The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  STICKS AND

  STONES

  You can spend your whole life feeling small by looking up at everyone above you, or you can look down and see how far you’ve come.

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” What genius came up with that one? A robot? What a load. Let me set the record straight. Throwing sticks and stones is mean (and archaic), but if you really want to hurt me, use words. They are much more effective.

  When I was a senior in high school, I took private music lessons from a man named Arthur Dumont. At my first lesson he looked over the top of his spectacles and said, “From now on, everything you play reflects me. I don’t like being embarrassed.”

  When he spoke, his fluffy white mustache bounced up and down like spiccato. There was no denying he was an incredible musician, but he was also the worst violin teacher I ever had. It’s impossible to be effective when ego takes precedence over education. I was a replaceable pawn, a demonstration of his accomplishments.

  For a while, I was determined to impress him and I did exactly what he said. My hand position improved, my straight-laced pinky relaxed, and my intonation was nearly perfect. He dictated my every move, and I listened. Until I realized I had lost the freedom to express myself, which was what had made playing music enjoyable in the first place. Like the computerized backtrack to a karaoke song, I was always on cue, but devoid of feeling. Practicing became a chore. Then one day I showed up to my lesson unprepared. Midterms were coming up, soccer playoffs were in full swing, and I was trying to finish up my college applications before the holidays. Needless to say, I hadn’t touched my violin all week. I faked my way through the warm-up, but halfway into my concerto he held up a hand in disgust.

  “Stop, stop, stop. Did you practice this week?”

  I lowered my violin before answering. “I’ve had a lot going on—”

  “Did you practice, yes or no?”

  “. . . No.”

  Immediately he knocked the sheet music from my stand, sending pages in every direction. Then, pointing to the door, he said barely above a whisper, “You have wasted enough of my time. Get in your little white car, and don’t ever come back.” He walked out of the room, leaving me to gather my sheet music off the floor.

  When I told my mom what had happened I downplayed it. Good riddance, right? But it hurt a lot more than I wanted to admit, and it planted an insecurity I didn’t notice for years. That was the last private lesson I took for nearly a decade.

  Obviously, this did not destroy me. I later found my place in music—writing and performing songs I love and am proud of, songs that make me feel alive every time I step onstage. Then, when I was twenty-eight, I was invited to play with the famous singer Andrea Bocelli and the iconic Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. I may not be an active player in the classical community, but I am no stranger to it. I played in classical orchestral groups for twelve years before going rogue. Performing with Bocelli and the Royal Philharmonic was a huge honor. I accepted it with gusto and was sure it would be the experience of a lifetime.

  Within minutes of arriving at my first rehearsal, all the excitement drained from my body, instantly replaced by insecurity and fear. From the moment I opened the door the resentment in the room was palpable. Bocelli didn’t say a word to me the entire day, and the musicians in the orchestra used his open disapproval as an invitation to follow suit. I hadn’t played a classical solo or followed a director in years, and there I was making a comeback in front of a few hundred professional musicians at The O2 arena in London. What was I thinking? When I made mistakes, they giggled, and when I missed my entrance, they rolled their eyes. I had been promised ample rehearsal time so I could get comfortable with the music, but after one run-through of the songs, everyone got up to leave. For a professional classical musician, this would have been enough, but I hadn’t been in this situation in years. The next day we did one more final run-through. When we were finished, Bocelli cocked his head to the side and said, “Better.” It was the only word he said to me the entire time. I heard a few of the violinists chuckle under their breath.

  When I finished my first performance on opening night, I didn’t get a single gesture of recognition from either Bocelli or the conductor. Before the applause from the audience had even died down the orchestra went into the next song. It was as if I didn’t exist. I’ve dealt with hate mail and hurtful comments since my introduction to YouTube, but I have never before felt hated like I did in that moment.

  A little nervous energy onstage is invigorating, but fear is crippling. As the night went on, I second-guessed everything I played and felt disgust from the orchestra reflected tenfold. When I came back onstage for the final bow at the end of the night, Bocelli and another soloist grabbed hands and bowed with their backs to me. His disappointment couldn’t have been clearer if he had booed into the microphone.

  The next night, as I prepared to go out to the slaughter once more, the stage manager stopped me.

  “Oh, you don’t need to go on yet. Bocelli cut your first song from the concert.”

  I stood there, clutching my violin to my chest. He cut my solo because I wasn’t good enough, an embarrassment even, and he didn’t have the decency to tell me before the show. Seconds later, the music started and I realized they hadn’t actually cut the song. They were just playing it without me. The first chair violinist took my part and played it flawlessly. A few songs later I had to go onstage and stand in front of the disapproving orchestra again. When I finished playing, I looked in their eyes and saw Arthur Dumont saying, “You have wasted enough of our time. Get in your little white car, and don’t ever come back.”

  I forced a smile for the crowd and made it backstage before the sobs hit. I stayed for one more performance, but after another humiliating night of scoffs and downcast gazes, I packed up my things and left. It was really embarrassing and awful, and I cried. But worse than the way they treated me was the way I treated myself afterward. This experience taught me a few things about myself.

  1. I care what other people think about me.

  I’ve always thought I had pretty thick skin, but the looks of disgust I got from those professional musicians made me doubt everything I was doing. For years I’ve gotten hurtful comments from anonymous people trying to bring me down, but it wasn’t until this experience that I considered what they were saying might actually be true. For the next several months I read comments on the Internet and took them to heart. I deserved it. They were right. I wasn’t that good.

  2. I was an even bigger bully than Bocelli and the Royal Philharmonic combined.

  Bocelli and the Royal Philharmonic wanted to make sure I knew they were better than me, I have no doubt about that. It worked, obviously. Afterward, I wanted to blame them for crushing my confidence and drowning me in fear. But that was my choice. Ultimately, the responsibility fell on me. They may have knocked me down, but I was the one holding myself there. I let these feelings of doubt and insecurity overcome me, until my inadequacies completely overshadowed my strengths. I lost sight of what I actually do, and I couldn’t see the value in any of it.

  3. I don’t need to be the best.

  When I got back from London I was in a dark place. On top of feeling inadequate, I was also overcome with guilt. I had been playing sold-out shows all over the world, when there were clearly other violinists more talented than me, who deserved success more than I did. Of course, I already knew I wasn’t the best violinist in the world (or even close), but for some reason this experience opened up an insecurity I didn’t know existed. Not long after, I came across some positive comments on the Internet, and I was reminded why I do what I do: to bring people joy. Am I the best violinist in the world? No. Do I need to be the best to bring people joy? No.

  I know there are other violinists out there who can play with clearer tone, vibrato, and intonation than I can. They can play Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky, and Bartók with better technique and accuracy. I applaud their talent.
But I too have talents. I have my own strengths, which are not directly comparable to those of the Royal Philharmonic or Bocelli, and I’m trying to be okay with that.

  • • •

  In 2014, my name appeared in the New York Times. With genuine excitement, a friend e-mailed me the link to the article before reading it himself. I was ecstatic, until I started reading and realized the review wasn’t a favorable one. In fact, it was a discourse between an EDM editor and a classical music editor, discussing how and why I had gained popularity making “competent but unoriginal dance music.” Both made arguments as to why I fell short in either music category. Among other things, one of them said, “I kept trying to listen and the music would just fade into the background. So who’s listening?”

  Other reviewers have had similar reactions to my life’s work.

  “There’s not nearly enough variance in Stirling’s vaguely moody melodies, and her playing consistently favors frenzy over emotion.”

  “Its static nature and lack of development can only be described as banal. It is non-offensive music, played in a pretty way. . . . At least she holds her instrument beautifully . . .”

  Not everyone is going to like what I do, the same way not everyone likes chocolate—which is baffling to me—but you don’t see Mars bars running from the shelves in shame. (I have also never seen anyone speak condescendingly to a candy bar, but that is beside the point.) I don’t claim to be the best musician. If being the best means I earn the right to look down on people and critique their accomplishments in defense of my own, I don’t ever want to be. People can say what they want about my music being “banal” and my skill level “competent,” and it will hurt my feelings (because despite what some believe, I do still have them), but I won’t let it determine my self-worth. I still take lessons, I’m working on my skills, and I practice as often as I can. Maybe my best isn’t as good as someone else’s, but for a lot of people, my best is enough. Most important, for me, it’s enough.

  “AND WHAT ATTITUDE

  ARE YOU WEARING TODAY?”

  I’ll admit, before experiencing it firsthand, the words red carpet always inspired images of glamour and excitement. I don’t want to spoil the allure, but there was a time when I would have preferred a gynecologist appointment to attending a red carpet event.

  My first experience walking a red carpet was in Germany, circa 2012. I was performing at a charity event for breast cancer, and upon my arrival the event coordinator informed me I would be walking the carpet that evening. This was news to me, and I didn’t have anything besides pajamas and a performance outfit in my small suitcase. When I shared this with her she replied, “It does not matter, you are the artist.” Good to know. I didn’t even bring heels, so I ended up wearing an old pair of Converse shoes and leg warmers with my outfit. This was before I had a publicist (or a manager, for that matter) so I had no one to plead my case to the press. Luckily, it was a small event and I was one of only a few performers that evening.

  That night on the carpet a kind reporter stopped me and asked, “And who are you wearing tonight?” I remember feeling a strange sense of pride as I smiled back at her mischievously. I leaned in, as if I was telling her an earth-shattering secret, and confided, “I bought this dress on sale at Forever 21!” For some reason I thought she would be impressed to hear I had spent less than fifty dollars on my entire outfit. After all, she obviously couldn’t tell the difference between my wardrobe and the next Dolce & Gabbana gown. Instead, she looked disappointed and moved along to the next, more appropriately dressed attendee. I watched her turn away and thought, But I’m the artist?!

  After attending a few larger events, I learned arriving underdressed isn’t the only way to be overlooked. On the carpet, everyone has a publicist who precedes them and makes introductions to different reporters. They walk around, spouting off information in a desperate attempt to get some airtime.

  “This is Lindsey Stirling, an electric violinist whose latest album topped the Billboard charts at number two.”

  It’s very uncomfortable, standing around in fancy clothes waiting for someone to take the bait and show some interest. Not to mention how unfortunate it is to be followed by someone more popular, which, at my level, happens a lot. No one wants to talk to Lindsey Stirling if it means there is a chance they could miss out on interviewing Katy Perry. All the while, it’s very important to act natural—even when reporters shove you aside midsentence to approach someone with more clout. Keep smiling, there are cameras everywhere! I should also mention that for every hour of the ceremony you see on television, there are several hours of sitting and waiting beforehand. This is the perfect time to compare yourself to others and recount all the reasons you should feel insecure.

  When my second album came out I returned to the red carpet—for the Billboard Music Awards. I had a more suitable outfit on this time, but the experience was only slightly better because of it. By this point in my career I felt as though I had earned my place, but by the end of the night, the only thing I really earned were fresh blisters on my feet. I was presenting that evening, and I spent the whole day feeling shunned and unappreciated. I didn’t get a dressing room, no one knew who I was, and security kept asking to see my pass when I was backstage. People were rude because I didn’t have a familiar face, and on the red carpet there were lines of reporters trying to talk to the more prominent people ahead of and behind me. I felt like a horse on display (an unpopular one at that), being ponied down a line of press, trying to win everyone’s bet. It was exhausting. I decided award ceremonies weren’t really my thing.

  A few months later I was invited to present and perform at the Country Music Television Awards. Though I felt flattered, I was immediately overwhelmed with dread. What if I didn’t belong? From a business standpoint it was an incredible opportunity, so I went. I won’t pretend I wasn’t nervous.

  When I arrived, I was put in a dressing room with several other people, one of whom was a popular country music artist who will remain nameless. She didn’t speak to anyone, took up half the room with her personal things, and brought an entourage to respond to her every whim. Every time she left the room several people on walkie-talkies began speaking at once.

  “She is on the way to hair and makeup, I repeat, she is on the way to hair and makeup. Over.”

  All the while, I sat on a sofa in the corner throwing the world’s most extravagant pity party for one. I was about to start a thrilling game of solitaire when Jennifer Nettles sat down next to me and introduced herself, with the most endearing Southern twang. She said more encouraging and complimentary things to me in the next five minutes than I had said to anyone all day. It was incredibly humbling. After the ceremony, Florida Georgia Line approached me to compliment my performance, and Hunter Hayes went out of his way to congratulate me on my new album. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed myself and I realized how selfish my approach to the evening had been. I had agreed to attend because I knew performing at the CMTs was a good opportunity to be seen and heard. That was all. I could just as easily have said hi to Jennifer Nettles, or complimented Florida Georgia Line, or congratulated Hunter Hayes. Instead, I waited for them to come to me because I was so worried and consumed with looking out for number one. I’ve since learned that the only way to really enjoy myself at these “glamorous” events is to forget about myself entirely. Sound familiar? I learn this lesson a lot, but every time I learn it a little quicker. Maybe someday I will learn it for good.

  In 2015 I graced the red carpet once more, for the Billboard Music Awards. This time, I was determined to be the Jennifer Nettles of the event. Instead of feeling insecure and awkward, I spent my time between interviews reaching out to compliment the other people around me. I was still one of the less popular performers at the event, but I actually had a wonderful time. At one point I saw the girls of Fifth Harmony backstage, so I introduced myself and congratulated them on their new single. They smiled and nodded politely. A few minutes later
I passed the real Fifth Harmony in the halls and I realized I had been talking to Pitbull’s backup dancers about their “summer hit.” Thanks, girls, for pretending to know what I was talking about. My attempt to “Jennifer Nettles” you might have fallen short, but I meant what I said about your hair being on point.

  Me and not Fifth Harmony.

  MY CAR

  A few years ago I was invited to a Capitol Records party. It was a fancy affair, with a lot of industry bigwigs and cocktails. After the evening was over, Gavi and I were waiting at valet parking when we heard a car slowly rattling around the corner from the lot. Everyone within earshot turned to look. When Gavi saw it was my 2002 Toyota Echo making the earsplitting sound, his eyes got wide and his jaw hit the floor.

  “No!” he mouthed in shock. “Linds, that’s your car!” He buried his face in his hands. “You need a new car.”

  I get this all the time—people telling me I need a new car, as if I’m unaware of how “old” mine is. I’ll admit, the rattling engine was a little embarrassing, but I got it fixed as soon as I had the time. Admittedly, I could name a few other problems with my car. For starters, she’s almost up to 200,000 miles, makes a screeching sound when I slow down, and gets a little jumpy in second gear; but who uses second gear anyway? The air-conditioning is also a little temperamental, but I discovered if I permanently removed the glove box I can reach my hand up underneath the dashboard to start the fan manually with my finger. Piece of cake. Most people see my car’s quirks and think I should put it to rest. What they don’t understand is, this car and I, we go way back.