hornsby, however, introduced an irresistible strain of melancholy and elation mixed, and his flowing piano style is more like my own natural style. Plus, I just like the person behind the songs (or at least the persona; but that’s a discussion for another day).
Bruce Cockburn – Political and romantic, tuneful and challenging, and with that luscious voice.

Lots of pop:
Cindi Lauper, Sting, U2, Duran Duran, Boy George, Crowded House, Dexy’s Midnight Runners (“Come on, Eileen” is still one of my favorites for dancing)… Too many high-school dance favorites to mention here!

Later, I came to love some of the big folk favorites: Sean Colvin, John Gorka, Patty Larkin, Richard Schindell. And these days I’m just as likely to put on Schubert’s “Trout Quintet” as anything else, or New England contra group, “Bare Necessities.” Or Yo Yo Ma (particularly “Appalachian Journey,” which includes James Taylor. And then there’s Knopfler’s “Sailing to Philadelphia” which also includes Taylor). And then there are my friends’ CDs: Oen Kennedy, Deb Rocha, Ellen Schmidt, Peg Espinola, Cynthia Chatis, Steve Rapson… And again, loads more. And I haven’t even mentioned all the Irish singers and players! Gracious!

You could do this exercise about any area of your life. Your faith. Your writing. Your ethics, even. What I learn from it is how blessed we are to live in a world of creators and to have the sort of ears that listen and the sort of hearts that take it all in so joyfully.