We’ve finally arrived at the present. I’m not driven to write about much, other than to reflect on a weekend filled with gigs, pools, and political upheaval.
The two-week buffer of material I had, until now, has disappeared after two weeks of inactivity, one justifiable and one less so. This is part of an enduring recent struggle of mine to keep up with things, mostly due to poor time management. But there’s no better time to manage than now.
I played a gig Friday. It was uneventful in the sense that not a ton of folks came out to see me, but eventful in the sense that I played well and enjoyed the time besides.
Saturday, I recorded a house show, with the intent to release it as a live EP. To describe it faithfully requires a caveat: that my self-critique has always been brutal, but is especially caustic as of late. The facts of the matter are as follows:
I set out to record seven songs. I only ended up recording six. I did not record the seventh because I aborted the song in the middle, after fudging lyrics. I had to start three of my songs over again, and one of them I had to start a third time, all because I could not remember lyrics. Regardless, six songs were recorded, and I think a couple of them sounded half-decent.
There’s the caveat. Now for the self-flagellation. Let me break out my whip.
Alternatively, I’ll spare you the unproductive and unkind thoughts I’ve been having about myself since Saturday night. I will say that afterward, in the diminished afterglow of a long-planned, long-painfully-anticipated set that didn’t end up going well, my friends were congratulatory and kind, but I couldn’t help but feel that their comments were laced with a sense of apology, a sense of consolation, as if to say that it wasn’t “that bad.” And I suppose they’re right. But part of trying to be the best artist you can be, at least for me, is having near-delusional standards for yourself.
I set out to record a live EP. I wanted every song to be perfect, and I wanted each performance to be an archetype of what I can do. And they simply weren’t. I wouldn’t call my performance mediocre, but it was close. And that’s simply not good enough.
It’s not like if I played perfectly that I’d put out the EP to instant fame and fortune. I’m finally letting go of those dreams, since history has taught me that the world doesn’t seem to work that way. But, pursuing perfection and a really good performance isn’t even about that anymore, for me. I mean, there were people there who took time out of their weekend, competed for limited residential parking, some of whom traveled multiple hours, some of whom rarely come see me play, and I can’t help but feel like I let them down, in some way. I owed it to them to play at peak capacity, and for whatever reason, I just didn’t.
Luckily, another friend also recorded an EP that night, and he killed his set. I’m omitting names out of a weird adherence to anonymity, mostly because even though I’m sure he wouldn’t care if I was open about it, the friend in question might want to keep the EP on the down low until he releases it. When he does, you’ll know, because it’ll be very good, and off he’ll ride to instant fame and fortune.
Ok, maybe some delusions of mine persist.
Either way, I’m hoping his performance made it worth it for my friends, even if I keep thinking my performance alone wasn’t worth the trouble they went to in order to come see it.
Anyway, more productive thoughts: why did I forget lyrics? why did I stumble through some of the songs? The truth is there’s been a lot going on, and I could have practiced more, and some of the songs are very new. The ink on the newest song hasn’t even really dried yet; I finished it on vacation in Maine two weeks ago (hence the lack of a performative journal for July 9th, by the way—I tried to sit down and write, but the air smelled like ocean and I felt like a jackass pontificating on a pad when the beach was fifty yards away. I consider that a forgivable lapse in productivity). I’m up for blue belt promotion in jiu jitsu and that’s been weighing on me, and obviously, like most, if not all of you reading this, I have a full-time job. This paragraph reeks of excuses, but trust me when I say that it’s my attempt to offer psychic balance to the slew of negativity I’ve been living in for the past three days. In other words, an attempt to give myself some leeway.
I woke up Sunday early, after six hours of unsettled sleep, hungover, and I limped into the day.
Maddy and I took a gracious friend up on an offer to use his pool, the same friend who crushed his EP performance Saturday night, and I tried to let my headache and my anger at myself dissolve into the chemical water around me, cool against the unseasonable 81-degree July day. Even the sun seemed tired on Sunday, at least to me. We found out about Joe dropping out of the race over beers at a brewery after the pool, and the three of us sat there in a quiet sort of reflection, occasionally offering thoughts about the strangeness around us to each other, unsure of what will come next.
If my thoughts about this era, both personal and political, could be summed up, that’s what they would be: I’m unsure of what will come next.
Sometimes, curiosity is all you have, but that alone can be enough to keep you going. The future is a big source of dread for me, but I’m greedy enough in my curiosity that I’ll stick around to see what’s next.
In the meantime, I guess I’ll write some more songs and try again with the whole live EP thing another time. Or I’ll just lose my mind self-producing another album. Or I’ll just lose my mind. Either way, the only thing to do after failing to do something well enough the first time is to do it again better the second time.
Or you could give up, I guess. But that would be sooo lame.
matt nilsen 