DIY ethic ≠ DIY culture

Two weeks ago I was working on a statement of purpose for graduate school applications, writing about how my failures in the indie rock scene fundamentally reshifted my priorities and pushed me onto the academic path. While fishing for the best phrasings, it suddenly occurred to me that all my tortuous ramblings on DIY culture scattered throughout this blog can be summed up quite neatly as follows:

The DIY ethic simply encourages musicians to do their own publicity, sales, and so forth, thereby ensuring that only the music, and not the commercial side of things, should ever have to matter. This makes sense.

DIY culture, on the other hand, actively celebrates and rewards those musicians who best embody the DIY ethic, thereby placing focus squarely back onto the commercial side of things. This... makes no sense.

So there you have it, nice and succinct. And of course, I've since promised not to grumble any further on this subject, so we'll leave it at that.

Speaking of which...

In my last post, I mentioned that I only know how to do things patiently and thoroughly... an approach which can backfire in situations where I'm expected to shine by doing exactly the opposite. I can think of no better example to demonstrate this than my GRE score:
When I first saw this, my jaw dropped. How does one sink from 99th percentile in verbal down to a miserable 41st percentile in analytical writing, when the latter skill is pretty much a subset of the former?! I scoured the Internet searching for answers, and everything pointed me back to the same conclusion: I just didn't write enough.

I had read ETS's samples, of course, and saw how long and convoluted all the 5.0 and 6.0 essays were. But I can't write like that because on a fundamental level, I just don't think that way: I don't process my thoughts in a linear fashion. And while this might make me a terrible speaker and an awkward conversationalist, I've always believed it to lend me an edge as a writer--as long as I'm given enough time to formulate all my thoughts into a coherent narrative or argument. I've always received high marks for my research papers and obviously have no incentive to change the way I do things, so I just assumed that three to four concise and articulate paragraphs could merit an equally high score, especially under the ridiculously short time limit given.

Well, I was wrong. And as I continue to read about how the written essays are weighed simply by how well they stack up against a preset checklist of criteria, the more riled up I get. Hopefully these same sources are correct in asserting that the writing score barely counts for anything amongst admissions officers. One thing's for sure, though: I'm now determined more than ever to give Professor Burke the best damn paper he's ever read on Leos Janacek!

Ethno? Eff no!

I don't know how to do anything half-arsed; I can only ever do things thoroughly, and properly. And if I'm not given adequate time to see something through in this manner, then I will stress, starve myself, and stay sleep-deprived until either I achieve satisfactory results with half my body weight left, or I finally give up in a fit of self-loathing, spilling away ounces of self-worth that can take months or years to reclaim. Now, while there are plenty of situations in life where this approach might place me at a huge disadvantage, academia has never been one of them... until this semester's ethnomusicology course. For the first time that I can recall, I have a professor who actually expects her students to cut corners and skim through readings... and then compensates by increasing the workload accordingly.

For example, last week we had to read a 250-page book and then write out answers to two pages of questions. I was only able to do so this time because my other classes were off due to the Jewish holidays. I definitely can't pull off that kind of feat again, and now this week's assignment is the exact same deal! Last week's assignment took me at least fifteen hours to complete. On top of that, I spent another five or six hours reading an introductory book on African music for my own benefit, because by the second week she had already moved on to the "multiple context-bound affordances" of African instruments while saying little about what those instruments were!

Don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware that being able to skim productively is a valuable skill to have. I'm pretty sure Donald Trump didn't get to where he is today by nitpicking over the small details. At the same time, am I wrong to think that it's incredibly unfair to make a student's chances for success conditional upon how much he or she intuitively understands that the system is meant to be gamed? Because of course, the professor never explicitly instructed the class to skim the book; that much was simply implied by the intensity of the workload given, which only a rule-abiding overachiever would fail to understand. Yeah... it's becoming pretty obvious to me that her modus operandi is to reward the very type of student whose attitude and work habits are the direct opposite of my own.

But as I mentioned earlier, there's always a second option for those who just aren't up for the whole voluntary flagellation thing. As I was saying to my roommate Bob the other week, we're grown-ups now. We don't have to stick around these parts and watch ourselves get whipped. We can leave and seek out better places and situations that reward us for doing things well the way we know how to do them. That's why I left indie rock for classical music. And that's why, short of any miracles in the three weeks to come, I see myself dropping this class, the consequent "W" on my transcript be damned.

Addendum: Stay tuned...

No good deed goes unpunished

Miryam broke up with me last week, and I agreed it was for the best. I don't want to delve too much into personal issues on this blog, so I'll simply say that we're still friends, and I'm doing fine. I'm quite happy. There's something extremely reassuring about knowing that I'm a full-fledged grownup now, capable of accepting and handling negative situations the way any normal grownup would. No more messy arm cutting and whatnot. And the standard unpleasantries associated with even the classiest of breakups notwithstanding, that's a pretty darn good feeling.

Anyway, I bring up Miryam because we have certain experiences in common. She had always wanted to work as an artist in a creative field, and so she harbours a certain resentment towards her school and its psychology department as standing reminders of that crushed dream. Similarly, I feel a certain resentment towards the indie rock scene, holding its emphasis on DIY values responsible for my inability to succeed as a musician blessed with nary an ounce of business savvy. And we both have a tendency to lash out at the respective objects of our frustrations. Of course, as a psychology doctoral student, she tends to be immediately cognisant of this shortcoming and its painful repercussions. For me... it takes a while.

A few weeks ago, Miryam found out she had failed one of her classes, putting her clinic internship this summer in jeopardy. She explained to me it was because she had hardly studied for the exams, intentionally refusing to take the class seriously in a passive-aggressive swipe against her school; but predictably, she lamented, the only one who ended up hurt was herself. A few days later, she managed to snag a deal with the director of her department: she could make up the class by taking an equivalent summer course at another school. The cost would be $4000. I said that was great news, to which she responded that if she could simply convince them to let her retake the final exam, then she will have defeated them completely.

It seemed like an out-of-place remark to me, given how relieved I thought she should have felt about not having to lose her internship. I gently commented that perhaps it would be better in this situation to view her director and professor as allies, to which she responded that I was right; as soon as she had uttered those words, she realised that she was coming from a place of aggression and frustration. So we left it at that, but the details of the situation slowly percolated into the depths of my prefrontal cortex until it finally hit me: for the past three years, I've been just as guilty of biting the hand that feeds.

It's old news by now that the failure of Yearling's Bobtail hit me pretty badly, causing me to question everything I thought I knew about the world in general, and about the indie rock scene in particular. And while I flailed about in my impotent rage, those who know me best will recall that I consistently reserved the brunt of my ire for Secretly Canadian and Slim Moon at Nonesuch--the only two record labels, out of a hundred or so, that even bothered to express any interest in my band in the first place! Understandably, I was upset at being given an opening, only to have it snatched away at the last second. And yet, had I never heard from them at all--had they simply ignored us from the very beginning, like Sub Pop and Merge did--I probably would have continued to hold them in equally high esteem this whole time!

I've been reflecting on the absurdity of this outlook for a while now, actually. See, every few years or so, I'll reach a new plateau in my ascent towards greater maturity. Each time, I'll sit back and marvel incredulously at why it took me so long. And then afterwards, I'll wonder whether there isn't an even higher level to reach that I'm just not seeing at the moment. Obviously, past experience indicates that there must be--but the problem with self-awareness is that you can't expand it into those arenas of which you're not yet aware. Am I unique in this regard? After all, during the five years I spent holed up in my cave working on Yearling's Bobtail, not only did I completely fail to grow as a person, but in many ways I actually regressed--and I was already a late bloomer to begin with. So I definitely have more lost ground to make up than most. But really, does anyone ever fully grow up?

In any case, I'd like to think that I'm mature enough now that I can try to shoot for win-win when it comes time to promote the next album, and not let wounded pride or the sting of past rejections sabotage my natural inclination as a self-interested individual to place myself in the most favourable situation, even if that should entail forming alliances with erstwhile adversaries in the process. Refusing to win allies is counterproductive enough as it is, but actively choosing to make enemies out of potential friends is something worse than that: it's downright childish.

Thoughts about Dave

Dave's memorial service was today. I feel a lot better now that I've paid my respects. For several days, I'd been feeling somewhat guilty about not having spoken to him in a while. I had wanted to write about this sooner, but I was waiting until my thoughts on the matter were more fully formed. They're still not, but I guess I just want closure at this point. So here goes.

When last we spoke, Dave had offered to quit the band because he knew the chemotherapy was going to take up all his time and strength, and he didn't want to hold us back. Now, Dave has done so much for this band. I mentioned in my speech today that Dave was its backbone. He found all the other bandmates. He kept us rehearsing and playing shows. And being the older guy who had already gone through all the motions countless times before, he really helped me to keep things in perspective during all the setbacks and letdowns. Naturally, I was really hesitant to see him go. So I told him that I wanted to keep him in the band, in whatever capacity he saw fit, and that we could wait until he recovered. At the time, I was stressed out about school, and I also wanted enough time to finish writing the lyrics at my own pace, so realistically the band was going to have to be put on hold for an indefinite amount of time either way. He said he'd be glad to help in any way he could, and we left it at that.

So the main reason I didn't get in touch with him sooner--in addition to my general discomfort with talking to anyone, friends and strangers alike--is that I didn't want to add to his stress by burdening him with needless concerns about the band. I felt like if I were to get in touch, it should only be to give really, really good news. Maybe that was ultimately based on my own ego: being the frontman for a band that goes absolutely nowhere isn't exactly fun for me. I get extremely self-conscious when I see my bandmates volunteering their time and energy to bring life to music that's highly personal and meaningful only to me. And consequently, I'm always extremely hard on myself when circumstances fail to deliver the results I promise them. I can accept rejection for myself, but I just don't possess the kind of unchecked ego that's needed to absorb it for everyone else who counts on me and this band to succeed.

This state of feeling constantly indebted gets to be too much to bear sometimes, leading me to retreat into my own head. And so I started to indulge in this fantasy that Dave would get better just around the same time that the Rosalind Franklin album would start to create a buzz, and that the next time we'd speak would be when I'd call him up to tell him the fantastic news that we're signed to Mint Records and ready to tour. Or something like that. And of course, it wasn't mere fantasy; on some level, I actually believed it would happen in a more or less similar fashion. And now I'm kicking myself for just how naive that sounds in hindsight.

It makes me realise just how much I desperately need a storyline to follow, at any given point in time. When I was young, I had the story of my life pretty much figured out, and I've stuck to this script pretty faithfully throughout the years. I sometimes credit myself with being a flexible person, but really, that just means I'm open to editorial revisions. In truth, I don't know how not to follow the script. For example, it says I will become famous, so now I just need to continue developing the musical talents and creating the artistic works which will produce that result. I don't question it, I just do it. It's a comfort to have, to be sure. But now my regret for not having contacted Dave sooner is just one more example among many of how my tendency to place the script above everything else in life--including personal relations, as well as basic human existence--sometimes comes back to haunt me.

Addendum: I'll take this opportunity now to let you all know that I promise not to write any more grumpy rants here on this blog. Of course, I haven't felt the need to do so for quite some time anyway. As I continue to immerse myself in the world of classical music, the more invigorated I feel about all the new opportunities and possibilities suddenly open to me, and the more I'm willing to adopt a "live and let live" stance towards indie rock. Also, having a girlfriend these days really does help keep me in good spirits and feeling charitable towards the universe on a steady basis. And during the whole courtship stage, I was reminded just how needlessly stressful it can be to have to worry about harbouring a possibly negative Web presence.

(Incidentally, Miryam actually did end up finding this blog and reading it. All of it. I was worried that she would think I come across as a jerk. She said no, but that it does make me seem a bit naive. For some reason, that's an angle that never occurred to me. I see myself as someone who will eventually be renowned for my musical talents at some point in the future, so I treat the blog as an historical record of where my head was at during my time spent toiling in obscurity. I just assume that most people who read this blog will be doing so only after I'm famous, so everything I write is implicitly substantiated by that context. I never really thought about how it might read to someone in the here and now, who most likely would see me instead as just another emotionally fragile and luckless soul trying to make it in this business--perhaps one slightly whinier than most.)

But all that aside, Dave's death actually serves as a humbling reminder that life is tough for everyone all around. So I really don't want to be the cause of anyone's grief, no matter how soundly formulated I might believe my arguments to be. So... no more rants about indie rock on this blog. That's a promise.