The Decision That Saved My Music

November 12, 2007

Welcome, new visitor! My name is Ari, the man behind Aries9. Here I share my thoughts on music and life, so you can get to know me and my music. Thanks for visiting!

This may be a very long one. Wait to read it until you have some time — and when you do, grab something to drink, and sit in a comfy chair.

Everyone goes through defining moments. Positively or negatively. And when it happens, the experience is so intense, its significance so profound, that for a while afterward, you dwell on that moment — you think about it, talk about it, re-run it in your mind, until you come to some kind of understanding. Then you can finally get it out of your conscious mind, though it will still stay with you.

For example, for recent moms birth is often such a moment. I know some women who carry their birth experience — good or bad — for a long time afterward. And they jump at every opportunity to discuss, analyze and dissect the experience. (Why do I know this? I must have been a woman in my former life…)

For me, the last 2 weeks of recording my first album was that. 3 months later, I’m still processing it. I haven’t left it behind. It was literally my birth experience.

During that time I recorded all the vocals. Most of the other parts was done, though some lead guitars remained. As you know, lead guitar and vocals are two most prominent features in rock music. So I built up everything else, to nail the most important parts at the end, with the support of the full backing tracks.

But at the same time, I knew that vocals could make or kill any music. So that meant that while I assembled myself killer backing tracks, I wasn’t certain that the end result was going to be good. I have never been very confident about my singing, ever since that fateful day when I was 18, I went in for my choir audition in college. I had never sung in a choir before, nor taken voice lessons or trainings. I had naively believed that I was a good singer, mainly because I liked singing and I didn’t have the ability to tell intonation at that time. From that day on I struggled hard with my love of singing and my realization that I wasn’t good — at least not by the standards set by a classical music school known for its excellent choirs. I took 4 years of voice lessons and learned the mechanics of good singing, though all my teachers, who were all very accomplished singers and were thus most excited about working on stuff like developing a repertoire and discussing interpretations of lyrics, failed to put me through a brunt and basic exercise of ingraining good physical production of voice. This is one of many things that I understand how but struggle to execute.

So I was certainly nervous about recording vocals. I had hopes of capturing a good-enough vocal performance because 1) I was working on it by myself and thus was free of worrying about what anybody else thought of my singing, and 2) This being a digital recording, I had countless takes from which I can splice together an acceptable performance. (Which is a common practice, by the way — I’m not cheating any more than most other recording artists)

As I suspected, I wrestled hard with my vocals during those weeks. Takes after takes I poured my heart out into singing, only to play it back and hear a performance which were technically too imperfect but more importantly, too devoid of feelings to be acceptable as a lead vocal. I was panicking — this music I’ve been wanting to make all these years (and thus carrying enormous emotional baggages) is getting sabotaged by my lack of singing chops.

The fact that I was alone meant that there were no objective ears affirming anything good I may have committed on tape. In my desperation I became overly critical and pushed myself to attain my vision even more. The gaping gap between my ideal and the reality grew deeper.

In a previous blog I explained that this was the last thing I would do with music. I’ve tried many other methods of building a career as a musician — from teaching guitar to transcribing to film scoring to producing. This material was the thing I wanted to do the most — and when that’s not good enough, then I no longer have a reason to continue pursuing music. This kind of fatalistic thinking put even more pressure on myself.

As I struggled on, there were many low moments, where I considered giving up. And that thought scared me. It was scary because I was afraid that that was the right decision. That my pursuit of music was finally coming to an end. That it was a juvenile dream that I dragged into my adulthood, now hitting the final wall that would knock it out of my system. That I wasn’t really meant to do this.

Needless to say, I wasn’t having any fun at all at this point. And when I considered that decision, I smelled the sweet scent of relief. I dragged this baggage of my music all my adult life, and to finally let it all go seemed so freeing. I would leave it all behind and explore the world with new lightness, finally ready to be who I am meant to be. Every corner of my being yearned for this release.

Of course, giving it up would mean exactly that. I would have scrapped my work, sold my equipment, and would have probably avoided contact with everyone who knew my former life as a musician-wannabe. I would have completely severed my past, and pretended that it didn’t exist, as the severance would hurt and my former self unbearable to even look at. Recently my wife and I made a similar decision about another dream. To tell the long story short, we were building a natural house on our own out in the country, and then we ultimately abandoned the project before completion. We haven’t been able to go near our former property since we sold it. I’m guessing people who have gone through divorce or other devastating changes may be able to relate. The scar is too raw and you can’t go near it for a long time.

Anyway, my entire being screamed for that kind of severance. My gut, my heart, everything.

Yet I actually hang on and finished my album. And until now, I couldn’t figure out why. During those moments, there wasn’t any doubt that giving up was the right decision.

This has perplexed me and that’s why I can’t stop reliving that experience thus far. I really was completely convinced of my decision back then. As convinced as anything I have been in my life. Yet I defied that conviction, and defying turned out to be the right path. Well, “right one” is a subjective matter — decisions are neither wrong nor right in themselves, what makes a decision the right one is because we choose to make it right. But still, I’ve been in a strange place of being glad of what I have done even though I am now less sure of myself because what I wholeheartedly believed back then, I didn’t pursue and I ended up being right.

This goes against all my experience from my life up to that point. I believed that my gut knew what was right always, though sometimes I misinterpreted it because my feelings got in the way. But this time, even my gut was wrong. Or was it?

From the outside, you’d think that I had this higher reasoning that knew better and prevented me from my emotional plea to be free of the burden. But that’s not it. I had no “higher reasoning” at that point. I was really convinced.

I thought that perhaps I stayed in the game because I was too chicken to give up, to follow through on the tough-but-right decision. I can’t deny that possibility. However…

Tonight I was talking to my wife and in our conversation I did remember something I had forgotten. During those low moments when I was convinced that I should courageously accept my resignation, I also told myself to sleep on the thought. And that I shouldn’t make decisions when I was in such an extreme state of mind.

I’ve had very close dealings with mental illness in the past. My own was just a dramatic case of adolescence, but I’ve been close to a family member who went through a full-blown major depression. It was during then I learned that lesson, and I would tell that person — to not make any major decisions when you’re not in a good frame of mind. Just sleep on it, go out and smell the flowers, take a break — then come back and see if you still feel the same.

Our minds are such funny things. It can play tricks and make you see things that are not there. I still don’t trust my feelings on things — the same piece of music can sound excellent on good days and trashy on bad days. My judgment completely depends on my mood at the time. That’s why I’ve increasingly stopped acting out of my feelings. A feeling that’s strong enough can even come up with its seemingly-reasonable-logic to convince your brain that a certain decision is the right one, when someone from a truly objective point of view would disagree. Such a feeling can cover up whatever the “gut” is saying.

Anyway, I’m sure you can guess what happened by now. After sleeping on the thought overnight, I came back the next day and I decided to give one more chance to my music. And this repeated several times. Toward the end, I told myself “failure is not an option” every time I got discouraged. That thought comforted me and gave me enough energy to carry on.

Why did I say “failure is not an option?” It’s because I set out to do my best, from the beginning, and I had to remind myself of that intent. The reason I got discouraged and considered quitting was because there was a gap between what I thought I was capable of achieving and the reality. I reminded myself, however, that as long as I put together something that truly was as good as I could make it, in time I’ll be able to accept it for what it is and be satisfied with it. That had happened before this project, several times. I think all artists struggle between his art in his mind and his art in reality — as they are never exactly the same. Though a worthy goal, perfection is unattainable, so I reasoned that all we’re asked to do as creators were to give it everything you’ve got.

That, I was doing. I was certain of that.

So I hang on. I never achieved the vocal performance I hoped for, but I put together something that clearly could not be bettered with my current ability. That would have to be good enough, I thought, since I can’t do any better.

Don’t get me wrong, I do think it’s a great piece of work, my album. It’s well-written, well-performed, well-produced (considering my budget was minuscule), and above all, unique. It has been good enough for a number of people, too — good enough meaning, they like it and they think it’s good music. But from the beginning, I knew I wasn’t the one who decided the value of my music for other people. What mattered, and what I wanted, was a piece of work I could be proud of.

To be honest, I’m still not completely there yet. On some days I listen to my music and cringe, because all I hear are the places where the music falls short of my expectations. Some days, I wonder if I should have given up then.

But most days, I’m grateful that I didn’t. For whatever reasons, it was the hardest music I’ve made so far, and I gave my all and I finished it. That alone, I should be proud of.

As for being satisfied with the end result, I think I’m getting there. I am hopeful. One of these days, soon — satisfaction will arrive at my door. Then I’ll let her in and give her a big hug.

Filed under: Ari, Aries9, Music, Reflections |