A few weeks later I got an offer to play a concert at Webster Hall in New York City. I accepted it the same way I accepted every other gig—immediately and regardless of pay level. Only after I accepted did I realize it was a ticketed show, and I was the only performer of the night. Whoops, I have got to start reading the fine print. I had played parties, talent exhibitions, and even a festival, but never completely by myself, and never in a ticketed venue. Italy had proven I had a small following in Europe, but I hadn’t the slightest idea if I could draw a crowd in New York City. It was going to be a grand experiment to see if I could sell tickets and put on an entertaining show.
I had recently started working with my first part-time manager. At his suggestion, we decided to use Webster Hall as a showcase to impress potential booking agents in New York. He also insisted I increase the production quality of my performance. In other words, my iPod had to go.
He encouraged me to hire a band, a sound engineer, and a content coordinator. I was completely against it. Paying for their flights, hotel rooms, local transportation, food, music equipment rentals, rehearsal space, and time would cost me a fortune. If I spent the money, I knew I wouldn’t be making it back. I protested, loudly, but he was adamant—this was my best chance at landing a booking agent. After much debate, I agreed.
I was introduced to a drummer named Drew, who knew a keyboardist named Gavi, and somehow they both agreed to perform with an electric violinist from YouTube. When it was all said and done, I had spent nearly fifteen thousand dollars. How did I have fifteen thousand dollars at my disposal without a record label, you ask? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I saved every penny from my other gigs to put back into my music. Saving was always the easy part; it was the spending that I struggled with.
On the night of the concert I peeked around the curtain and looked out at a small sea of teenage boys. I’ll admit, I was a little surprised by the demographic, but as the lights went down they went wild. Two hundred cracking voices chanted in unison, “Lind-sey! Lind-sey!” Two little syllables never sounded so big.
Gavi cocked his head to listen and then looked back at me with an encouraging smile.
“Who are you?”
Drew looked equally shocked. “I thought you said this was your first ticketed show,” he said.
Their surprise was nothing compared to mine. “It is,” I replied.
As the night went on I realized these people knew more than my name. Every time I introduced an original song they went wild, and every time I referenced one of my videos they roared. I was used to playing in college cafeterias where people were more interested in their coleslaw than my music, but here every eye was on me. I will never forget the sound of the crowd when I took my final bow.
The following morning I got an offer from a booking agent who had attended the show, and within a few months, I had my first small tour scheduled across the United States. Christmas came early, and I’ve been chasing the paper chain to the next big thing ever since.
THREE
THE PART WHERE I TRY TO TELL ENTERTAINING STORIES ABOUT BEING AN ENTERTAINER
Of this be sure: You do not find the happy life . . . you make it.
—THOMAS S. MONSON
ALL YOU HAVE
TO DO IS ASK
A vast majority of important and difficult jobs in life are thankless, but I receive endless praise for doing a job I love. It’s not fair, and I know that. I feel very lucky. Because of this, it pains me when I can’t say hello and take pictures with every supportive, adorable, or pleading fan I encounter. I do what I can, but I have to draw the line somewhere. I have to, or else I would become a professional autographer who used to play the violin and tour, but gave it up to make more time for selfies and handshakes. There is a fine balance between how much energy I can give to everyone else and how much I need to reserve for myself.
For me, the definition of personal space is always changing, but there are two places I prefer not to be approached for pictures and autographs: when I am at church and when I am “home.” As often as I can, I try to attend Sunday services while I’m on the road. It’s the one time I get to slow down, take my mind off work, and worship—which is why I don’t sign autographs or take pictures while I’m there. Asking me to be an entertainer in that situation takes me back to the secular world I live in every other minute of the week. Church is a comfortable, spiritual place, and I need that rejuvenation—especially when I’m on tour. Signing autographs in a meetinghouse also makes me feel a little blasphemous. I always love meeting my fans so if you see me at a church near you, please come say hi. Just as long as you remember, it’s the Lord’s house, not the Lindsey’s house.
As for my home, I haven’t had anyone show up uninvited to my residence in LA (knock on wood), but my tour manager, Erich, sometimes gets frustrated when fans find and camp out in our hotel lobby. In his mind, they are following me “home.” When I am on the road, home is where the cereal is. I always have cereal in the green room, in the hotel room, and on the bus. Other characteristics of my home away from home include space to unpack my things, a lock on the door, and a private bathroom. It’s not much, but it is consistent and feels safe. More times than I can count I’ve gone down to a hotel lobby on the way to breakfast, only to be greeted by excited fans as the elevator doors open. In my mind, I’m walking from my bedroom to my kitchen, but to them I am fair game: grab her while you can! I love my fans, but between you and me, I love them even more after I’ve had breakfast.
During my first tour I was taking a nap on the bus when I heard a knock on the door. Assuming one of the guys had forgotten the door code, I opened it to find a wide-eyed preteen boy with curly hair and Coke bottle glasses. When he saw my face he gasped, “Oh! I didn’t think you’d answer.” Shoving a wad of money in my direction he went on. “Please don’t shut the door! All your meet-and-greet tickets were sold out, but I have seventy-five dollars and I’ll pay you the price of a ticket just to talk to you for a minute.” My heart melted into a puddle at his feet. I was charging people seventy-five dollars to talk to me—what kind of terrible monster had I become?!2 It’s times like these that I am reminded of all the individual people to whom I owe my success. Like this young boy who stood at my bus door with his life’s savings, there are thousands of incredible fans all over the world I wish I could thank personally. We had a conversation, and of course I didn’t accept his money. But the reason I felt so terrible about his offer was because it came completely out of context. He came to my home (the bus), got me out of bed, and offered to pay me to have a conversation. Had he gone to my place of work (the venue) and offered the woman at the ticket counter the same amount of money to enter the meet-and-greet, his request would have been normal. Meeting fans is part of my job—arguably, the best part of my job—but if I answered the door for everyone that knocked, I would never have a moment to simply be a person. Other times, the situation is a little more dire.
I remember one particularly rough day at the end of my most recent South American tour. I accidentally ate some lettuce in Mexico (which is basically like drinking the water) and my body was not happy. I’ll spare you the details, but I got food poisoning . . . and not the good kind. In fact, I spent my last night in Mexico on the floor of my hotel bathroom. The flight home the following day was only two hours, but it may as well have been twenty. I sat in a ball with my knees to my chest the entire time, literally trying to hold myself together. Erich had also eaten the lettuce and was equally afflicted. Finally, with our luggage in hand we exited the airport only to be surrounded by a group of excited fans who grabbed and forcefully pulled me under their armpits for pictures. Erich attempted to step in, but he was also trying to avoid sudden movement. It was like a horror scene from a movie—where the audience watches something terrible happen, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. Erich and I were the audience to our own tragedy that day. It’s an absolute miracle I didn’t lose my lunch all over those people. I don’t mean to be c
rude, but sometimes people forget I’m a human, who might have diarrhea and the vomiting reflux of a geyser.
So we’re back to the same question: where do I draw the line? It’s a day-to-day thing, and I have to continually redefine my personal space based on my needs and the needs of my fans in the moment.
While touring through Mexico City I was walking near the venue when I heard, “There she is!” Looking up, I saw a group of fans sprinting toward me. My first instinct was RUN! But midstride I stopped myself. These were my people. Granted, they might trample me or pull me to pieces by accident, but I knew they meant well.
Someday my fans will stop showing up unexpectedly, and I will miss them dearly. So come one, come all! Just please don’t push, pull, or force me under your armpit. If you ask me nicely, I’ll probably crawl in there on my own.
* * *
2. Before you start protesting my meet-and-greet ticket prices, keep in mind that it is expensive to cart three buses of people and rented equipment around the country for your viewing pleasure. I love you. Don’t judge me!
DO NOT
REPLY
Let’s talk self-defense. Everyone knows how to take aim at a testicle, but emotional self-defense is a whole new ball game (see what I did there?). I just wish someone had taught me how to take, or better yet avoid, an emotional beating. Experience has been a good teacher, and now I will pass some of her wisdom on to you. Here’s what I’ve learned in the last few years about emotional self-defense.
STEP 1: ASSESS THE SITUATION (READ THE COMMENTS)
When I first started my YouTube channel, Devin wanted to protect me from the brave anonymous critics in cyberspace. He told me not to read the comments, but I couldn’t resist. Had I taken his advice, my ego might still be bigger than a popcorn kernel, and what a tragedy that would be. I consider the comments one of my biggest assets. Reading and responding on my channel is the best way I know to connect with my fans. I value their opinions, I want to hear their feedback, and the best part is, it’s free! At the same time, remember to take it all (the good and the bad) with a grain of salt. Which leads me to Step 2.
STEP 2: DO NOT ENGAGE (WITH THE ENEMY)
There will always be people who go beyond constructive criticism to say things that are just plain mean. We call these faceless cyberbullies Internet trolls, and they are constantly searching for an easy fight. Lucky for all of us, the best defense against cyberbullies is to ignore them completely. Their stinging words should only hold as much weight as the adult diaper they are probably wearing so that they never have to leave the computer. When the trolls attack, don’t feed them. Delete the comments and move on. If you engage, you run the risk of temporarily turning into a troll yourself, and that is a slippery slope. Even so, it’s one thing to delete a comment on the Internet and another to delete it from your mind, which is where your backup comes in.
STEP 3: CALL IN BACKUP
Bring in the troops! Or in my case, call Mom! Your backup doesn’t have to be your mom, but make sure it’s someone honest, whose opinion you can trust. My mom is my biggest fan and my most reliable critic, so when she tells me I do not “dance like a toddler who has to go to the bathroom,” I know she is telling the truth.
Apart from nasty comments on the Internet, I have a lot of wonderful supporters who have said things like:
“Lindsey, your a wonderful human bean!!!!”
To that I say, “No, you are a wonderful human bean.” Here are a few of the many reasons why.
For starters, the people who attend my concerts are anywhere from seven to seventy, and since many of them don’t frequent the usual concert scene they break all kinds of stereotypes. They wait patiently, they don’t push, they are respectful of the staff and one another, and since many of them are underage, they don’t drink or act sloppy. They come, they wait, they watch, they cheer, and they leave as politely as they arrived. It’s beautiful, and wherever I go I know I can count on them to treat one another in a way that would make me proud. In fact, I have fans across the world who have united together in fan groups to support me, and, more important, to support one another. I remember talking with one of these groups in Europe. They were such a close community, and they repeatedly told me how much I had changed their lives. I looked around at all their lovely faces and I knew it wasn’t me who had changed their lives—they had changed each other’s lives. And while they may not know it, my fans are constantly changing my life. Obviously, I could not be a performer without people to support my music. But on a bigger scale, my fans continuously inspire me.
I share a lot of my personal life with the public, and it makes me feel very vulnerable sometimes. When I get letters or hear stories from other people who have overcome their own demons, it gives me strength. On the days when I am tired and discouraged I pull out some of those letters and they remind me why I do what I do. They remind me that there is a bigger purpose to all of this, and that there are wonderful people in the world. These letters remind me that we can help each other.
Some of these people I only get to meet for a few minutes, and thousands of them I’ve never met at all. But I cherish each one the same. To my fans: You’ve given me more love and support than I will ever be able to repay. I may not have the chance to respond to every one of you, but I read your letters, I see your comments, and I hear your stories. You are brave, you are strong, and you are beautifully unique. You are the reason I have gotten this far, and you are my motivation to keep going. I love you endlessly, you “wonderful human beans.”
LINDSEY GOES WEST:
A TALE OF ONE CITY
Not long ago I was at a restaurant when my server mentioned he was new to the Los Angeles area.
“What brought you out here?” I asked.
He looked embarrassed and replied, “I actually came out here to pursue acting.” He motioned toward his apron, forcing a smile. I pulled out a miniature soapbox I keep in my pocket for such occasions and told him there was no shame in working hard to follow his dreams. On the contrary, it was inspiring.
I think that’s one of the things I love the most about LA—knowing I can go anywhere and be surrounded by aspiring artists, working hard and following their passions. It’s invigorating. Coming to LA alone was one of the first grand voyages I made in my music career, and sometimes I forget how scary it was. You want to hear that story, you say? Okay, I’ll tell you.
Following my first show in New York things started happening faster than I was ready for. Before I knew it, I had a full tour booked and was still sitting on an unfinished album. I needed to finish it quickly and professionally, and the only place to do so was Los Angeles. In an act of desperation, my manager reached out to a few people he knew from LA, and at the last minute I got a recording session with a producer named Poet. I was petrified. Up to that point, a close friend and producer in Provo had mastered all the songs on my album. Over the course of a year he and I had worked together whenever I had time and money. It had been a gradual process, and I felt comfortable with the music we created and the way we created it. The thought of walking into a professional studio in LA to play in front of strangers gave me sweaty palms. To make matters worse, my manager called as I was boarding the plane to let me know Poet only had time to record one song. I needed to either convince him to do two or meet someone while I was there to do the last one. He may as well have assigned me the task of growing a second head.
When I arrived Poet was so nice and seemingly buzzed that I actually felt relieved. Maybe he wouldn’t notice my mistakes? But the truth of the matter was, by getting into the studio, I had already won the respect of the producer. By taking time to record with me, he had already complimented my work. If only I had realized that at the time, I may not have spent the entire session backpedaling out of timid suggestions.
“Do you think we could add more movement to the chorus? I mean maybe, if you think it’s a good idea? I don’t know, never mind.”
At the end of the first day we had a ro
ugh outline for the song, and Poet suggested we record my violin the following morning. It had always taken me several days, if not weeks, to write my violin melodies so I went into Level-10 panic mode. Determined to impress the big-city producer, I stayed up all night creating a violin part. Of course Poet didn’t expect me to do that. In fact, when I arrived the next day with a finished melody he was slightly disappointed that I wrote it without him. Oops.
As we were listening to the rough track that night, will.i.am walked through the studio dancing around and high-fiving everyone he passed. When he reached my corner of the room, I did my best to act casual/cool, and we shared an uncoordinated high five, but when all was said and done I had survived my first big LA experience. In case you were wondering, by some miracle I was able to grow that second head. While Poet and I were recording I met another producer who had heard “Crystallize,” and he agreed to work with me on my final track. I postponed my flight home and spent two days writing and recording the last song on my album, “Zi-Zi’s Journey.”
I toured supporting my first album for over a year before I moved to LA permanently to begin working on my second. This time I wasn’t quite as intimidated by the big-city producers, but it didn’t matter. The anxiety over fitting in was replaced by an even more suffocating fear of the sophomore slump (you know, the notoriously horrible second attempt). My first album was largely experimental. I was dipping my toes into the electronic world, releasing one song at a time and taking the feedback as I went. When I started my second album I had a more specific vision in mind. I wanted it to be a concept album about breaking free, specifically from the bonds I had placed on myself. It was much more personal, and the idea that I might fail was much more daunting. I was also worried my first album might have been a fluke—a lucky break. Did I have another one in me? Yes . . . maybe . . . no . . . I don’t know.
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 12