by Dodie Clark
you stepped off the edge,
but you didn’t check where you’d fall,
and now look at what you’ve done.
just a memory now.
shut it down,
get it into your brain –
this will all just end in flames!
where’s that self-control that you preach?
and now look at what we’ve done;
just a memory now.
WHAT’S IT LIKE?
Please be happy. When you are in a good mood, we feel like sunshine. There are no troubles, I don’t feel any weight in my mind – I am tied to hundreds of helium balloons that let me leap and land softly with every step. Everything is so easy and beautiful; effortless laughter, pure, gooey delight.
I want you to be as close to me as possible, at every minute of the day. When we pull away, all I can think about is coming closer again. My heart glows in my centre, bright, white, yellow, pink, orange, deep reds and purples.
Feeling cared for by the human who does this to me is the closet thing to magic I will ever experience. I am so grateful, so lucky to have you look into my eyes and wish them to be happy. Can I really make your chest feel like mine?
CRUSH
You’ll have to excuse my fourteen-year-old brain. I did a little research on my old Facebook conversations and I dug deep into my 2009 memory banks. What’s hilarious is that I remember thinking I had learned all that I’d ever learn, and that everyone around me just didn’t understand what I was going through when they were trying to give me advice. I felt truly unlovable, from myself and anyone I fancied:
* * *
Omg. I love him. Every time I look at the corner of the room I imagine us both rolling around on the floor. He is SOOO FITTTTT.
First of all, you are fourteen; hold off a little. Also, that’s not as exciting as you think it is. Second, that’s not love. You don’t even know him. Like, actually know him. I know you’ll argue that you do, but people are not what they seem on the surface – ESPECIALLY at fourteen.
I DO KNOW HIM. Anyway, I can get to know him. If I wear my Uggs and leggings and that long top with my padded bra and lip gloss and fluff up my hair a bit I bet he’d notice me. I can imagine him looking at me like ‘wow’.
Oh, Dodie. There is absolutely some boy on this earth at your time who would love even the things you hate; which I know, at this age, is a lot. They’d find your bracey smile cute, your extreme excitement at everything endearing, your poker-straight badly layered hair as stylish. But this particular boy will never look at you the way you want to be looked at, no matter how willing you are to mould yourself into whatever he would find attractive. The more you pour your thoughts into obsessing over what you’re not, the more you’re going to hate yourself.
That’s what all the magazines say: learn to love yourself. But I hate my nose and my non-existent boobs and my spots and my hands and feet and arms and EVERYTHING. I will never love myself :(
All right, Miss Dramatic. But yes, sorry – you’re insecure. And it will take years of experimentation with make-up, dress sense and even different mannerisms before you settle into someone you’re happy being. You will get there; but for the next three years or so you’re going to seek affirmation from people who don’t know you and certainly don’t love you because you’re the most terrified of what they think of you. And honestly this is something you’ll still struggle with now and again in your twenties; but soon you will learn that those people’s opinions don’t matter at all. It would be good if you could pour all your efforts into being the best person you can be for the people who do know you, not the coolest person for the ones who don’t, but you will learn these lessons messily; and sometimes that’s the best way. Also, here’s a curveball; you could potentially talk to this guy and actually tell him that you like him, rather than taking sneaky photos of him and trying to get his attention by telling terrible jokes.
WHAT?! No! Are you crazy? That would end in flames! He would never talk to me again!
Ah yes, I bet you’d miss those many long, deep conversations you’ve both shared together. What was it last week? Didn’t he ask you for one of your prawn cocktail crisps?
I’m being mean. What I’m trying to say is, if even the idea of being honest to someone is enough to send you into a panic about a lack of contact, perhaps this isn’t someone you should be spending so much time thinking about. Furthermore, if someone doesn’t want to know you, why on earth would you want to know them?
Point is, you’re gonna be okay. You will daydream and obsess over this boy who is not right for you in any way, and in a few years’ time you will be asked out on a date by someone you wouldn’t expect to want to know. But he will look at you the way you have been waiting to be looked at, and the way you will learn to look at yourself.
AN AWKWARD DUET
Do you want to go first?
’Cause I’m happy to wait –
I practised really hard,
but I’m finding it strange to start
with you.
So how does it go?
I’ve forgotten the tune, I
haven’t warmed up today,
so I might sound a bit strange;
(yes, I do).
And I can sing!
I swear it’s true;
I’m just a little nervous in front of you.
So who’s on the 3rd?
I think I’m better at melody!
Oh, I’m going to get it wrong,
shall we try another song?
No? . . . okay.
Let’s just go for a take!
And see how we sound!
(My heart is beating fast,
oh, vocal cords please last!)
Here we go!
’Cause I can sing!
I swear it’s true;
I’m just a little nervous in front of you.
* * *
I think I messed up,
I just wanted to improvise.
Shall we do this another day?
. . . well . . . I think I sounded great.
And I can sing!
I swear it’s true;
I’m just a little nervous in front of you.
AWKWARD
The most awkward day of my life was in 2010 on my first date. A boy in my theatre group who I’d chatted to and flirted with a bit (well – I didn’t really know how to flirt at fifteen – there was a lot of hair fluffing and loud giggling) had strolled up to me after rehearsal and asked me out. I squeaked out an ‘okay!’ and then continued to panic for the days leading up to our planned day of ice skating and pizza. Alice had then warned me that I should never go on a dinner date with a boy (‘he can’t watch you EAT, you’re a fucking mess when you consume food’) so I cancelled the pizza. Turns out the ice skating session had to be pre-booked, so we didn’t end up doing that either. I wore my favourite woollen booties, SOAKED myself in Claire’s Accessories perfume, and practically emptied an entire can of hairspray on my backcombed hair. Mum dropped me off in the shopping centre and I wandered up to a boy in a grey coat, who also reeked of product. We greeted each other with shaky voices and hugged quickly, misjudging which side either of us would lean to and ending up in a sort of cheek-to-cheek collision of bodies. That moment set the bar on where the awkwardness level would be for the rest of the day, and so we shuffled around Harvey Harlow Centre in the most painful, cringe-filled silence.
We both frantically searched for a way to make conversation, but every topic thrown out there by either one of us for some reason was closed up in less than five sentences.
‘Do you want to get some chocolate from the sweet shop?’
‘I don’t really like chocolate really. I might get some fizzy strawbs though.’
‘Oh really? How can you not like chocolate?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
And then it would return back to the nausea-inducing atmosphere and I’d wonder how on earth I could leave
as soon as possible. I think I’d even planned out a way to set up a fake fainting episode, and I was a just a few painful sentences away from dropping to the floor as a way to escape.
Somehow the day ended, and I vowed to never ever spend a day with just one other person whom I didn’t know very well again.
Two things I was sure would be certain from that day:
1. Some people were just good at being social, and I was not one of those people. One-on-one interactions had a massive black X over them, and I would forever cling to people I knew well in unfamiliar situations.
2. I would never talk to that boy again.
Turns out I was wrong about both. One-on-one interactions, especially with people you don’t know, have a special sort of intimacy I now live for. At first, it might be like a game; you’re both dancing your way through sentences, trying to land on something solid to lay a conversation on. And sometimes you won’t; but the silence doesn’t have to be uncomfortable. I will smile through it, and then open myself up. I am not afraid of being vulnerable, because it encourages others to be too, and then there’s no games, or dancing; just pure, excited connection.
(Of course I don’t have the complete hang of this; no one does! I still have terrible social experiences, and I’ll go for weeks obsessing about something I said that didn’t land as planned. But I like to keep the idea of it positive, and I’ll keep practising and enjoying my one-on-one chatter.)
And that boy ended up being my first kiss and one of my best friends throughout secondary school. Turns out a terrible hello or a terrible goodbye might take a few times to get right.
BEN’S VIEW OF MY CONCERT
I’m the guy Dodie snogged in school.
Mid-morning Dodie texted me out of nowhere. She was putting a gig on tonight and wondered if I was around to pop down. She sent over the time and place.
I hadn’t seen Dodie all year and I wanted to catch up with her.
When I walked in, the bar was empty. Wooden panelling for miles. Barman a bit tinny. Not a concert to be found.
‘I’m here!’ I messaged her. I’m not convinced.
I tried to find the toilet. It was invisible to the naked eye – surprise, it’s one of the wooden panels – but before I could enter I received a reply: ‘Give ur name at the door!’
I spied the side-door back towards the entrance and headed down a dark set of stairs. The gig was rammed. Across the crowd, and past a set of spacious booths, a band wearing denim smacked out something rhythmic. I had that weird feeling I’ve started having in certain situations recently: I’m possibly the oldest person in the room.
At this point I realised that I didn’t have any more information about what the plans were. I wished that one of us had spelled it out. I’d assumed I would stride up to some sort of backstage and approach a stern bouncer. He would demand my name; I would provide it; he would pause for effect, then permit me to enter, and his severe demeanour would transform into a fatherly pride.
But it was not to be! All I could see of a backstage was a tiny door directly behind the band, and climbing across their cramped performance would have looked rude.
‘I’m guessing I won’t see you beforehand so break a leg!’ I messaged her. To my right there was a merch table tucked away from the crowd. Behind it I recognised Dodie’s mum. When she spotted me she reached across and gave me a big hug.
The last time we’d made eye contact, I’d called Dodie up at 11 p.m., professing my love through drunken sobs, so her welcoming gesture was a pleasant surprise.
Dodie responded: ‘Yeah I’m just chillin in a booth!’
As you can see, the music was so loud we had to shout in our texts.
‘Chill away my dear!’ I replied.
‘Come say HI!’
I craned my head. Neon-lit booths of beautiful youths tapped their phones to the tempo of the songs and ran wine-slick fingers through their hair.
To the side of ‘the glamorous’ I spotted Dodie in a booth with some friends. I squeezed through the people throwing her polite but wondering glances and at last wedged in among her and her friends. Finally the evening plans made sense, and I felt like I’d come across as awkward and silly.
‘I was directing a play called 5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche . . .’
The girl next to me lost it.
‘What? It’s a great title.’
‘No, I love it.’
‘And why did it go wrong?’ another guy asked.
‘Oh, we had problems with patents, some of the actors were flaky . . . But we received several five-star reviews.’
‘Ideal! One for each lesbian,’ he replied.
Dodie and I had a quick catch-up in each other’s ears. Our lives were iffy, three out of five stars. That’s all we managed to catch up between us. Before long we were all gently heckling the Brummy band.
Later on, Dodie said something I’ve heard her say a few times before on similar occasions. ‘It’s so weird watching you all together. It’s like these different worlds colliding!’ She squirmed and laughed at the same time, as if watching a magic trick.
By now she probably qualifies as famous: hardly a household name, but enough to be recognised in public, or to appear on the side of buses. Dodie has a significant community of fans supporting her work. I wonder how much this lady who has carved a successful career in the music industry still feels tethered to the sixteen-year-old I was friends with?
I realised what the evening was about. Our friends were a way for us to draw ourselves tighter. Inviting us there that night, she had reassembled these distant parts of herself, stacked them against each other, and at last could laugh at the beautiful shape they made. Herself reflected back at her – something comforting, something reassuring.
The band finished playing and Dodie was called onto the stage. We wolf-whistled and over-cheered and she shushed us, embarrassed. It was a game: could we get her to break her stubborn humility?
For a moment it felt like we were winning – she was growing embarrassed – until a change came over her, and she couldn’t hear us. She was focusing. She pottered onto the stage – then she conquered it. For the next half hour she was untouchable.
‘Fuck. I love eighteen plus gigs. It’s like you’re my people.’
And the crowd loved it.
Vanessa Place wrote that everything can be art; the task of the artist is just to work out how you can put something so that it becomes art. In Dodie’s performance she’s worked out how to put herself on the stage. This is really what seems to be the centre of her appeal. Over time she has built her courage, revealing her secrets, her insecurities, guilts, trials. She has since become an artist, honoured with putting into words what many cannot, revealing experiences many had not recognised, and then making them sing.
And what impresses me the most now is that Dodie has become a powerful lyricist. Every word is made to count, they glow beneath the music. It’s a sign that her talent is evolving: there’s a career ahead of her.
It’s a privilege to be inspired by a friend, and I’ve found it’s a rare one.
Dodie plays ‘6/10’, a song about insecurity – recognisably hers from school. But I also notice that it’s not confessional; she isn’t just telling a story. Take this line: ‘Oh, I’ll just call a taxi/I’ve gotta be up early tomorrow again.’
It feels like such an obvious thing for anyone to say at the end of a shitty evening. Notice that it’s an excuse to leave. It’s a feeble, empty saying, one we recognise as hiding any number of agonies. The feeling that you’re wasting your time – specifically, all of it. The feeling that the night hasn’t gone on for long enough; with just a little more time, it could have turned perfect. And the feeling that the night has gone on for too long. Not everyone can produce a line as subtle as this. Everyone’s trying to.
Dodie succeeds in creating beautiful songs because she isn’t scared of being afraid. The difference between a song that speaks to you and a song that you cringe at is that the success e
xpresses vulnerability without fear.
And how is that? Dodie’s bravery comes from her comfort with living honestly. She’s in the business of sharing everything dear to her, sooner or later. In realising that, and being true to herself, nothing can touch her. This has only come from years of practice; she has had to earn it, but its importance has mattered beyond her art. Mastery of a craft is also the discovery of how best to make oneself.
I remember once when she came to visit me while I was finishing my degree and we were discussing how we’d spent the past few years.
‘But anyone can do it,’ she insisted, referring to her YouTube channel. ‘Everyone should do it. Buy yourself a camera and just talk.’ Everyone had the potential. It was something I had always believed, but Dodie knew it, she was adamant. I asked her at what point her hobby became her profession.
‘I don’t understand why it happened. I kinda got lucky on a few occasions, which opened up several doors. But considering how lazy I am, seriously, anyone can do it.’
Though she said this at the time with her familiar humility, we both knew she hadn’t been lazy. We all have that weird habit of saying that, don’t we? Only last week I called her and said the same thing. She was quick to correct me, and spoke in a measured, methodical way: ‘Everyone has lazy periods and productive periods. You’ll pick it up more intensely soon.’
We live for long enough to fall in love with thousands of artists, valuing them all uniquely – so, yes, anyone can do it. There is enough room in the world for your creation too, and you don’t need to be famous. With a platform like YouTube, a small audience can mean enough.
Between songs Dodie chatted with the audience. Interestingly I found Dodie talked more confidently on stage than she ever did in person. Granted, it’s less awkward to say personal things to a room than to talk about them. But the audience is her best friend: someone who understands her; who makes her laugh and finds her funny; who she would give anything to. She introduced a new song she’d just finished writing, ‘Would You Be So Kind’, and it was about a guy she had been seeing and had fallen in love with.