He told audiences he was thrilled to be in cities he could barely locate on a map. He lied up and down simultaneously. Told managers he believed in projects he actually considered doomed. Told musicians their new songs sounded \u201cinteresting,\u201d which meant anything from good to horrible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The deeper lies contradicted each other constantly. Monday he believed he was a neglected genius trapped in an industry too shallow to recognize him properly. Thursday he was certain he was a fraud impersonating competence. After a good concert he told himself he arrived. After bad soundchecks he considered selling the instruments and moving somewhere without Wifi.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around other musicians he performed different versions of himself depending on who stood nearby. With jazzers he became more intellectual. With singer-songwriters more wounded. With experimental composers more abstract. Every conversation contained subtle edits positioning him advantageously inside whatever temporary tribe he was near. None of these selves were entirely fake, just incomplete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His manager once said, \u201cI can never tell whether your confidence is real or whether the insecurity is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNeither can I,\u201d he replied, accidentally telling the truth for maybe three seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In Edmonton, one night after a so so show, a younger musician approached him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just wanted to say,\u201d the young man said, \u201cI really admire how confident you are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sentence hit him like hearing your own voicemail played back publicly, because at that exact moment he was neither confident nor insecure. He was tired of manufacturing identities, ballooning into self-importance only to later attack himself with pins. He answered honestly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m actually confused most of the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The younger musician blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI mean,\u201d he continued, \u201csometimes I think I\u2019m talented. Sometimes I think I\u2019m terrible. Usually I suspect both feelings stem from vanity. I don\u2019t really know what I\u2019m doing. I just keep making songs. It feels less painful than not making them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Silence. Not awkward silence. The kind conversations occasionally uncover by accident. The younger musician nodded slowly, visibly relieved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMe too,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something shifted and over next months he experimented with honesty in small doses. Telling musicians when he genuinely admired their work instead of strategically complimenting them. Saying \u201cI don\u2019t know\u201d with no added decoration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The strangest part was people seemed to trust him more. They relaxed in ways he had never experienced. He realized most conversations among artists resembled diplomatic negotiations with frightened countries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One night onstage he looked at the audience and suddenly understood most of them were also lying to themselves. About success, about failure, about who they should have become by now. The room was full of identities performing while secretly hoping somebody else might stop first. So he did. And the music then sounded less like a strategy, more like sound.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"