Sanding blocks are just one of the many things you should probably be keeping organized.
The stereotype of the messy artist is a tired old meme. Get it together and get organized.
It’s hard to admit that you’re a slob. Lack of organization is pretty much looked down upon in most professional arenas. It’s also hard to imagine successful people waking up on stained futons and stumbling through a minefield of snack wrappers while looking for their cleanest dirty shirt. That is unless that wealthy schlump is a famous rock star. Is it the artist’s way, or letting go of the illusion of control? Either way I think it’s a stereotype—and one that cuts both ways.
Like a child who is repeatedly told they’re not good enough, sometimes we talk ourselves into playing a part that doesn’t let us spread our wings. Maybe you think that cleanliness and order get in the way of creativity and performance. I used to think that, too. Then I read an article about Roger Penske, one of the most successful racing team owners of all time. Even from the time he was a rookie driver he was known in the paddocks for having immaculately prepared cars. Other drivers and teams were amused by Penske’s mechanics, who kept his cars sparkling clean top and bottom, inside and out, for each and every run on the track. They thought it was some kind of show or blamed it on his ego. But that fastidiousness meant that Penske’s team could spot a tiny leak or potential part failure that might have otherwise been hidden by grime. A well-maintained machine allows the driver to do what they do best—drive. You can roll your eyes, but it’s hard to argue with 18 Indianapolis 500 wins, and 16 season championships.
If you imagine that keeping a race car clean is different from organizing the wiring on your pedalboard or keeping your workbench tidy, you’re running uphill in lead boots. Concise and well-ordered workspaces allow problems to stand out and are therefore easier to diagnose. Reduction of clutter allows you to attend to the creative stuff, which is the whole point. For those who say that friction is fodder for the creative endeavor, I challenge you to write a song about hunting for a screwdriver in a cluttered drawer. On second thought, that’s something that people can relate to. Another thing we can all relate to is having our guitar cut out in the middle of a gig. It’s easier to fix quickly when the signal chain is clearly routed and marked. I know a guitarist who has an emergency bypass pedal that circumvents his entire board directly to the amp via a redundant cable for just this purpose. Maybe that’s a little over the top, but the show must go on, right?
For those who say that friction is fodder for the creative endeavor, I challenge you to write a song about hunting for a screwdriver in a cluttered drawer.
In the workshop, it’s much the same. You don’t need the headache of searching for something in a disorganized bin when you’re in the flow. Concentration is doing one thing at a time, so endlessly looking for tools or parts in a place that resembles a war zone breaks your attention. Preventative protocols can keep things on track. When I visit or see photos of workshops with piles of parts and tools everywhere, I feel sorry for the employees and the customers.
Visual systems are priceless. Whether it’s your workbench or your signal chain, it’s helpful to color code stuff. It makes things easier when you’re in a hurry, or just trying to finish on time. Wire ties come in a rainbow of colors and, aside from anchoring cables down, can serve as guides. Determine a code and start with simple things like white means in, red means out. This makes it simple to troubleshoot a problem. If you have multiple systems or paths, use more colors. Laminate a legend on the gear reminding you or a tech what’s what. In the workshop, tools and jigs can be color coded. I have small sanding block racks that have different grades of abrasives loaded on each block. The slots on the racks are colored to each grit, which is also marked on the blocks. I know which grit goes with each color, so I never reach for the wrong block. It takes a little time to get the hang of it without resorting to looking at the numbers (also stamped on each block), but guitarists are good at remembering sequences.
Musicians have often been pictured as shambolic, but the vision of a painter’s studio piled high with half-squeezed tubes of paint and rags soaked with mineral spirits is a tired old meme. The truth is that buying into the myth of creative disarray is not helping any cause. Instead, a dose of tidiness can really work to your advantage. So, stop painting yourself into a false narrative and revel in the freedom that neatness neurosis provides. Now, where did I leave my label maker?
In the interest of science, go to a live show and see if you feel connected to your fellow fist-pumpers when the chorus kicks in.
Playing guitar in solitude is bliss, but for some of us, making music in public requires impersonating an extrovert.
Crowds energize extroverts. I find them draining. My favorite social evening plans are canceled social evening plans. When the pandemic hit, my first thought was: “Limited human contact. Sounds great! Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I never had to shake hands again?”
Don’t get me wrong, I love people. It’s not that I don’t want to be around people. It’s just that I’m best in small portions. I can be charming and fun for an hour at best. In short, I’m an introvert. After my expiration date, nobody wants me around.
So, it seems odd that I work primarily in public. Concerts are full of extroverts feeding off the energy of others. It’s like they’re in tune with the magic of quantum physics—all their subatomic particles swirl together uniting them on a spiritual and molecular level. It’s beautiful, and I want that so much … but I just want it from a distance. Like, I’m onstage and the crowd is in front of me, and there’s a barrier, and maybe even bodyguards, separating us. I want to be part of it, but with nothing touching me.
When other kids were doing normal teen stuff like hanging out together, I wanted to run home and hang out with my guitar. The heart wants what it wants.
By virtue of the fact that I’m at a show, the crowd assumes I’m of the same extroverted tribe. I see them after a show, and they want to talk or hug or engage, while I want to run away, all the while fearing I’ll offend or hurt others by not joining them. I see myself in group photos after gigs, everybody with big, warm smiles while my teeth are clenched in a poor imitation of a smile and my eyes look a bit panicky.
I’ve heard there are two types of musicians: introverts and overcompensating introverts who are trying to pass as extroverts. Each of you, dear musician readers, voluntarily spent a disproportionate part of your youth alone in your room with an instrument. Teen brains are addicted to dopamine. Most teens get their biggest hit from social interactions, but for some reason, we chose to get our natural high from music. When other kids were doing normal teen stuff like hanging out together, I wanted to run home and hang out with my guitar. The heart wants what it wants.
I love playing music alone. That’s when I grow. That’s when new musical information becomes part of me, and my playing is the most interesting. It’s a brilliant, somewhat sadistic trick that the coolest stuff you’ll ever play will never be heard by anyone but yourself when you’re playing alone, unrecorded, unobserved. We’ve all been playing alone and thought, “Dang, I wish the world could hear this. I really can make music. Alas, there’s still no evidence.” Then the spell is broken, and we’re back to being just us, observed in our average state.
That said, as gratifying as it is to make music alone, making music with people feels a different kind of amazing, and once you get a hit of that, you’ll want more. The hippie in me thinks that it’s a Nik Tesla thing of resonance where we literally connect through those vibrating strings. (For more hippie pseudo-science, read my column “Vibing the Divine.”)
It’s a brilliant, somewhat sadistic trick that the coolest stuff you’ll ever play will never be heard by anyone but yourself when you’re playing alone, unrecorded, unobserved.
I’ve no doubt that people watching music being made do feel this energy, allowing them to connect to the music makers and beyond. If you doubt this, go to a Fairfield Four concert. In the interest of science and to rule out an act of God’s influence, go to an AC/DC show and you’ll feel connected to every fist-pumper in the place when the chorus of “Hells Bells” kicks in.
That’s the dilemma: Musicians need the public, the public feeds off live music, but often musicians are not comfortable around people. Thank goodness for lead singers. If you’re driven to be in front of an audience with a live mic, on some level, you probably crave attention. Front people are more eager to socialize, giving the rest of the band plenty of room to hide behind our instruments onstage and disappear after the show while the singer hangs out and talks.
I can’t find scientific evidence to back this up, but I see it in myself and in musicians I know, as well as celebrity musicians who come across as standoffish or arrogant. I suspect many of them are introverts on display, and that does not bring out the best in people.
Personality traits are not set in stone. We all have the capacity for adapting. If you’re an introvert musician who must hang in a crowd, just try to psych yourself up, paste on a smile, and impersonate an extrovert. Sometimes it’s not horrible and your brain will rewire itself a bit, making it easier to do next time. Then run home and play your guitar alone in your room.