the mirror i find in music (pt. 2)
A few years ago, my brother pointed out what a shame it was that we never played music together anymore. He and I - along with a few other guys - spent a year playing music full-time over a decade ago. We eventually gave up our dreams of being a successful touring act and stopped playing together.
We initially found a sense of freedom in music, but as we started taking music seriously, a bit of that freedom was lost. When we started promoting tours, recording, and distributing our music, we lost a bit more. By the end of our touring days, the freedom was gone. So when things didn’t take off as much as we’d hoped, we disbanded because it felt like there was nothing left.
With my brother’s encouragement ten years later, it’s clear that wasn’t exactly true. The group of us started jamming again in 2018 and it turns out there’s infinitely more territory to explore. Plus, it was a good excuse to catch up with old friends. We were all busy with careers and life, so none of us had the time or space to make a project out of it. Ironically, that has kept things completely effortless, playful, and free.
As we continued to jam together, the music started to reveal how my old bandmates had evolved as people in a way that conversation never could. The musical habits and tendencies we each brought to the table in the mid-2000s had transformed. I could clearly hear how each of us had grown.
The vibe was gentler, tighter, and more spacious. The competition to be centre stage and max volume had given way to subtlety, layers, and serendipity. A foundational gratitude seemed to have replaced our incessant striving for perfection. It felt like there was renewed faith and instinct in our collective dynamics.
We explored for 2 years before eventually booking a studio space and a producer for December 27th, 2019. In the days leading up to the session, I wrote the mirror I find in music (pt. 1) where I described music as “somehow being resurrected in my heart and hands.” At the time, I was “rediscovering the joy of playing music just for the beautiful gift that it is.” The idea behind our studio session was to capture a bit of that spontaneity.
Yet as soon as the microphones were on, expectations showed up and artificiality started to creep in. It was a battle against our collective egos, fought with sticks, keys, voice and strings. There were moments of purity and others of confusion. Our old demons of insecurity and vanity were present, yet we showed more ability to contain it than ever before.
It felt alive. Like we were trying to light a fire in the wind. A flickering precious flame of true expression so vulnerable to the natural elements of mind. Yet with care, we could allow it to exist unfettered for moments at a time. It felt like a war worth waging, so we planned 4 more studio sessions to continue the process throughout 2020.
Then, like many plans for 2020, we had to cancel due to the pandemic. We haven’t been able to play together since. Frustrated, we decided to take the universe’s hint. We abandoned further pursuit for now and decided to mix and master that first raw studio session into an EP.
A few weeks ago, we put it online.
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Listening to myself on record for the first time in years, I’m reminded both of how far I’ve come and how far I have left to go. I’m proud of it. I like how it sounds. I’m also proud of our whole band, brothers who’ve reunited to create a testament to each of our own evolution.
I used to be very self-critical about the music I made. My bandmates used to give me shit when I said we weren’t that great. Now it feels a little different. I can somehow enjoy this music without nitpicking it. I can listen without trying to fix anything about it. Somehow this feels like great progress on my own path as a musician and as a human being.
As the sound reverberates in my headphones, I also notice something else. Something that hasn’t changed in the past 10 years: this record is something I desperately want you to hear. It’s something I want everyone on earth to hear. Is that ego? Is it selfish?
It definitely was a beautiful, present experience to renew music with my old bandmates over the past few years. It was wonderful to jam and experiment without expectations. We tasted pure freedom. But at least for me, something happened when we started talking about going into the studio.
Our jams over the past few years were ephemeral and spontaneous. But now that we’ve recorded a few of them, I can’t deny the loneliness I feel without an audience. It’s hard to hear this recording without wanting to use it to connect with people.
I know I can come across as smug when I write about the attention economy, as if I’m somehow above it. But here in the case of music, it’s clear that I’m right in the thick of it: I want attention. It feels obvious, but it also feels kind of dirty. Like I shouldn’t need the validation. But I do. I want people to pat me on the head and tell me I’m special. There’s an emptiness. A hole I’m trying to fill.
It sure feels like ego.
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I almost wrote this post very differently. My first draft pretended this vanity didn’t exist. Imagine a few paragraphs all about how musically enlightened I am compared to the past. Then I’d casually drop a link to the music, pretending it wasn’t a big deal to me. Oh, you know, it’s here in case you want to listen to it… no pressure… but-omg-please-listen-to-it-right-now!
That post would have been a lie. What I’m actually feeling is an intense desire to share this music. I want thoughtful human beings to hear it. I want to experience people experiencing what we’ve created. I want people to record themselves dancing to it. I want people to remix it. I want you to hear our expression, and I want you to tell us how it made you feel. And if nothing of the sort ever happens, I can’t deny that it will feel like something’s missing.
There is no reason to pretend otherwise. It’s unlikely that any of those desires will be fulfilled, yet I feel the power of vulnerability as I share them openly. To articulate one’s own desire is liberating. I feel a weight lifted as I accept my own need for attention to my music without being too self-critical about it. Awareness and clarity have unlocked some key questions: Why do I want you to listen to my music so badly? And why do I feel like I have to apologize for asking you to listen to it?
Well, there’s a lot to get wrapped up in here. First of all, I’m human, so I crave social connection. There’s a rush to having people pay attention to my intimate expression. And I’ve spent thousands of hours playing music, so some practical part of me wants all that effort to go toward something tangible in this material world.
On top of that, I fell in love with music in my teenage years when I was blasted with myths about what it means to be a musician. Famous entertainers and tortured artists living the high life populate our cultural narrative. I’ve come a long way from that rock star myth, but it definitely still shows up once in a while. I get an especially brutal dose of FOMO when I see one of the bands we used to tour with playing for an ocean of people.
I’m also acutely aware of just how many things are demanding your attention these days. The last thing I want to do is add new noise to this mess, unless I believe it can help you see through the fog. On this newsletter, I do my best to share quality material. So the prospect of sharing my music here forces me to confront a scary question: how quality is this music, really?
Ultimately these are all symptoms. As I investigate further with clarity and insight, I see a root cause underlying it all. There is a fundamental force at play here. I want to share my music to prove that I exist. I want to prove it to you, and I want to prove it to myself. It is desire. It is ego. But that’s okay; I know better than to get too hard on myself about that.
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Music has only been a recorded commodity for a century, yet it has been a fundamental part of human nature for tens of thousands of years. There might be something self-obsessed about my desire to share it, but there’s also something organic and timeless about it. I’m not alone.
We’re all searching for a deep connection with other people in our own way. This happens to be my way. In the mid-2000s, I got a taste of connection through music. And even as my life has moved on, I’ve rarely tasted another connection so pure. I want to sing and dance with you around a fire. I really do.
Myself and many of the other non-career musicians, performers, and artists you know are doomed to walk a tightrope suspended above loneliness, expectations, and ego. But for us, it’s a tightrope worth walking. Ever since the first time I played my guitar for another person, I’ve been addicted to the sense that another human being can feel the twists and turns of my heart and soul in real-time as I translate them into sound.
The only way I’m able to find balance with this insatiable desire is by remembering that this music is not mine. I didn’t choose this. I don’t know why I bought a guitar on a whim decades ago. I don’t know why it felt natural. I don’t know why I kept playing. It all just kind of happened. Same is true of these new recordings. A few old friends got together and this music happened to us. And I’m grateful that it did.
I’m grateful that my love of music has offered test after test to help me develop as a person. I’m grateful that we all have been inexplicably graced with mysterious tools to testify to our own existence. Whether language, music, dance, art, fashion, or a deep breath, it would be a shame not to use whatever we’re given. To claim music as mine would be hubris. But to ignore it completely would be poison.
What’s left to do but walk the tightrope? It’s scary and exciting and maybe a little selfish, but for better or worse, I’ve come to realize I have no real choice in the matter.
So, enjoy: 9999 on Spotify (or SoundCloud).