I kinda remember the first real show I ever played. It was an outdoor thing on a holiday in Halifax. Jorun and I did a set together. It was probably 1991. I can’t remember what songs I performed. “Kick The Poop” and “Get Busy On ‘Em” were probably on the setlist. What I definitely remember was being scared shitless. I played hundreds - if not thousands - of shows between 1991 and 2014. In the peak years, I toured year-round. And I was scared shitless for every single one of those shows - the small ones, the big ones, all of them. I’m an introverted person. Deeply. I hate it when my name is mentioned during staff meetings at work. I don’t like getting my photo taken and for the most part, I’m quite uncomfortable when people look at me.
When I say I was scared shitless, I mean it quite literally. I was one of those people who would get that nervous diarrhea before a show. Making matters worse, I’ve had a life-long dread of public bathrooms. No thanks. I remember a show in Maine. My insides started quaking in the time between soundcheck and doors opening. When the situation reached def con 4, I gave in and sought the facilities. The venue had one unisex bathroom. The good thing was, it was a single-occupant setup with a locking door. I went in there and turned myself inside out. It went as badly as humanly possible. The job took forever and when I finally flushed, the toilet clogged and overflowed. #FFS I knew I had to go find someone to help deal with it. Unbeknownst to me, doors opened while I was in there. I opened the bathroom door to see a long-ass line of people (WHO HAD PAID TO SEE ME PLAY!) waiting for their turn to enter the nightmare chamber I created. Kill me.
Another way my anxiety manifested itself was sleep apnea. It started almost as soon as I started touring. I remember it being at its worst during a tour with Sage Francis. I’d stop breathing five, six, seven times during the night. It was terrifying and frustrating. Sometimes, in attempts to kick-start my breathing during an episode, I’d bolt upright so violently that I’d fall out of the bed and then thrash around on the floor for a few moments. After one particularly frightening attack, I sat in a heap on the floor and cried my eyes out. I was so tormented that some nights before going to sleep, I’d try to appeal to my demon: “if you’re going to take me out, just fucking get it over with tonight!”
Anxiety issues aside, I’m not sure traditional touring was ever the right fit for me. I’m not sure it’s right for a lot of people. There are things about the way music is presented live that don’t make sense to me. Back in June, I watched clip after clip of performances from the Glastonbury festival on the BBC YouTube channel. In at least 8 cases out of 10, I found myself thinking, ‘this isn’t working’. In my view, it’s a rare kind of performer who can pull off playing a big stage in front of a crowd. Same goes for small stages, really. More often than not, it just doesn’t work. The performer gets swallowed up. It definitely didn’t work for me. This will come off as a hot take (and I don’t expect anyone to agree with me) but I think hip hop hardly ever works live. Maybe it worked in the early days - in the 70s, before records were made. I wasn’t there to see that. I wish I had been.
Many of the best performances I’ve seen were during Covid. Musicians were forced to think about performing in different ways. People were streaming performances from their garages and bedrooms and back yards and all sorts of creative places. I watched that band Sylvan Esso perform from the back of a moving pickup truck and I loved it.
I don’t know. I think musicians need to work in an environment they can control. For a few, that might be Wembley Stadium. For others, it might be the closet in their bedroom. With my anxiety, I don’t think there’s any environment I can control - especially if I’m being watched, if even by a camera.
I was never equipped to handle being on stage, under lights, being watched by a room full of people. But throw in clapping and cheering and encores and camera flashes and autographs and all that business? Not healthy. It’s hard for me to imagine that’s good for anyone. It’s crazy-making. It’s asshole-making. I know it wasn’t good for me. Attention like that can be confusing. In particular for introverts like myself. I didn’t know what the hell to do with it.
The thing I liked best about touring was walking alone around cities in every part of the world. That I liked. I’m grateful for that experience.
It would be hard for me to say what were the best and worst shows I ever played because they all kinda made me feel the same way. But I can say that there were crowds that came out in certain cities that always felt particularly welcoming: Albuquerque, Los Angeles, Chicago, Dublin, Glasgow, Bristol, Brighton, Marseilles, Sydney, London (Ontario)…
When you spend the better part of 25 years on the road, you see a lot of things. And it’s basic math that some fraction of those things will be really weird. One particular night in Eugene, Oregon comes to mind right away. That story lives in infamy. Perhaps you’ve already heard some version of it. I’ll never forget one deeply weird night in Cork, Ireland. Maybe I’ll detail some of the weirder stories here in the future. Here’s a quick one I’ll share, given the news of the passing of an icon last week:
Maybe 15 years ago or so, I was playing a show in Switzerland. Backstage before the show, a guy approached me and handed a piece of paper. He told me that the phone number written on the paper was that of the legendary filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. The guy said, “He lives near here. Call him after your set. He’ll be expecting your call.” The guy was looking deep into my eyes. Serious. Intense. I never made any attempt to call the number. But I still have the piece of paper in my wallet and have always wondered what that was all about. Probably nothing. But you can’t help but wonder.
Until next time…