Why do we perform? It is a simple question, yet one that never occurred to me, nor to many of the multitudes whom I consider to be good musicians, good people, egotistical and self-absorbed, like me! While the jest is just that, the thought behind it isn’t. I warn you, this is an extremely personal and introspective dive into the human mind, not scientific in its rigor, nor mathematical in its precision, but musical in its message. I hope to show you a little bit inside the mind of a performer, one that has spent many of his formative years performing.
So let’s get the main sticking point out of the way. I can’t for the life of me, remember any of my performances beyond when they happened, where they happened, and the songs that I played. This started when I was in 5th grade. I played guitar for a concert where all I did was play some chords. When I was a small kid, I wasn’t really able to perform. Then, in 7th grade, we held a talent show, and I decided to play some of my favourite songs blindfolded. Then, 8th grade, when I met my guy Vir, and we performed at the Ascend summer concert of 2023.
Vir and I spent so much time together, practicing, honing our coordination, improvisation and becoming closer friends. When the day of the performance came and went, I forgot it. I listened to the performance again, and I didn’t play my best, but it was hardly so bad that I would block it out of my memory. Then, December 2023. 9th grade, I was there, performing alongside some of my closest friends, having the time of my life. I wrote my own music for that concert, I put the showmanship up to 11, I heard the students chanting my name.
The next day, I woke up, and I thought, and I thought about many things. None of those thoughts were about the concert. It happened again in May of 2024. Rinse and repeat for December 2024. It would happen for every performance, and every recital I would ever play. Every time I played for an audience, in school or outside school, the memories made on the day of performance were always the memories I was quickest to lose.
But strangely enough, I remember every detail leading up to that day. I remember the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays spent at the music room during recess, practicing alongside others. I remember the meetings held between students about the drama and dance performances, the scheduling conflicts that arose. I remember when we saw the MPH set up for the first time, with its stage, drum sets and blue carpet layering every step. I remember frantically setting up practices at other houses to make sure we were good for the day of performance. But I have one memory of performing.
Were you ever suddenly aware at some moment, wherever you were, that you were experiencing a high point in your life? Have you ever dealt with that bittersweet shower of emotions flooding your mind as you realize everything you’ve worked for grew into an inferno of epic proportions, and then suddenly vanished without a trace? That now you can’t possibly go higher, that there are no more peaks to climb? If you have, then I am sorry. I felt that wave of emotions, before I realized something.
Why do we perform? We perform for ourselves, for the image we have of ourselves. We perform for the moments on stage where you’re with your friends, enjoying the music you play together, locked in to the sound, and having the time of your life. But that was not why I performed. I performed seeking glory, seeking a moment that could top the day a little over a year ago, when I had a hall chanting my name. That day was a peak that I had climbed, and was a peak I knew I could never realistically reach again.
As stupid and arrogant as it is to say this, nothing could compare to that feeling of pure elation. But, my realization was that if I can’t peak at performing for in school concerts, I’ll peak at composition. There might not be another day where the events that took place on December 6th, 2023 occur again, but I can be assured knowing that I have other battles to fight, other mountains of creative expression to climb.
But even this realization left me hollow. What happened when I fought that battle? When those hurdles had been overcome, and the last joys of creative expression were lost to the sands of time. Nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing, but the bonds formed between my closest friends, my current and future mentors and teachers, and the hundreds of hours spent pouring love into an artform so well-known, and yet so personal. If I ever do reach a point where composition brings no satisfaction, then, although I would undoubtedly feel frustrated, lost and angry, I can be rest assured knowing that the journey brought infinitely more joy than forcing myself into a career I have no passion in.
So I leave this as a message to the reader. Wherever you are in your life, there are always new places to see. But they won’t fill your memories. The trophies you win and the battles you fight, literal, or metaphorical, will not be the defining moments in your life. Your academic success won’t be what stays with you, when you look back on what a small or grand life you led. The connections you form will. Humans are social creatures, and we love being social creatures. When you perform on stage, we tap into that, the quality of the performance often mirroring the bonds between the performers. When you’re celebrated, you tap into that as well. But those fleeting moments won’t last, the people who made them will. Don’t forget that, ever.
