T.O. Is An Idiot And Needs To Be Fixed

Wrestling with my own stupidity

I’ve known myself for nearly 49 years. You think that by now I’d be unable to surprise myself with what an idiot I can be. But you’d be wrong, and the most recent time was annoying enough that it has forced me to take some fairly radical action.

The part where I tell you I’m an idiot

I’ve been haunted by something that happened a couple of weeks ago. Or rather, something that easily could have happened, probably should have happened, and didn’t. Here’s the story:

I was at a POSTDATA show. I wrote about it. POSTDATA is Wintersleep lead singer Paul Murphy’s solo project, and while he often has a full band, on this occasion he was flying solo. He’s one of my biggest musical heroes. He also presents as one of the kindest, most gentle people you could imagine. On this night he was opening for Close Talker, and the show was sadly under-attended - maybe 100 people in a 200 person room. 

Here are all the times I could have very easily had a brief, pleasant chat with Murphy:

1. When I walked in he was manning his merch booth alone in the lobby, drinking a glass of white wine. The nearest person was not within 20 feet of him, and no one was paying him any attention. He was looking at his phone, but in that way that makes it obvious he was bored by it. 

2. When he came off the stage after his great set, he spent five minutes packing up his guitar and a few other things into a metal box. This happened about five feet from where I was standing to watch the show. I was leaning against the wall pretending to read my phone as I watched him.

3. After packing up the box, he just stood there by himself for a while. Not in an ‘I need to be by myself’ way, but in a ‘now what?’ sort of way. I was still five feet away, still pretending to read my phone.

4. He walked past me to walk back to the lobby and his merch table. Then he forgot something and walked right past me to get back to his box. Then he turned around and walked back. All three times he passed so close that I could have tripped him and easily pretended it was an accident. Or, you know, smiled and said hi. 

5. I had a frog in my throat at one point during the headliner’s set, so I went into the lobby to get a drink of water. In the lobby were five people - someone at the door counting cash, two people at the bar shutting things down, Paul at his merch table looking the most bored he had all night, and the dipshit I’ll call me. 

Paul’s about my age - just a little younger. He has a family, too. He lives on the east coast, just a couple of hours from where I went to university. He spent a long time living in Montreal, where I have been many times. He’s currently traveling across the country for the umpteenth time - something I have also done. Finding something to casually chat with him about for a couple of seconds would have been stupidly easy. Any normal human being could have done so. Hell, a gerbil could have pulled it off. 

Of course, I did not. I not only didn’t talk to him, but even went to comically awkward lengths to avoid eye contact. Given the choice between acting like a normal human being, or the kind of dude who can't legally go near playgrounds, I inexplicably chose the latter.

Here's the dumb part. If he had pretty much any other job in the world, I absolutely would have talked to him in any of those spots. If he was a plumber, an author, or an astronaut or whatever, I'd have said something, we would have shared a laugh, and we'd move on no worse off - and hopefully better. 

I'm not the most social guy. I'm an introvert. But I have that classic dad energy - I’ll have a quick chat with anyone, and especially when it will embarrass my kid. I actually really like those chats. I’m naturally curious, and not a giant dick, and I like making people smile or laugh - the ingredients for a quick chat that is usually pleasant, and often fun. 

But because he's a musician, I had to be a total moron. I followed some set of personal musician interaction rules I have constructed in my own head over many years and many shows. Which leads to an obvious question - one I have pondered with great regularity since that night:

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The part where I reveal that my idiocy is nothing new

17 years ago, Tricia and I were volunteering for the Calgary Folk Fest. The best part of doing that - at least in my mind, because Tricia would definitely say the free food - is that they have afterparties at the Westin where a band or two plays, they have a bar, and you get to hang out with other volunteers and performers. 

One night, we were at one of those parties with friends. I volunteered to hit the beer line. The woman in front of me turned around like she was looking for someone, turned back to the front, then turned again and looked at me. ‘I recognize you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been at some of my shows.’

The woman was Sarah Harmer, who was then a solo artist after a long run as the leader of the truly great indie band Weeping Tile. And I had indeed been to several of her shows. Kind of obsessively. I first saw her when she was opening in Moncton the first time I ever saw The Watchmen live. And I’d seen her every chance I’d had since then. I don’t know how many times it had been by then, but it was easily a dozen. She was among my very favorite artists. Still is. And I had a big crush on her. Still do. 

Her recognizing me was amazing, and could have been a great life moment. Here are some of the things I could have said:

1. You probably say that to all the guys. Does it ever work?

2. I’m either really handsome, or really ugly if you remember me. 

3. Sure have. And I’ll see a bunch more. You’re a remarkable artist. 

4. Indeed. First one was in Moncton in 1994.

5. Guilty. Can I buy you a beer?

6. Look, technically I’m engaged, but the wedding is still a couple weeks away, so there’s still time for us. Just say the word.

Some of those are maybe better than others, but that’s not the point. Instead of any of them, I stared at her awkwardly for well beyond a comfortable length of time, and said something approximating ‘Duhhh’. Then she turned back around and thought about how hard it will be to get a restraining order before her next Calgary show. Suave as heck. My idiocy with musical heroes is nothing new. 

And more times…

I could tell countless more similar stories. There was the time with Elliott Brood. And the other time with Elliott Brood. And the third time with Elliott Brood. And that was all within two days at the same festival in Fernie. 

I have worked so hard to not talk to The Watchmen, a band I love above all others, that as I walked past lead singer Daniel Greaves sitting alone on the stairs outside a venue in Grand Bend, Ontario, and he asked me the time SO HE WASN’T LATE FOR THE SET I WAS THERE TO SEE, I pretended not to hear him. 

I once was in a washroom with Nils from Rural Alberta Advantage. He asked me to pass him a paper towel because his dispenser was empty. I did, as wordlessly as a mute monk. I stood four feet away from Corb Lund at a concert, and the only interaction I managed was a low key assault of his date. It goes on and on and on and on. 

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?

Authors aren’t musicians

Just months before that Sarah Harmer debacle, I had volunteered for the Wordfest book festival for the second or third time. My job was to drive a van up to the airport, pick up authors, and take them to their hotel. Then I would pick them up at their hotel, and take them to events around town. I drove some pretty big authors over the years I did that - Joseph Boyden before he was exposed as a giant fraud, Wayne Johnston, Susan Juby, Tim Wynne-Jones and more. Fame at levels equivalent to, or higher than, the musicians I like most. It didn’t bother me at all. I could chat away without a problem. Great times were had. A couple of times I even finished my shift and took writers to tourist spots they weren’t going to see otherwise. I was a nice guy. A human being. I am capable. Because they aren’t musicians. 

A sea of theories

So, why do I have such a hangup about talking to musicians? Consistent with myself, I have eight theories to explain my idiocy. Or maybe to justify it to myself:

The pedestal theory

When I get into a musician, I am completely in awe of them. I have not an ounce of musical ability, so what they do is absolutely magical to me. And very affecting when it is done well. My feeble mind concludes, then, that they can’t be like me because I can’t do what they do - or even understand it. So they are obviously superior, and I can’t talk to them. Authors, on the other hand, aren’t so mysterious to me. I can’t write as well as those ones I listed can by any means, but I get how they do it. And while I respect their work, it doesn’t really fire me up. No pedestal means no barrier. 

The burn me once theory

I could very easily accidentally touch a stove element that I didn’t realize was on, and burn myself. But I think I’d be unlikely to do it twice. I’d learn, and avoid the risky situation. History would suggest, however, that I’m not always cool under pressure. There are times I have had interactions and they haven’t gone smoothly. I remember those for a while. Like forever. So I avoid them. I don’t want to get burned again.

The fan-hating fan theory

When I do see a fan really pouring out their soul to an idol, and that idol clearly not doing much more than tolerating it, I feel embarrassed for that person. But also very annoyed that they are not reading the signals and leaving their poor hero alone. I guess, ultimately, I don’t really like hardcore fans, and really don’t want to be a hardcore fan. Which is insane and self-loathing given my natural  propensity for being a hardcore fan. 

The work vs. play theory

Tricia believes that the reason that I was so different with authors than with musicians is that I was working when I talked to the authors, so my mindset was different - I was there in service instead of fandom. As proof of her correctness she points to the one time I have had a smooth chat with a musician. It was while volunteering at Folk Fest that same year, and I was standing side stage watching an act while I was waiting for someone to need a ride in my golf cart. I spent a long time talking about football with a very prominent Canadian musician. Tricia may be right, but I would never admit that to her. Or maybe I just really like talking about football.

The fourth wall theory

There are a lot of bands which, because I like them, I have seen over and over and over again. I love how they are on stage, and how that makes me feel. I never want to stop seeing them. If I found out that they murdered puppies, or that they favored the murdering of puppies, it would shatter the illusion, and that band would be lost to me. By not talking to them, I tell myself, I don’t risk that shattering. 

The higher stakes theory

I really care about music and musicians. So I am invested in interactions going well. When I care less about something, I care less if it goes well or not. By that argument, my music hangup could extend beyond music. I am as obsessed with University of Michigan football as I am with, say, 90s Canadian indie music. If I ran into JJ McCarthy, the star quarterback for the team that just won a national title, I would likely be just as stupid. 

The stranger in a strange land theory

Oddly, I have never really known any musicians. I have had lots of friends who have been into music, but none that have played it seriously beyond their lessons as a kid. I don’t have friends in bands - even casual ones, or friends of friends. What you don’t know directly seems foreign and different - even if it really isn’t. And this is especially true since so much of popular culture is about mythologizing musicians. And the only time I see musicians, then, is when I have paid for the privilege of seeing them. That is an imbalance, and makes it harder still to have a simple conversation.

The overthinking dumbass theory

This theory states that I am a dumbass who can overthink absolutely anything if I choose to. So I have attached more significance to this whole thing than it ever deserves. 

A plan for change

I don’t know what the reason is. Likely some combination of all of the above. But whatever it is, it’s dumb and it needs to change. I don’t want to be best friends with my favorite musicians. But I should be capable of saying hi, having a laugh, and moving on. 

When you have someone who needs to learn how to swim, you throw them in the deep end and they figure it out. In theory, anyway - practically, I think they most likely drown. But we are going to ignore the practicalities and just leap. 

To get better at talking to musicians, I have concluded that I need to simply talk to musicians. Again and again. Until I am less dumb. Or, at least, until I’m capable of talking to musicians. 

First victim identified

Remember the other week when I wrote about going to see Calgary band Free The Cynics? I didn’t know the band at all, but was left impressed by the show, and especially by their songwriting. Rich Paxton is the lead singer of the band, and the songwriter. And the poor bastard’s email is easy to track down. 

I sent him an email, flattered him a bit, showed him what I wrote about his band, then explained that I wanted to buy him a beer so I could, basically, practice talking to a musician. Suspecting it sounded a bit odd, I assured him that I wasn’t the kind of guy who made human skin jackets or anything. Which, Tristan rightly pointed out, is exactly what a guy who made human skin jackets would say. 

There is no way I would have responded to that email. But Rich is a better man than me, so he and I are going to have a beer. And I’m going to write about it. Then, I plan to do it again and again and again with other musicians - until I’m fixed. Or in jail. 

Stay tuned, then, for the first first installment of my new series - T.O. Talks To Musicians. Coming soon to this Substack near you.