Maybe it’s the couple hundred milligrams of caffeine I had or the anxiety I was born with, but I am so goddamn scared of this.
My face has been flushed most of the day because I can’t get the thought of the performance out of my head. Everything that can go wrong is playing incessantly in the back half of my brain. I know that, no matter what, I will be fine, but that does not stop me from being scared. Everyone in the newsroom will be nice no matter how the performance goes. Nonetheless, my mind is racing and my hands are already damp.
It feels so real. I’m actually doing this.
As my co-workers and I set up for the show, everyone at The Michigan Daily is being so kind and supportive. It doesn’t help though. I am scared to a level I have never reached before. Fear is consuming me. My stomach is tying itself into acidic knots. I need an Ibuprofen because the stress is making it feel like my head is compressing into itself. I’m really trying my best to distract myself from my impending fate, or doom, as my mind is telling itself.
The mic and amp are set up. Sound check went as well as it could with our hobbled together audio set up. I’m about to either pass out or vomit — maybe both. I’m just standing up on stage waiting to get the go ahead to start.
There’s no going back now; it is what it is.
The lights are so bright. I can’t see anyone when the main lights are off.
Time to do this.
My musical journey began at 4 years old — listening to the car radio on the way to daycare had inspired something in me, and I wanted to be able to do something like those musicians over the airwaves. I could feel the patterns of the music deep in my adolescent brain. I loved the way the melodies and rhythms blended together to create songs. My parents, music lovers themselves, were happy to see that I was interested in music. They were more than willing to let me sign up for lessons.
I loved creating something with the piano. It was usually an atonic racket, but I did not care. Each key I pressed launched me into a new world. I knew nothing about music theory, but I still heard how these notes should go together, meshing or clashing like I was putting together a puzzle. I learned how to read music before I could read full sentences, thanks to my wonderful teacher; she was patient and kind, helping me to place my hands correctly and play with dynamics. There was something amazing about being able to create these noises. I truly loved it.
There was one issue, though.
Practice. I absolutely despised practicing — ironic, given my love of playing. I wanted to learn and improve, but I wasn’t willing to put any time in. I thought all things should just come naturally to me, that hard work wasn’t needed. Squirming on the hard piano bench in my house out of boredom was miserable for me.
But time went on and, despite my practice habits, I improved. I moved on from basic arpeggios and playing one painful note at a time to real classical music. At first, I was excited to be playing compositions beyond “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but I quickly realized that classical music is tedious and boring for a kid. It felt like being forced to eat cauliflower. Sure, it was beneficial for me and would have likely led to better outcomes, but its execution was miserable and left a bad taste in my mouth. The music I played was beautiful, but it was stifling. I kept playing the same composers over and over until all their pieces blended together in an orchestral cacophony. I saw no freedom in classical music; everything seemed predestined and monotonous. I only had so many sonatas in me. The nearly three-hour-long recitals in a stuffy church seemed to be suffocating me every few months. I wanted something different. I wanted to play music I knew and enjoyed.
***
Out of some sort of divine intervention, my cousin Parker joined something called the Kalamazoo Academy of Rock, a program that let kids in the Kalamazoo area join rock bands and play shows at local venues. I went with my family to support him and I was amazed: Here was this group of kids around my age playing songs people knew, and people actually seemed to enjoy them! It seemed like a perfect way to get back to having fun with music.
So, I joined Kalamazoo Academy of Rock and I started to care about practicing. I could recognize what the songs were supposed to sound like and I wanted to reach the level of perfection I heard on the records. There was a joy in practicing now — something to strive for.
It was exactly what I imagined it would be: performing music people actually knew and enjoyed with a great group of musicians. I was having the time of my life, playing chords I didn’t even know existed and exploring the endless depths of keyboard patches to try and find the right sound for every song we played. I learned how it felt to completely click with other people to create something together — so different from the previous, drab piano recitals. It’s a feeling unlike anything else, not happy or sad; it simply is.
I also got to play in some of the best venues in Kalamazoo, most of which I wouldn’t be able to legally enter for another eight or nine years.
I spent my first year in Kalamazoo Academy of Rock playing keyboards, but by the end, I had started playing bass and even singing in shows. I also had bandmates relying on me — and if I messed up we all would sound bad — so I was actually practicing, not wanting to let them down.
I got my call up to the big leagues after that year: I was moving to the program’s varsity band. My band practice time had doubled and my lessons became more frequent, culminating in what was probably the musically best time of my life. I was passionate about what I was doing; there was an even bigger drive to improve that I never felt before. We played all over Kalamazoo to hundreds of different people — it was amazing. I was learning and growing as a musician, and I was literally able to hear the difference in the quality of my playing.
Over time, the members of my band changed — people got busy or got too old. It was always sad seeing them go. It created little voids in the band, but the new musicians molded their own niches making that void feel a bit less empty. For two solid years, I was in this cycle.
I had started to burn out by the end. School was starting to become more time-consuming. I had just fully healed from a stress fracture in my tibia and came off a long season of sucking at swimming. There was a lot going on and I felt myself starting to drift away from the music. I was practicing less and less, barely getting 15 minutes a day, if that. It was demoralizing; I was being slowly separated from something I adored, but I simply didn’t feel I had the time.
There was a yearning for music that I couldn’t fulfill, so I tried to live with it. Sure, I was involved in other activities, but abandoning music, something that was integral to my life for so long, felt like abandoning an integral piece of myself. Music filled a part of my soul that nothing else came close to touching.
At the beginning of 2021, I was able to rejoin Kalamazoo Academy of Rock and finish off the last of my high school years with the program. I knew I had missed playing, but I hadn’t realized how much until I started again. My new bandmates were a mix of Kalamazoo Academy of Rock veterans and new faces. I was excited to get jamming with them, and jam we did, gelling together like nothing else I had been a part of.
The summer of 2022 was my final session of Kalamazoo Academy of Rock. It was depressing. I was losing an integral connection to the world of music.
We decided to go out with a bang, though. We filled our setlist with some of our favorite songs. To end it all, we planned to play Lynyrd Skynyrd’s magnum opus “Free Bird” and by god, we did. It was our longest performance ever. We had the time of our lives, despite knowing this would be the end of the road for our Tuesday night band.
I felt a resigned happiness: I wouldn’t play with them again, yes, but I had a hell of a time doing it. I figured I would continue practicing at college — maybe even find some other people to play with — but I seemed to have lost that spark again. Apparently, it extinguished when I strummed that final note of “Free Bird.”
I could tell I missed playing, but I couldn’t will myself to do it. I found every excuse not to. I kept telling myself I was too busy, or what a hassle it would be to get my guitar out and put it back away or what if I lost all my skill and couldn’t play anymore. I think that I didn’t want to restart my passion for music just for it to go out again.
Last summer, I did not have the chance to play very often. I spent the summer abroad in Dublin, Ireland where I had the chance to work for a wonderful man named John Brereton, a professional guitarist, magazine editor and David Bowie enthusiast. Under his mentorship at a magazine called The Goo, I learned the ins and outs of the Dublin music scene. That once-extinguished flame of music started to flicker again. I started playing more upon arriving home, making some serious progress, but then school started and classes and writing took up all my time. I did not make time for music, letting it fall to the wayside once again. I refused to make time for myself and anything I enjoyed.
My guitar was sitting at the foot of the bed staring at me all fall semester, gathering dust. I wanted to play, but it seemed like the whole world was weighing down on me and I couldn’t take the time to do something for myself, like practicing guitar.
I pitched the idea of me starting to play guitar again to my editors. I would slowly work up my practice times until I was playing for an hour every day. It seemed like a vaguely interesting idea and my editors agreed, except with one little suggestion: I play a show. I was taken aback; I hadn’t played a show in a year and a half. Plus, I only had a couple weeks, so it would be impossible to get enough people on the same page to form a band.
“Why not do it on your own then?” they asked me.
That’s how I ended up performing a Standing Room Only — The Michigan Daily’s version of NPR’s Tiny Desk. I didn’t quite comprehend what they had said. Play a show for The Daily? That seemed absolutely insane, but maybe it could make for an interesting story. So, in what is likely my biggest lapse of judgment ever, I agreed to play a solo show in front of all my coworkers and friends. It seemed like something out of a nightmare, except this was fully real, fully happening and way too late to back out. This wasn’t like Kalamazoo Academy of Rock. I didn’t go in knowing I would perform. I was used to playing in front of a few people I knew, but this was completely different. I know everyone and will continue to see them after this. If I messed up I couldn’t escape it with anonymity, it would haunt me forever. I could feel the moisture building on my palms. Just thinking about the idea of performing here sent nervous palpitations throughout my body.
I started practicing, mostly just doing pentatonic scales and rewatching Marty Music videos about songs I had forgotten how to play. My fingers were cramping and straining to reach the right notes on the guitar, but I knew this would happen.
But now I had a purpose — I scoured through random song searches to create the perfect setlist I could actually play and sing. I eventually settled on five songs I thought I could struggle my way through.
I improved leaps and bounds in the first few days. It was tough to fit in practicing with my already hectic college schedule, but I was trying my best. The rust was fading away from my ligaments and muscles. I was actually able to play notes again. The tips of my fingers were stinging, but that meant I was doing something right. The old calluses were starting to reemerge, and my hand smelled like metal.
I kept trying to push the thought of the performance out of my mind. The fear I felt was completely unlike the adrenaline rush of nearly crashing a car, and it was growing and weighing on my diaphragm making it feel like my whole chest was expanding. It was an exponentially growing pressure. This probably wasn’t helped by the upper respiratory infection I had at the time, making it much more difficult to focus. Not wanting to be screwed come performance day, I had to push through.
I watched some of my favorite live performances like Prince playing “My Guitar Gently Weeps,” Tracy Chapman at Wembley and Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged to hype myself up. They ended up just making me more nervous, knowing I could never live up to these greats, though my playing improved. Strumming the chords felt lighter for whatever reason. It flowed more easily, and without the constant tightness in my upper chest, I could kind of sing. My fingers were still sore and I kept cramping, but it was getting better.
For some odd reason, every time I practiced in my busy schedule, I just felt better. Colors seemed more vivid, dining hall food more palatable; it just seemed like a general haze of pessimism lifted. It felt good to be playing again: I had a new light in my life, and even though the horrifying future of playing in front of nearly everyone I know was looming, I felt good.
A couple of days before the performance, a Daily photographer came to take some pictures of me practicing. This was the real test of my abilities. I was playing in front of someone I actually knew and whose opinion I cared about. It was so embarrassing to try to push my way through the songs, messing up most of the lyrics and chord changes. I got snowed on pretty hard at one point, but I was able to do it.
The final two days of practice were rough. I was scared. My palms were sweaty, my knees weak and my arms felt heavy. I kept messing up parts I thought I knew. At this point, I realized I had no chance of memorizing every song: I would have to rely upon sheet music to not completely embarrass myself. For the life of me, I could not memorize the lyrics no matter how hard I tried. I had been listening to my setlist’s songs nonstop since I had agreed to perform, but there was still something I was missing: any iota of confidence.
Then the day came and I knew I had no choice now.
I played six songs. The first two songs were alright, but I had to adjust the mic a bit and try to keep projecting. I’ve never been a very loud singer, but I did my best to sing on key and with as much force as I could muster. There were more than a few lyric mishaps, but I kept chugging; it looks so much worse to stop than to mess up and keep playing. I played my worst song right in the middle to try to hide it as much as possible. It mostly worked, but I couldn’t help but grimace a couple of times because I kept messing up.
During the penultimate song, my pinky completely cramped up so I couldn’t play the right chords. It felt like someone had tied a resistance band to it; I should’ve eaten a banana or two that day. I was absolutely horrified by it. I could hear dissonance coming from the guitar, and I just couldn’t stop it. I was able to muster up enough strength to finish the set, going out with a Mitski-inspired bang.
Then all I felt was relief. It wasn’t particularly smooth, but I was able to finish everything, in front of everybody. My body felt exhausted, my hand was cramping, my foot hurt and my left arm was killing me. I was sweating profusely as the lights were bearing down on me the entire time. My mouth was arid throughout the set. I hadn’t realized how wired I was until now. But I was done.
This is what all those years of music had led to; a show for some of my closest friends and peers where I messed up more than I would’ve liked. I was scared, anxious and probably not ready but had finished something I never thought I would do (or even really wanted to do). I don’t think I learned any profound lesson from my experience, but I would not want to have it any other way.
At the very least I got a sick piece of dad lore to tell my kids one day. I was only able to do this thanks to all the people who believed in me and forced me to practice all those years plus the wonderful people at The Daily who supported me in this stupid-ass idea.
The music I play will be for the sheer joy of it: for me and no one else. I’ll probably never play another performance again, but isn’t everything just some kind of performance after all? No matter what I do in life, all I can try to do is keep the music going.
Statement Correspondent Miles Anderson can be reached at milesand@umich.edu.