I’ve
been starting to perform (and thus practise) playing guitar in public more and
more, going as far as to form a band and do a couple of
open mics round York. I have kept this
relatively quiet on my poetry pages because I see them as different beasts.
That
is, until I start working on Whatever
Happened To Vandal Raptor which will be glorious punk moshpit of styles.
But
the first time I played guitar live, I was totally out of my comfort zone and
failed miserably to do anything other than bash chords and forget all my words,
other than thin rant.
Comfort
zones are nice blankets we sometimes throw off, even without realising we’re
the ones casting them aside. Sometimes,
it’s cold outside and we freeze. So we
stay in bed until 11am.
On
Saturday I performed what could be the best poetry set ever to a very warm and welcoming
leftie crowd at the Maze in Nottingham, my first ever gig in the city. This may sound arrogant, but I hit all the
right notes (even in the right order).
The necessary amount of banter and aside jokes, the right dollop
politics and the right energy for the space.
This was part of a mate’s birthday who has been hugely involved in We Shall Overcome, and it was a
much needed (albeit privileged bubble) boost to confidence in darkening times.
On
Sunday, I went down to the open mic night and snapped a string after my second
song, which isn’t usual and not an alarming problem. Except I was leaving my new song last, and
was annoyed I didn’t get chance to perform.
I took off my guitar, and said I’d do it a’capella. But my head said: “What’s the point? You wanted to practise it as a song. Plus, you can’t sing so without guitar it
will sound awful.” My mate suggested “Do
a poem” but my head said: “What’s the point? You wanted to perform the new song.” So, I dashed off stage. Some people get nervous and exit the stage,
and I do not mean to demean anybody else.
But in my eyes, for me to say I’d do something on stage, and then awkwardly
leave a haunting silence, was true cowardice.
I’ve ducked out of lots of things in my life. As I write this, I didn’t have the courage to
go into a pub to find a rehearsal room to jam with some mates, so walked home
alone. But the stage has always been a
comfort zone, bizarre as that is, a space I can control. But I left it hollow.
And
of course, as soon as I stepped offstage my head went: “Actually, the song could have worked as a poem.
You idiot.”
Because
my now ancient poem True
Friends (which I shared recently because it was Friend Day) started out as
a song, some 7 years ago.
As
it happens, my friends are great and I love them. Thanks folks!
I ended up at Dusk
anyway and did my song. So everything
worked out alright. The End.
Comfort
zones are, like limitations, something we each create from the conditions
presented to us. Some of the most
anxious and nervous people I know are incredible performers. I step outside my comfort zone to make music,
and I hope that shows in the immediacy of the performance. For me, compereing and poetrying is very much
a second nature, a Henry I can be comfortable with and enjoy. Clearly these two things moshing together is
still untapped territory. A territorial
zone I will thoroughly enjoy skanking all over when I begin work on Whatever
Happened To Vandal Raptor?
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