(That title and subhead make me think of U2’s “Bad”, in the middle when Bono just starts listing words that end in -ation. “desperation, dislocation, separation, condemnation, revelation, in temptation, isolation, desolation….LET IT GO-HO, UH HUH! AND SORTA FAAADE AWAY-HEY-HEY… )
A week or so ago, I got to play a half-hour set with my friend/guitarist/producer Scott Wiley down near Capitol Reef in the beautiful redrock1 Southern Utah. We were part of a festival called Fort Desolation, on a bill that included some folks who’ve influenced me a whole lot over the years (most recently Madison Cunningham, most historically Ben Harper2 whose first few records were formative to say the least). Our 6pm set was rain-soaked and something about that felt fitting, giving us a little something to push against while also ennobling anyone who braved the elements. I loved our set, always love playing with Scott. And time will tell if the rain ruined one of my effects pedals; if so, I’m crossing all appendages in hopes it’s only the cheapest one.
But, waterlogged pedals aside, my biggest takeaway—one that I’m still not entirely sure what to do with—came while watching Morgan Snow’s closing set on the second stage (the same stage we played). Morgan had been the go-to guy for the second stage and, on the festival’s final night, was closing it down to a great big audience of people, all excited to hear him. Easily double the number of folks who gathered to see Scott and me (not that anyone’s counting), which was a rather respectable number, especially given the drippy conditions.
As I stood there alongside my friend Cory Mon (who’d also played the second stage) listening to Morgan’s songs, I got a bit miffed by all the people who were talking while Morgan was playing his heart out. I was getting vicariously pissed for him. To better understand my miffedness, you have to realize that the second stage was just a little out of the way. Not miles. But, to really listen and be part of the performance, it was more than just, say, turn your camp chair a little to the side. Or, like they do with Fork Fest and Telluride Troubadour tweeter sets, side-by-side stages. To be part of a second stage performance, you couldn’t waffle. You had to make a conscious, full-measure effort. Yes, techncially, you could listen from your chair facing the main stage, but that’s like the cruise ship version of the Bahamas, not the one where you stay there for more than, like, whatever time it takes for the boat to gas up. All of this to say: the people listening to second stage acts had made a real effort to be there. And Morgan Snow had the biggest crowd, by far, I’d seen all weekend. So I couldn’t comprehend how all these people had made the effort to stand in front of the stage… only to TALK THE WHOLE TIME.
Anyone who’s played with me or seen me play knows full well I can get rattled when I don’t feel like an audience is onboard with what we’re doing. I crave communion. I want connection. I want everyone in it together. And obviously I have some (perhaps arbitrary) list of what that entails. Attention, being, like, the bare minimum, if I’m being honest.
The trouble with my philosophy there, this idea that the proper way for the audience to signify their onboardness is to ATTENTIVELY HANG ON EVERY WORD (and maybe cry or sing along), is that said theory had no bearing whatsoever on this case. These people were unquestionably onboard with Morgan. All the way. Hooting at the right spots. Hollering in others.
I was all discombobulated. Was up really down? Is profuse sweating in an overweight 47-year old man actually really, really attractive? Does thunder happen also when it’s not raining? This was undoing what I thought (and think) about concert-going.
Maybe some of it can be attributed to the style of music. Morgan has certainly played his share of rowdy honky tonks and bars. He knew how to work the crowd with dynamics. Maybe I could blame my sensitivity on the fact that some of my music is pretty quiet, reverent even, so I was putting myself in his shoes and knowing I’d have been trampled. Meanwhile, Morgan was utterly unfazed by what my sensitive little soul thought was an indifferent, inattentive (maybe even rude) audience.
Maybe some of it can be attributed to properly calibrated expectations. It was a festival in the evening, after people had been drinking. Even Paul Bloody McCartney doesn’t think he’s getting silence when he plays Glastonbury or whatever. Just because you want something doesn’t mean it’s fair to expect it, I guess. What’s the saying? Expectations are just resentments under construction. Maybe Morgan taught me a few things about expectations. But he for sure taught me something about audiences.
I think what I’m saying is: there’s all kinds of audiences. A pin drop quiet show by one of my favorite bands, Low, in an old church in Amsterdam. A rowdy swingyourpint singalong in an Irish pub. A hip hop show where the bass is so booming it puts you into arrhythmia. A punk show where you can’t hear a word and it doesn’t matter because you’re too busy dodging elbows while you give into the punkness of it all. And a festival show where people have gone out of their way to listen to you, but are gonna listen to you how they want to.
I’ve always thought about how great audience members should strive to be part of something, which is one reason I get annoyed by the guys who yell out requests or try to carry on a one-on-one conversation with the frontman. And I think there’s some truth in there. But this got me thinking about how the responsibility might be reciprocal and an artist might likewise pay attention to being part of what’s happening in the audience.
Does it mean I’m gonna shift my expectations and stop trying to create sets and atmospheres where my music can do its thing best? Probably not, L to the O to the L.
I’ll never forget going to see the wonderful Leona Naess doing a homecoming show in her hometown of Brooklyn. And the audience chattering away. Not a buzz. Not a hum. A buzzsaw humming. She repeatedly tried asking for the audience to quiet down to do the band justice. But the buzzsaw buzzed and sawed on. At the end of her rope, she finally even begged, practically in tears, “Guys, please, this is my hometown show. I really want it to be special.” And was ignored. I should’ve learned then that, if someone whose music I revere like Leona Ness can have an audience stomp all over her carefully prepared set in her own hometown, it can happen to anyone.
Meanwhile Morgan Snow killed it. I didn’t get to ask him about it.
But I’ve been thinking about it ever since.
And redneck. We saw more than a few Confederate flags in front yards on our way to the festival.
I looked at my nerd spreadsheet and this festival made it TEN times that I’ve seen Ben Harper in concert. And the last time was probably more than a decade ago. And did you know that, at one point, Ben Harper headlined The Delta Center?!? That kinda scrambled my circuits, thinking about a music world where that happened.
I will never understand this. I mean, if you need to talk the whole show, go to a restaurant instead! And keep up the great work, Paul!