Jackson Free Press

The music industry has very little room for pretense. If you write sloppily, play or sing poorly, or look like you've been hit repeatedly with a tether ball since birth, be prepared to have these things called out often and unsympathetically. If you believe you're the voice of a generation (even though the generation hasn't caught on yet), you can expect evaluations from a variety of sources. From sound engineers to bartenders to drunken bachelorettes who can't remember who sang "Bennie and the Jets," I've received plenty of assessments over the years—some positive, some negative and some downright weird.

In one particular instance years back, I filled in on vocals for a friend's band, The StoneCoats, which was called Mama Loretta at the time. They planned a show at Martin's and didn't want to cancel it last minute, so I agreed to sing lead for the night. This is, of course, the same "I" whose tastes include more classic pop than classic rock and whose knowledge of Led Zeppelin ends with the band's name.

Thanks in part to a rather animated crowd, the show went smoothly, the exception being an impromptu cover of the song "I'm 18" by Alice Cooper, which I learned that basically the entire U.S. population knows, excluding me. I worked through the set in my head, making mental notes on whether certain things I made sure to do and not to do. "Words sung correctly? Check. Notes in key? Check. Dance moves? Please, God, no check."

I had a few strangers and friends commend my efforts, saying that I did well or seemed like a natural fit for the band, which was nice to hear and also a big relief. Then I met a single, exceptionally disapproving person who bankrupted me of all confidence. He began his introduction with: "Look, man, I won't lie. We both know you're not the best singer in the world, but you try, and that's something. My name is ..."

His observation was true on both accounts, really. There's no possible way that I am the greatest singer in the world, as evidenced by the fact I was playing at Martin's and not in a sold-out stadium, and I do try. I'd venture to say that many singers have lived and died who are better than me, but no one ever felt the need to tell me that before. He began a downgrading tirade about how "our" music wasn't refined enough for his tastes before he received an urgent phone call, likely from his boss, the devil, marking his next target.

I'm not a creature of ego. I don't play music to get validation, but when you have the wind removed from your sails so thoroughly, it becomes difficult to remember anything encouraging. For a brief moment, I found myself calculating how long I had to stay at the venue until the band could be paid and I could make the half-hour drive back to college. But I realized that joyless, half-hearted attitude didn't sound like music; that sounded like a job.

A number of facets in playing music can underwhelm and leave you decidedly apathetic at times, some of which simply comes with the territory. Inevitable are the days where you don't want to hone the same, stagnant-feeling set list; you are bound to have songs in your arsenal that you don't enjoy performing as much as others enjoy hearing; and soul-crushingly outspoken audience members will say mean things and then take phone calls.

Though they can appear frustratingly fleeting in retrospect, the moments spent on a stage and playing music are those that most define your musical individuality. If those songs remained tucked away in a notebook somewhere, idling in leather-bound oblivion, they can never reach anyone or truly say anything.

While it's easier not to submit to the judgment of a bar filled with strangers, that would rob you of the gratification that comes with discomfort, which is uniquely intoxicating and nourishing and stirring, all at once. In truth, musicians have to submit themselves to the mercy of an audience, whether kind or cruel, because music—the way it should be experienced—is a two-way street.