I had planned on making this a much longer post, but lucky for us all, last week something went ‘bump! in the right’ (hand), and now typing – together with getting dressed, cooking, washing dishes, and yes: playing guitar – has become a Herculean effort. Ever put on a bra with your non-dominant had? No? Me neither. It’s impossible.
First off, thank you to everyone who’s contributed to our tour fund. We are so struck by how kind you all are, and still can’t believe we reached our goal inside two weeks. You’re incredible. There are far more worthy things you could have spent your money on, and we know that. So, thank you.
It felt a bit cheeky asking you to help support our tour given the aforementioned farmoreworthythings™. So I thought about it: after four years of playing, why did we start fundraising now?
Berlin: Poor but Sexy
So we don’t quite fit the Berlin MO. But what we lack in sexy, we more than make up in the poor. And why? As an indie act, it’s hard to make music pay in this town. In Seoul, when New Blue Death or BaekMa had a goal in mind that required dollah dollah bills, what did we do? In a Crystal Maze-esque scramble for cash, we played a silly amount of shows – sometimes for just W50,000 – to float our savings and achieve that goal. Here’s what our schedule looked like ramping up to recording in 2014.
By comparison, in Berlin we played nine or so gigs in eight weeks and were ‘up’ after only two of them. Added to this is that most clubs do not have backlines and that means lots of taxis with gear. It’s a slower, harder slog; one we’re willing to do, but with a 33-year-old frontwoman whose body seems to be quite literally falling apart, it’s probably best we expedite the ol’ tour.
There’s everyone’s favourite overlord, TRESemmé saying, ‘If you believe you’re a citizen of the world, you’re a citizen of nowhere.’ As far as funding bodies (and radio play for that matter) are concerned, she’s probably right. Much of the feedback we get is that we aren’t Irish enough, not quite local, not permanently based in Australia… Not of the somewhere that ordinarily might fund us. We apply, we do, but the feedback is generally the same: ‘Sorry, can we just check: only your X player is from Y? We’re afraid we can only support Y projects at this time.’ So when we book the likes of Women’s Work or get played on Across the Line or get a menchy by Nialler9 it’s so extraordinarily special. Even to careerist nomads like us, a bit of Terra Firma can be nice. Tayto at your fingertips included, of course.
So when we say your contribution to this fund means the world to us, we’re not joking. We’ll still be in the red; we expected to be. We’re doing what we love and naturally that takes sacrifice, but your kindness takes so much pressure off and for that we’re so very grateful. There’s a question mark over whether I can play or not, but knowing you crowd of glorious arses have our backs only makes me want to bring it more; guitar or no.
We still have a couple more days of the campaign left, so feel free to share. Maybe we can reach a K and get that house by the sea we always dreamed of.
But there’s a fear isn’t there? On the gallop, your legs begin to slip, your grasp begins to loosen. You bounce, a burden, on the labouring back. And what if they let go? Your palms sweat, your grip loosens. Doubt.
I am a haunted woman. I’m haunted within and without by a word; one I’m sure many of you are familiar with. It’s friendly looking, full of round and unthreatening letters, until you reach the final, punctuative ‘t’. It’s a ghost that sleeps behind me, breathing down my neck. A weight carried, unmaternal, in my belly.
I’m talking about ‘Doubt’. In the springtime stroll of life, cotton dress billowing, Doubt is the leering masturbator at the bus stop who sends you scampering home. Shouldn’t have worn that fancy dress in the first place, you think.
When I’m not working I’m trying to make music. (See that? Trying. That’s Doubt.) I’ve always felt compelled to perform. I used to tape balloons with drawn-on faces to wooden spoons and re-enact West Side Story in its entirety from behind the sofa. There followed puppet shows in my council estate back garden, am-dram, school choir, and a long run of pub singing.
Somewhere in middle of all this I discovered guitar music via The Bends CD I stole from my brother’s bedroom. He was angry, but it was worth it because I discovered that I loved guitar music. I adored it. I can still sing every lead guitar line from the first three Radiohead albums.
I loved it so much that I did everything I could to get closer to guitars: bought every gear magazine I could, glued every picture of every guitarist I liked onto my school art folder. My wall was a shrine to skinny, sullen shredders. I even wore a pick around my neck on a dog chain just like Green Day’s Billy Joe (judgment graciously accepted). I attempted to Pepe le Pew my way into the arms of as many guitar players my small town could offer—once resulting in a broken arm (another story). I did everything, in fact, besides actually learn to play the instrument. In the sweaty, sticky stretch of puberty, it never once occurred to me to learn guitar seriously.
Eventually I got a guitar on the tick from a catalogue. I learned how to play Zombie by the Cranberries. I learned how to hold it and look at myself in the mirror, sometimes sitting with it between my legs like I’d see girls do in literally every magazine. I only ever saw one girl play on telly: Alanis Morrisette. I was amazed. I turned to my brother: ‘That’s so cool!’ He changed the channel. ‘Fucking tacky’. That was the end of my brief love-affair with Alanis, because if there’s one thing I learned from my magazines it was that guitars were for boys.
When at 19 I decided to learn guitar seriously, I discovered to my horror that my male friends had 6 or 7 years of experience on me. It seems that in-between teenage masturbatory discovery and Key Stage 3 exams, they were learning Led Zeppelin and Sabbath songs. What was I doing in that time? Cutting out pictures of Pete Vuckovic from 3 Colours Red and gluing them to notebooks probably. Doubt came and punched me in the tit. ‘You are too late!’ it said to 19-year-old me. So I gave up, which is fucking funny because now I’m 32 and trying to learn again. Everything I can’t do is a reminder of how much ground I lost, just by being too dumb and impressionable to ignore the transmissions from trashy mags and MTV.
Doubt lounges on my bed, idly picking croissant crumbs from its crotch. ‘Too late!’ it purrs, turns over and farts wetly.
‘Haha!’ you say. ‘But there are lots of lady indie types! You, Maggie, are a whiny sow.’ I am a whiny sow, but that aside, while there are some lady indie types, and while I wouldn’t dream of taking away from their hard work and talent they all tend to have something in common: a comfortable class background. They were nurtured. Talent was cultivated. Risk was mitigated. Doubt was minimised.
St Vincent went to Berklee, as did Aimee Mann. Bjork studied classical piano and flute. Have you heard Bat for Lashes speak? It’s lovely; deliciously posh. It rings with comfortable confidence. Female indie musicianship in recent years has been the reserve of the middle classes. (Though, arguably, all indie is now.)
Do you know how much audition fees are to music and drama academies? Too much for many to try out even once, never mind second chances. Have a look at these fees from the RSAMD. Add to them travel, food, accommodation and it’s easy to see how working class nippers are kept out of reach of culture, one velvet-gloved palm to the forehead.
So what do I do? What do I grab hold of while I play catch up? I piggy-back on the talents and learnings of my betters, I tell myself. It’s a horrible thought of habit I still return to in my current outfit, Party Fears. That’s how I played with Garden Party, BaekMa and New Blue Death. A short-stay pass for the slow girl, Doubt says. But there’s a fear isn’t there? On the gallop, your legs begin to slip, your grasp begins to slacked. You bounce, a burden, on the labouring back. And what if they let go? Your palms sweat, your grip loosens. Doubt.
So why do music at all? Why not just watch Grand Designs and swoon at Kevin McCloud’s benign haughtiness? Learning guitar and learning piano is a frustrating business.
So why do I bother? If I’m so late, as that bastard Doubt keeps saying?
Because there is nothing in this world that I love to do more. There’s nothing I’m quite so good at, even in my limited ‘goodness’. Living and playing in Seoul gave me a bigger bite of the cherry and now I want to glut myself on it. It’s why I moved to Berlin in a personal act of financial self-destruction, a Party Fexit if you like– for music. I can’t not write music. I dream of it. I wake up with songs ringing in my head. Sometimes I feel sick with the need to sing, to play, to write, to perform.
Doubt withers in the performance because I’m not me anymore. The multitude fears: that I’m inadequate, that I’m a parasite feeding on the talents of my betters, that I’m a terrible person inches away from discovery or abandonment…
Fears piled on fears: ageing, money, the disintegration of the NHS, Trump’s America, Putin’s America… Air travel! They aren’t in the performance because I am not in the performance. I am erased. I have escaped into the shared bubble that floats between the band and the crowd. I at once vanish and appear. When everything comes together on stage, it sounds like precisely that: coital, cathartic, creative.
So there I am, trapped on the merry-go-round of lost time, and the one genuinely satisfying means of escaping those very regrets and fears. But it’s not all bad. Despite my moany disposition, I do possess some small capacity for growth.
I’m learning to say thanks more. I believe I have the best people in my life to help me and teach me, to bring my songs to life—guide me, encourage me. I might start apologising to them less, needing them less greedily than I do. It’s a reasonable goal. I’m trying. And I have the means to try. Many don’t, and that’s a decent reminder to try harder still. I’ll try to cosy up to that feeling more. I am fortunate. Freedom to learn, even now, even in my – gasp! – thirties: is a good companion. A better companion than Doubt.
I have a friend called Molly. She’s very cool. Serene. And she goes to concerts all by herself.
I’m thirty-two and I’ve been in 5 bands now, so you’d think I’d have some modicum of confidence when it comes to stepping into a live venue. But until this year I haven’t found the courage to do what she does. Being alone in overtly social situations is really scary.
‘Are my hands in a weird position?’ ‘Am I smiling or grimacing?’ ‘How long have I been staring at that woman’s odd earring?’ ‘Someone farted, will everyone think it was me?’ These are just some of the questions I might ask myself when I am left alone in a large group of people I don’t know.
Attending a concert with only yourself as company can feel less like a casual outing and more like floodlighting your insecurities in a room full of strangers. You never see quite so many couples or groups of friends who look like they’ve stepped out of a stock photo shoot as when you go to a gig alone. The wall becomes your friend and you stick to the shadows like a latter day Bela Lugosi.
I don’t know when I first noticed Molly at shows. A couple of years ago at least. She wasn’t always by herself. More often than not she’d be with a group of friends, a couple of them mutual. But when she did come alone, she would always stand somewhere near the front (showing Herculean strength of character in and of itself). I’d wonder who she came with, where was her crew? So one night I asked: “Who are you here with?”
“Just me,” she answered with a smile.
I was floored. How did this quiet, serene, peaceful individual do what I would never do in a million years? Me, who bounces off walls and is comfortable standing in front of a crowd wearing head-to-toe lycra?
The thought of milling around a dance floor alone was enough to give me back sweats. I mean, when a band’s playing it’s one thing: the stage is a point of focus, a liferaft in the sea of thunderous awkwardness. But between sets? In the endless minutes while the next band sets up? What do you do?
In Molly’s case you just stand there, looking cool, which is to say: definitely not looking at your phone.
Her brand of ‘cool’ is not lighting a cigarette while she leans, one foot resting against a wall. It’s not a beer bottle held artfully between thumb and forefinger, taking sips and watching people mingle with hooded eyes. Maybe it’s exactly her quiet, her serenity and her peace that makes her cool. The fact that she wants to hear live music and will go to see a band regardless of who goes with her. She just goes to gigs. Simple as that.
I’m trying to figure it out and not let friends’ prior engagements keep me from shows. I made it my mission to Molly the shit out of 2016. And I’m doing okay. I am now the girl who goes to shows alone. But the cool – I mean the phoneless, confident cool, the Molly cool – I’m still working on: I’m writing this on my phone as I wait for the next band to set up.