Someone is taking a scissors to the inside of my throat. I am onstage at a bar in Hollywood and I am standing behind my keyboard and people are ordering drinks and shouting flirty things at each other and having meaningful conversations and I'm singing but I'm sick and things are coming out hoarse and rough. Luckily it's 11pm at a bar on a Tuesday, and the people who are watching don't care that my voice isn't 100% clear as a bell, they're just here to hear music and have fun and bob their heads to my drummer. But I am having a hidden meltdown, wanting to lay down and go to sleep on the stage, wanting to drink ginger tea on my couch, pushing to keep going because my real self loves this more than anything, but my sick self is throwing daggers at me, some of which include "no one cares about you singing up here," and "you don't connect with audiences," and "you're too old for this shit." And I don't know. I don't know who I'm supposed to be up here anymore.
It's terrifying. I play my set, I kick my whisky glass over halfway through and curse at myself, I get off the stage and hack up half my lungs and then smile and chat with people and give some hugs and feel generally like a giant impostor. And then a girl comes up to me, and grabs my arm and says "What is your name?" And I tell her and she says, "I loved your songs. I am going to look you up when I get home."
All it takes is one of these to make all the other stuff seem ridiculous.
I watched this video the other day for the first time, and it blew me away. I hope you guys will watch it, if you ever wonder how artists are going to continue making music when they are no longer getting paid for it the way they used to. Or should I say why they are going to continue. The film is by Levi Weaver, a lovely person and great artist. Thank you, friend. You've said it all.
