Get Obsessed

My bandmate Mike recently texted me a photo of the $50 check from our first brewery gig and delightedly noted it was the first time he’d received a check for playing music. I texted back, It feels amazing to make $ for creative work! Yay! But also, I’m sorry capitalism makes this feel like the validation. (And if it hadn’t been for our supremely supportive friends throwing bills in our tip bucket — along with a few generous new fans — $50 is all we would have made for performing for two hours straight.)

I felt validated when I saw the bartender dancing, he texted back. Mike wisely reminded me of the woman who that night, who had seemed unamused by us when we loaded in, merely raised an eyebrow when I introduced myself and said we’d be playing 80s synth covers, and seemed annoyed by questions about the sound system. She probably didn’t mind that I wooed her a little from stage by reminding the crowd to tip her as well as us, but it was when we finally caught her listening intently, smiling and grooving behind the bar that we felt we had won.

Mike and I met at a local open mic where he was the outlier playing a rack of keyboards when almost everyone else got on stage with acoustic guitars. After seeing Mike play a few times, always excited to hear tunes from my formative years, he launched into the Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me.” I knew it needed a female vocal on the third verse, and my boyfriend who had watched me eagerly watch Mike before, nudged me to get up and sing it. Though I barely knew Mike, I took a chance and audaciously crashed his set.

Mike told me that the minute I got on stage and opened my mouth, he thought, “She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s in my band.” Later that night, he said he was working on Animotion’s “Obsession,” and would I like to do that song with him soon? Would I. We played that just over seven months ago at open mic, and now we’ve had four shows elsewhere and can do something like 25 songs together now. I love doing it.

Meanwhile, I had become a regular at this open mic night after said boyfriend introduced me to it because I fell in love with how supportive everyone was. They brought none of the competitive vibes of my 20s when I was actively playing out with my own band, and I desperately wanted to get back to writing and performing my own songs again after a decades-long hiatus. I joined a songwriting group comprised of a few new friends from the open mic for accountability. I was tickled to have been asked, especially by such accomplished and wonderful musicians who didn’t know my music at all. It occurred to me that maybe I didn’t either anymore.

Alone in my attic studio, I felt the pressure of wanting to impress them, or at least not embarrass myself, and to find my musical voice again. I wrote and rewrote riffs and lyrics, rehearsed and rehearsed some more, and second-guessed myself every step of the way. I tried to ignore the voices in my head that told me maybe this part of my life had passed, that I was likely a total imposter now, that I always wrote weird songs in the first place, and probably no one is going to find my self-taught/non-theory based/inexpert indie rock guitar playing charming anymore. That if singing with Mike was the only musical outcome of this year, I should still be so satisfied that I was doing that.

I tentatively brought my first new song to the group. After I strummed the last chord, I held my breath. Everyone was looking at me, having listened so intently. They told me it was good. I wanted to believe them. It put enough wind in my sails to keep trying. The following month, I brought in a mostly finished second song. They gave constructive feedback, which I implemented, and I finished it up. Wrote a third the third month. And a fourth. Each fledgling tune sparks both feelings of insecurity and delight.

I started to think about my songs during my commute and at work, eager to get back to them at the end of the day. They started to feel like children I wanted to continue to nurture, friends whose company I was beginning to crave. I read Jeff Tweedy’s book about songwriting. Reread The Creative Act by Rick Rubin. Devoured a door stopper of a title about the mysterious 40s and 50s singer-songwriter Connie Converse who recorded herself in her tiny NYC kitchen. I dreamt of spending my days considering only how songs are made, and making them.

I finally started to play my new creations for my boyfriend, head down and terrified every time since he is a fantastic musician himself. He continues to tell me I am inspiring, after which I blush thoroughly every single time. My best friend said she could see me playing out and that I was sounding like the women artists who had fueled my listening in recent years: Julien Baker, Sharon Van Etten, Angel Olsen, Caroline Rose. (Audacious comparison, but talk about encouragement!) I started to sing my own songs in the shower. I began to think maybe I didn’t suck.

I practiced my butt off to do my first three-song set at open mic this June: two originals sandwiching a PJ Harvey cover. I shook like a leaf with excitement and nerves. Could barely pay attention to anyone else until my slot came up. I played my last chord and looked up to see the whole room listening so intently. They thought it was good, that I was good. I believed them. And I buzzed for days. Did it again, sometimes with the same great feeling, sometimes not, but stayed committed. Wrote more songs, sweated through playing them. Got slightly less freaked out each time.

I was blown away when I then got invited to play original songs at another local brewery. I was so anxious I thought I would throw up the entire afternoon leading up to it. Had to give myself a pep talk in the car before I headed out. But when I strapped on my guitar and looked out at the audience, I saw my amazing sweetie and his son, my songwriting friends, my open mic pals, friends who knew me back in the day of my band, and a bunch of lovely strangers. When I played my last chord, I looked up and it felt like the entire brewery had been listening intently. What a gift. (Incidentally, all of the performers that night made $69 each, too.)

After a year, my musician pals totally get my musical style and they like my guitar playing (one of them said no one else plays like me, which I love). They really like my singing (I am now doing backing vocals for another, which I also love!). I just finished my tenth original song. The friend who both hosts open mic and our songwriting group offered to record me. So did my boyfriend. The musical village surrounding me is exceptional; I have so much support and validation for this thing I love that I feel lucky beyond measure.

But also? For the first time in eons, I allowed myself to dive headfirst into something that excited me. Something that felt like part of me. That wasn’t practical. That was creatively satisfying and fun. I made no apologies when I wanted to stay home and work on a song. I let myself go practice at 10 pm when I should have been going to bed. I spent time sprucing up the attic studio. (Also, I learned the lyrics to so many 80s tunes!) I let myself get obsessed. I gave myself the validation. And I can’t recommend it more.