Rudeness and reverence. Reverence and rudeness. The musician's life.
May 03 2010

1. Good evening Dr. Davis.

2. It's an honour to have you speak to our class Professor Davis.

3. Genius!

4. Use the back door. Don't block the floor. OK?

The Pianobabbler has heard these all in the varied lives he has led. Curious, though- he's only heard items 3 and 4 as a musician.

Rudeness and reverence. Reverence and rudeness. We musicians accustom ourselves to this Manichean treatment. Why do music consumers administer it?

We collectively bear guilt for the insider / outsider, love 'em / loathe 'em, mother / whore attitudes towards musicians, and artists in general. We all treat some artists that way. Or those ways.

Take Shakespeare, for example. He shaped the language. Shaped our collective conscience. Shaped human perspectives. Shakespeare. Undeniably great. Except when he's not. Just Google Shakespeare sucks, or I hate Shakespeare. And haven't we all privately, if not publicly, dissed this or that play by the putative great one?

If Willy bears the slings and fardels of vituperation, what should we mortal coil artists expect?

Reverence and rudeness. Rudeness and reverence.

I've been rushed by international dignitaries after a show: Her Imperial Highness Princess Takamado of Japan, followed by Watergate hero, Ambassador Howard Baker, come to mind. I've been treated as beneath contempt, unworthy of food or drink, even less so of respect: one memorably unmemorable party put on by a hyper-wealthy bachelor stands out.

Maybe this ought not to surprise. Like a lover, art provokes passion and emotion. How do we treat out lovers? Mother and whore. Why would the musician's experience differ?

Last Friday night. We pulled in to the venue a bit early. High end clientele. Money. Money. Money. The manager approaches the stage, scowling. He barks at us. Something about storing our equipment out of sight. Bark bark bark. Scowl scowl scowl. His aggression gets to the point where I, Mr. Non-Confrontational, stood millimetres away from confronting him. But, I breathed. Stepped back. We attended to our business.

Cut to the end of our first set. We sounded splendrous. Mr. Bark Bark manager runs up, his scowl gone, a smile in its place. His prickles have become preening praise. "You guys sound great. Great! How much are your CDs?" He proceeded to buy one, at full cost. He threw us all warm glances of appreciation.

Rudeness and reverence. Reverence and rudeness. The musician's life.

The Pianobabbler has babbled.

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