Friday, December 13, 2002

The most useful lesson I've learned, in my life as a performing musician, relates to the divide between audience and performer.  I've discovered that the performer's level of emotion does not relate, in any meaningful way, to that of the audience.  Last March, my band played a South by Southwest showcase, under almost perfect conditions - overlooking Congress Avenue, on a truly beautiful Spring night.  My emotions were certainly heightened - I was having a lot of feelings about the music.  Well, a friend - a good friend, an honest friend - later described the show to me as "overwrought and banal."  And it really stung.  But you know, it helped me.  Since then, I try to feel, but no longer let my feelings get in the way of precision, or musicianship.  I'm happier, and I think our audiences are, too.  I think we connect at the right level - at the music's pure and intended meaning - rather than at the level of emotion I, or my band mates, choose to project over things on any given night.  And I think about that now, as I've come to adopt a meditative practice.  I'm experiencing a lot of conflict between my need to be alone, and my need to be, really be, with others.  Because, as my internal prayer life intensifies, the line between self and other truly, miraculously, dissolves.  My boundaries get all blurry, and I no longer know what to make of the shorthand descriptors I have so readily applied to my relationships.  They lose their meaning, and I am lost, happily befuddled.  Moments gather, bead, and fall at the perfect instant of readiness, until there is nothing but this falling, gathering, and falling.  5:50:06 PM