Prince playing "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" with Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, and Jeff Lynne at George Harrison's induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2004.
To shred or not to shred? Sometimes a little restraint to serve a melody can shine brighter than scorching a solo.
A cop pulls a drunk over and demands that he get out of his car.
The cop says, "Obviously, you've been drinking. I need you to perform a sobriety test."
The drunk, swaying back and forth, answers with a smug slur: "Oh, really? You think I'm drunk, huh? Would a drunk be able to do this?"
The drunk then violently swings his arms above his head as he does a fast, deep knee bend. He then lets out a howl, craps his pants, and falls over in a stinking, moaning heap.
The cops say, "Yes, that's exactly what a drunk would do."
The drunk replies, "I was going for the backflip."
The wildly talented Reggie Bradley Smith told me that joke back when we toured together with country artist Lee Brice. After some of our more adventuresome performances, Reg and I would greet each other with, "I was going for the backflip," as we walked off stage.
Guitarists are left with this difficult balancing act: giving the people what they want while trying to give them something that means more.
This gig was a creative, safe place to stretch and grow as a musician. The rule was stay true to the signature elements of the song, but allow the muse to direct you. This environment made for some amazing shows, giving concertgoers something they'd never seen nor heard before. Admittedly, I did not always stick the landing, but missed notes don't matter. In this age, where so many bands are merely reinforcing prerecorded tracks, it's a beautiful and rare thing to see in the wild: a great band in full flight, listening and playing off each other, truly creating music. To my way of thinking, the "perfect show"is not the one that sounds just like the record—it's an emotionally charged, unique work of art that the audience and band experiences fresh, together.
I've always thought a show needed to be, well … showy. Prime example: Prince's nearly three-minute guitar solo on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," that he performed with Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, and Jeff Lynne at George Harrison's induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. From his legato intro until he tosses his Telecaster in the air and struts off stage, it's an incredible improvised performance under the most high-pressure circumstances imaginable. Although it's got a lot of flash, it's all musical, respectfully paying homage to the Beatles and Clapton's iconic recording, while remaining spontaneous and fun. Prince went for the backflip and stuck the landing.
Prince, Tom Petty, Steve Winwood, Jeff Lynne and others -- "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"
As you may suspect, I'm a doesn't-practice-what-I-preach kind of person. I talk a big game about taking chances with art, trying to create something new, serving the song, etc. In reality, when I'm playing live, I tend to build solos by pulling a few semi-fast, flashy licks I've memorized out of my medium-sized bag. What I should do is try to say something, be melodic, make it more about the song and less about my trying to impress people. I choose showy because I lack the confidence for restraint. I listen to playback of live recordings and hate 75 percent of my solos, because most are clichés strung together. But I'm not alone.
Slash's "November Rain" solo remains one of the most revered in all of rockdom. It's full of emotionally charged whole notes, much like a symphonic piece. Surprisingly, apart from some improvised 2-bar runs at the end of each 8-bar phrase in the outro, it's all easy to play. The hardest part of that solo is the restraint and dedication to melody. A while ago, I saw GNR live and, honestly, it was disappointing. Maybe it was an off night on a long tour, but with the exception of "November Rain" and "Sweet Child o' Mine," where Slash played melodically, most of his solos started and ended with blistering riffs that, although physically impressive, didn't hold my attention.
But Slash is in a difficult position: It's hard to trust in a simple part when you know that people want to see blistering runs. Why? Because that shit is awesome. So, guitarists are left with this difficult balancing act: giving the people what they want while trying to give them something that means more. It's just easier, or perhaps safer, to shred than to try to express something emotional.
My friend Joe Reed played bass with Merle Haggard from 1990 to 1995, when Clint Strong was on guitar. Although people often think of country music as primitive cowboy chords, Joe and Clint are incredibly advanced musicians, with deep jazz leanings. Joe told me, "Clint and I roomed together on the road and would come up with cool alternate changes. It was a very musical gig and Merle didn't mind you going for something cool, but I guess it would get a little too far out and Merle would address the issues saying, 'Boys, when you get so far away from my songs that I can't recognize them, it's time to pull it back'."
That's the challenge: when to stretch, when to pull back, when to go for the backflip, and when to walk a straight line.
Every time I play guitar in public, my internal critic is performing a coup on my self-esteem.
Pretty much every time I play music in front of people, the sound of what I play will at some point be drowned out by the imaginary criticism of everyone within earshot. I'll be having a great time making music, then hit a note I don't like, and it all changes. From then on, all I hear are the collective thoughts of the other musicians, audience, and engineers. Their unified minds join together in unanimous, silent chant: "You suck. You do not belong here." All are united by their disdain toward me … rightfully so.
Okay, okay…. I know most people aren't paying attention, and if they are, they don't care. Those with a positive bias and a kind heart will think I sound fine, maybe even good. The more troll-like, with their negative default-mode, will find something wrong with anything, regardless of what it sounds like. I know my dark thoughts are not entirely true. I also know these thoughts will undermine my work and general well-being/happiness. Yet I embrace this self-doubt like it is the ultimate truth.
Be it playing music, talking to strangers, or trying to write this stupid column, I suspect that I'm not as competent or intelligent as others might think, and I fear that soon everyone will discover the truth: I'm not particularly bright. I've faked my way in. Everything I've accomplished is pretty much a fluke. I don't know what I'm doing and shouldn't be here.
Ladies and gentlemen, meet Imposter Syndrome, a wellspring of self-doubt and woe.
To be clear, imposter syndrome is not recognized by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, probably because it's not a disorder. It's just part of being human. Everyone, at times, feels like they are unqualified and, therefore, faking it. In fact, the only way you learn anything is to do it without really knowing how. You've never driven a car until you've actually driven a car. Every president of the United States began his term in office by faking it. As terrifying as this sounds, surgeons are not entirely sure what they're doing the first time they cut into a person. We all struggle with this. That's why "Fake it till you make it" is a popular and effective self-help slogan.
Be it playing music, talking to strangers, or trying to write this stupid column, I suspect that I'm not as competent or intelligent as others might think, and I fear that soon everyone will discover the truth.
When you're agonizing over small mistakes, attributing your success to external factors, or berating your competence and skills, you're basking in the imposter syndrome. Every musician I know is a frequent traveler to this land of self-loathing and private shame.
This might help explain the popularity of alcohol and drugs backstage. I've worked with acts that have a three-drink minimum before walking on deck. Drunks are confident—booze being the bulletproof armor against self-doubt—whereas stoners are too deep in the music to think about how they're being perceived (unless their thoughts run to paranoia).
As torturous as imposter syndrome may be, some good comes from it. This fear can push you to accomplish your goals. "I'm going to put in a ton of work so I can nail this song so people don't know what a terrible guitar player I am." Fear has definitely pushed me to practice and improve. Although it can help you get where you want to go, you might not enjoy this anxiety-ridden journey. One thing the best and worst musicians have in common is they all oscillate between confidence and the fear of being found out.
Last night, during my regular/fun/no-pressure gig, I caught myself thinking, "That drummer hates me. Look at him, so smug on his throne. He's smiling at me because I'm rushing and he thinks it's funny, or maybe that's a look of righteous anger? Now he's bobbing his head, probably laughing to himself about how similar all my solos are. Now he's got his head down because I'm too loud or maybe too quiet…. Or maybe it's my terrible sense of melody or tone he hates?"
Yes, my thoughts really were that delusional. We never know what anybody is thinking, even when they're talking to us. I'd just met this drummer but he seemed like a nice guy and we played well together. While I was deep in my private, paranoid rant, he was probably thinking about his own performance, problems, and anxieties—not mine. Or maybe he was thinking about what he's going to eat after the gig. Regardless, he probably wasn't judging me. I felt wrongly judged because I was judging myself, and, apparently, I'm a harsh judge.
Now and then, I leave a gig feeling like I've not disappointed myself and others. The quality of my gigs depends more on my mindset than on my playing. Being onstage means you're inviting others to judge and, hopefully, enjoy your performance. But you have to get comfortable being uncomfortable. Quit thinking and just play. We mostly think about ourselves. If we only knew how little people think about us, would we be relieved or hurt? Honestly, it's very freeing when you realize that nobody is thinking about you.
