We all have different thicknesses of carapace. With performers, some have carapaces of tensile steel, they possess a certainty which means that even the ugly gig or awry performance can be shrugged off. I have seen some who have almost died on their arse and they’ve still gone out to sell CDs or DVDs. Others, even after a long run of good shows, will descend into a muggy grey muck of a mood after a half dud gig. They have been found out. Everything must end. They are a failure.
The luck has run out, the truth is known.
It is an odd state of affairs. It suggests that a profession involving stranger scrutiny may not have been the wisest choice. the self disgust of personal failure may be minimised by working as an ironmonger or apothecary rather than being watched so beadily. Even when you don’t fall, you can replay it enough times that you eventually find the stumble and obsess over their judgmental eyes, lit up in the darkness by their luminous derision.
They probably didn’t notice, but you did.
You publicise your sense of failure, thinking it is honesty, when a little further back in your mind, though not as deep as your subconscious, it lurks – the pathetic wish that people say, “no, no, it was okay really”. It won’t make it okay, but it means you are sharing the fact that you know you are shit too, you didn’t think what you did was good. You may hate you more than they hate you.
Probably, they haven’t even given it a thought. Some dismissed it, others didn’t notice.
I wasn’t very good at the Monkey Cage recording tonight.
Don’t say a thing.
Anyway, I am listening to The King Blues’ My Boulder, and I am pogoing in my head.
I am off to Southend, Barton on Humber, Banbury, Belfast, Dublin, Coventry and on and on http://www.robinince.com
and part 2 of our Smiths Special Vitriola Podcast is up https://soundcloud.com/vitriolamusic/vitriola-8-and-linda-mccartneys-coming-round-as-well