“Anxiety over what people think of what you’re making hinders your creative process.”
Richard Phoenix over the beauty of witnessing disabled people enjoying music, making music, free of fear, free of angst. I saw it, and I wondered.
When did music become such a tool of the ego? Why do we care so much for whatever it is we’re making to be deemed as “good”? Or at least better than others. I often wondered what the point of music was and how can I find meaning in it. Is it helping anyone? Or am I helping myself? Does the world need me? Does it need my music? Why would it need mine?
The current narrative revolves around the artist. Finished pieces. Quality. Quantity. You want people to like it. You want them to remember you. Your work. You. But why? Why should they care? Who does it serve?
Maybe it shouldn’t be monetised. A trade. What are we trading?
Why does music exist anyway? How did it come about into humans lives?
It brings people together, as we’ve often heard. But the process is one way only. Individualisation. You don’t wanna be like everybody else. You wanna be different. And you want them to like it.
Maybe sometimes it’s better to see music as what it is. Childsplay. A process. A moment. You can’t do it better or worse. You can only do it or not do it.
Music has been birthed in a society. For the society. To be played. To be played with. Not performed, I believe. The only way I can picture performing in the old times is either as a jester at some court dancing for their life or in a church trying to summon God. But we’re definitely not Gods. And I don’t wanna be a jester.
So what are we?