goosebumps
April 16th, 2024
What is scary for you?
I've been First Ave- and Prince-obsessed the past several months, diving into library books and PBS documentaries and YouTube videos and resurfaced bootlegs.
There's a quote from Prince in an interview (his last) that I can't stop thinking about; he was lamenting the current state of music in a 2015 article of The Guardian when he says:
“When was the last time you were scared by anyone? In the 70s, there was scary stuff then.”
Those words are like a song I can't get out of my head.
When I initially considered "scary," I thought he maybe meant esthetically; how a band presented themselves on stage, their aura, their mystery, their vibe.
But I then I realized that all good art has fear. The real stuff.
So what am I scared of?
Being vulnerable. Shame. Being unloved. My past. The future. Failure. Being misunderstood. My monsters. Our environment. Violence. Entropy. Death.
And as I consider what scares me, I notice which art speaks to it, and which doesn't.
A lot has been said on why so many artists, as they mature, can never seem to throw again the lighting they captured in their youth. Using this as a frame of reference, I think I see part of it.
People simply tend to become more aware of being embarrassed as they get older, and do everything they can to avoid it.
When you mature, at anything, you're supposed to get better. For many, that means creating more polished work and consistently improving your craft.
But what if that isn't better?
On Sunday's American Idol, a young contestant named Kaibrienne Richins had a rough night. She was clearly dealing with nerves and forgetting parts of her song. But the emotion she displayed throughout was undeniably real, and her perfomance was affecting. Lionel Ritchie relayed a similar story from his career, and spoke of how emotionally moved people were by what he felt was an objectively flawed performance.
In high school, during a play called Cinderalla Waltz, my scene partner forgot one of her lines (or maybe I did, and I would actually love to take the blame here, but I don't remember it that way). Wide-eyed, we threw ourselves into the moment and found our way out. Our director then wanted to speak to us after the show, and we were terrified that we were in trouble. Instead, he told us that we had just done the best acting of our run; that we had actually made him believe us.
It's scary to be reminded that we're not in control. Have you ever seen a band so well-rehearsed that didn't make you feel a thing?
As I continue to write, I hope I'm becoming a better writer. But what does that mean? Does it mean I'll write prettier sentences? Because fuck that shit. I hope it means that I dig in deeper, that I don't shy away from shadows, that I care more, not about structure, but understanding.
And it brings me back to what Prince said about fear. I don't think being scared is enough. As artists, as people, it's sharing what we're scared of -- of embarrassment, of shame, of vulnerability -- that connects us as human beings in the truest sense; it's reaching into our darkness with a bucket and letting others pull the rope, surprised by what comes out, but only because we recognize it so intimately.