The Sounds and The Feels

We live, mostly, in a world where we’re taught to conform and suppress artistic expression— the greater forces of commercial society would have us behave “normally” rather than scream into a microphone at top volume with an army of friends raging behind you — but music and art dares your voice to be heard. As a mental health exercise, it leaves you happy and free, but as a social gesture, it’s still unsettling to many. There’s a clip I saw recently of Yoko Ono wailing over a Chuck Berry song performed on the Mike Douglas show, and its fearlessness left me staggered. It was pure release, pure voice, pure personality without a worry about how it would be processed by the host, the crowd, or the band. It was a sterling musical gesture; unencumbered by worry or comportment; unafraid by what anyone other than the singer would feel.

Playing in a band is easy. Playing in a band is hard. You have to learn how to get along, but you also have to learn to honour the release. Of course, there’s the functional and technical side about assembling a song so that it, more or less, makes sense, but the best times are when you’re on that wave and you’re unconscious of how or whether it’s working. The worst part is when others can’t find the wave, leaving the writer defeated, forlorn. But embracing failure is as important as achieving success. Not every song is going to create that shared feeling, but when it does: woah. You’re pulling people into your vulnerability and, if you’re lucky, you’re sharing it with dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of strangers who are also pulled to it.

One time, during a performance at Massey Hall, I could feel all of these things happening — it was an ethereal moment, shroud in light and joy — and after the song ended, I told myself to stop and listen. The sound of the crowd cheering came at me like a magnificent cloud of singing, crying birds. I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.

Hello darkness, my old friend

With performers, there’s always darkness married to the light and, in the ‘90s, I recall, that darkness was rarely acknowledged as something to be addressed, wrestled with, and met head on. If someone had a worrying performance, or behaved worryingly, we lapsed into the mythology that the person was merely artistically petulant or troubled; they were bearing an artist’s soul through the difficult process of making good art. But recent musicians from Menno Versteeg of Hollerado to Kendrick Lamar to Big Boi of OutKast have been bold faced in recognizing the unhealthy environment in which so many musicians exist: endless touring hours, booze delivered nightly into your dressing rooms, unhinged schedules, the pressure to be better than your last creation, a stigma that haunted Van Halen’s Eddie Van Halen to his last days.

The signs of struggle are clearer now than they’ve ever been to the point that musicians are more aware of the demons, and fans tilt on the side of forgiveness rather than wanting their favourite bands to be wild and raw at all costs. People like Miranda Mulholland have advocated for venues with more non-alcoholic products, and, at the West End Phoenix newspaper storefront where we hold shows, we’ve staged “sober” gigs without alcohol sales. It’s taken generations, but we finally understand the danger and absurdity of an occupation where, the moment you show up for work, a tray of iced Bud is laid at your feet. We had — and continue to have — a great career, but I wonder if we could have fought through the hard gigs if we weren’t often relying on booze to get us to the end. But that scar has also healed.

Surviving has allowed us to look back at this life, this career, in the fullness of its landscape, but that’s not to suggest that, for newer musicians, it has to be the same. Maybe the cover has been torn off the facade; the seal removed from the prescription. Maybe now it doesn’t have to be as rough and dangerous as it is smooth and beautiful. Maybe you can get near the end without feeling you’ve paid too much for it.