Shortly after Einstein died, someone took his brain, cut it up into little cubes and soaked them in formalin. It was hoped that scientists, by looking closely at those little chunks of Einstein’s brain, would one day discover what produces that kind of genius. Scientists are still looking at those cubes through microscopes, grasping at clues to the secrets of the brain, but they may as well be looking at the sun through binoculars because in all this time I don’t think they’ve learned a damned thing.
No-thing No-thing No-thing No-thing No-thing No-thing No-thing No-thing— Zero
Meanwhile, another mere human in a different place and time was lambasting his brain for a self-awareness that only seemed capable of producing torment in its human host. A human creature painfully aware of his shortcomings and failures, reliving past actions and fretting future blunders in a never-ending short-circuiting loop. What on this strange earth is the evolutionary purpose of a brain that operates this way?
This was my state of mind in the days and weeks leading up to March 11th.
On March 11th, my band Agassiz opened for Dead Bob, the brainchild of legendary drummer and songwriter John Wright of Nomeansno fame. There is no other band, save Rush, that has meant more to me for such a vast swath of my little life than Nomeansno.
Though Agassiz has been actively rehearsing, writing, and recording for several years, we have not played a show in nearly five years. Performing is not our jam. We’re much more at home in our filthy practice space working on tunes. Once in a while, we record these tunes as more of a documentation than anything; we have no delusional aspirations of popularity. But when we were invited to open for Dead Bob, it was a no-brainer. Sharing a stage with a Wright brother would surely go down as a highlight of my guitar-playing life, so yes of course we would play!
Thus ensued weeks of hopeless anxiety.
I have never been at home on a stage. I can’t think of anything that makes me want to crawl into the nearest hole more than being on a stage. Ironic, given that I’ve spent much of my adult life tentatively slinking onto stages.
When I toured with Propagandhi I felt enormous pressure to “perform,” to give the appearance that I possessed some passion for the music, to give a good show for the drunk punkers in the audience. But I’m a pretty bland, introspective dude. Going wild on stage just is not in my wheelhouse. I was, to be sure, very passionate about the music, but I was more into concentrating on playing my guitar well than emoting for others. Yet time after time I’d walk offstage feeling like a failure with -12 charisma and would descend into the band room where I just wanted to drink a beer alone in peace only to find a bunch of strangers emboldened by their backstage passes drinking the last IPA I was saving for my post-show comedown. So, I’d slither back to the hotel, go to bed early feeling alone and depressed, and do it all over again the next day.
My brain was quietly, very quietly, breaking.
Now if you Cringe and shrink inside But say nothing Nothing to no one And if you cry But say nothing Nothing to No one Forget your life It's nothing
This is my eternal conundrum: I create music, and music ought to be shared with others, and participating in this makes me miserable. Yet my life would be empty if I didn’t create music and share it with others, and if other people had not shared their music by way of performing live. So what is the big deal? Get over yourself. Just get up there and play your stupid songs already. Who cares.
Well, you can certainly try to be the master of your brain, but ultimately the brain has a mind of its own. I spent weeks riding a downward spiral of nervous despair, reliving past shows and fearing the upcoming show with Dead Bob. I’ve had a recurring nightmare for many years that visited me often during this time: I’m on a stage and the band is ready to go and I suddenly realize I am not ready, I have not practiced, I do not know what to play, I am a lost child among adults who see me as such and are ready to ridicule me for this very fact once I prove to them that they are right about me.
Why, you may be wondering, would I put myself through this?
You tell me and we’ll both know.
Anyway, our set felt alright. It was, actually, nice to play with some stakes involved. The lighting was hideous—with all the flashing darkness I could barely see the fretboard of my guitar. But I no longer feel pressure to be a “performer” up there, so I just played the songs as if we were in the practice space (albeit with the lights turned off), desperately focused on playing well. In an unprecedented move, I dedicated one song to my daughter and her friend, who were in the audience. Speaking into a microphone is my ultimate terror. It triggered a brainless panic, and I messed up the beginning of the song. But I recovered.
I was massively relieved when our set was over. I proceeded to get drunk, excited to watch Dead Bob.
I didn’t know what to expect, but my brain, surprisingly, knew what to do. After weeks of living in past anxieties and future unknowns, it placed me smack dab right in the centre of the present moment, with a little help from the aural stimulation of loud, good music and the interference of ethanol molecules in the neural transmissions of my brain.
Nothing could be plainer Than the things that have been done And there can be no mystery in what is yet to come It's now that howls at nothing It's now that runs and hides It's now that winds its spineless coils and slithers out of sight
Not unlike when I saw Rush perform with my pal Jesus H all those moons ago, I proceeded to lose myself in the experience. Losing yourself in the moment doesn’t leave many clear memories, but I foggily recall dancing and jubilating and whooping and hollering through Dead Bob’s entire set. They played a few Nomeansno songs that, with their spineless coils, wrung me to absolute nothingness. My god, their rendition of “Metronome” was the best I have ever heard.
Their set ended, and I didn’t know where or who I was. It was an excellent feeling!
Thank you, Dead Bob, for reminding my middle-aged brain that once in a while it is really quite nice to forget the past and the future and just be.
Video by “Jammer” Fougere wherein Dead Bob performs “Metronome” and where I, mercifully just out of frame, lose my mind most wondrously.
It is upsetting to know how unsettling it is/was for you to play live when I consider how many times your doing so, was such an incredibly joyous and fun time for me in the audience. I really wish it were not that way for you, but selfishly I am so beyond glad you soldiered on. I truly can say I loved to see you play those shows with Propagandhi and your playing meant something to me. Thanks for all of it.
I go through the same thing whether it's talking on the mic at work (usually exactly zero at stake) or competing in a chili cook-off. I don't know what these brains are up to. I've also had a similar dream countless times (with me it's showing up to the first day of college and realizing it's NOT the first day or me realizing there was a class I didn't go to all semester and just realized it). It's like my brain is just begging me to relive the most miserable time in my life.
If it's *any* consolation, any anxiety wasn't obvious and I think that's the beauty of a band (or really a lot of groups of people that stand in solidarity) -- you can share some of the spotlight and be stronger together. Agassiz definitely is. The band sounded tight and confident. I was a little in awe about how you could pull off some of those flourishes live so fluidly (apparently without even being able to see?).