The Art of Asking

by Amanda Palmer

  One summer in Melbourne, where we did a run of shows at a venue called The Famous Spiegeltent, we all slept in a single room, on a compilation of mattresses and futons loaned by various people. It was like a weeklong slumber party, or like a bunch of artistic bears hibernating in a very hot cave, all piled up next to each other with no particular boundaries. Mostly, we were staying in places like the ones we lived in ourselves: share houses full of grad students; giant messy lofts inhabited by musicians and painters. But sometimes we stayed in the more grown-up homes of working professionals who were happy to leave us behind with the Wi-Fi password, instructions for the espresso machine, and the keys, because they had to split for work early in the morning. It was a testament to the generosity of my fans that on several occasions, our hosts couldn’t even come to the shows, but still welcomed us into their homes.

  Couchsurfing is about more than saving on hotel costs. It’s a gift exchange between the surfer and the host that offers an intimate gaze into somebody’s home, and the feeling of being held and comforted by their personal space. It’s also a reminder that we’re floating along due to a strong bond of trust, just like when I surf the crowd at a show, safely suspended on a sea of ever-changing hands. It can feel almost holy, looking at somebody else’s broken shower nozzle, smelling the smells of a real kitchen, feeling the fray of a real blanket and hearing the crackle of an old steam radiator.

  Sometimes we’d have the energy to burn the midnight oil with our hosts over tour stories and wine, but usually we were all so exhausted from the show itself that we were more likely to collapse as soon as we were assigned our sleeping spots. Mornings were often more social, though we usually had a strict deadline to get out the door to the next city. Off days were even more fun—we could hang out with our hosts and spend more human time petting cats and learning about who these people truly were.

  Staying in your own home can be corrosive and stifling, especially for creative work. The surroundings can smother you with the baggage of your past and the History of You. Staying in a hotel can be a blissful blank slate. There’s no baggage, just an empty space onto which you can project anything. But staying in a stranger’s home can inspire like nothing else. You get to immerse yourself in the baggage of someone else’s past, and regard someone else’s mess of unsorted books piled up in the corner of the living room.

  It’s not always all rainbows and unicorn bedsheets, though. Couches come with people who own couches. Sometimes people just aren’t good at the dance, and can’t tell when the performers need to stop socializing. In those awkward situations, you smile wearily, edge politely towards your toothbrush, and make the best of it, hoping the hint will be taken. I will hug you. I will love you. I will genuinely admire your kitchen cow collection. But when it is time, please let me go the fuck to sleep.

  There’s an inherent, unspoken trust that happens when you walk through the door of your host’s home. Everybody implicitly trusts everybody else not to steal anything. We leave our phones, our wallets, our laptops, our journals, and our instruments lying scattered around our various mini-couchsurfing campsites. To my knowledge, I’ve never had anything go missing.

  I’m often asked: How can you trust people so much?

  Because that’s the only way it works.

  When you accept somebody’s offer for help, whether it’s in the form of food, crash space, money, or love, you have to trust the help offered. You can’t accept things halfway and walk through the door with your guard up.

  When you openly, radically trust people, they not only take care of you, they become your allies, your family.

  Sometimes people will prove themselves untrustworthy.

  When that happens, the correct response is not:

  Fuck! I knew I couldn’t trust anybody!

  The correct response is:

  Some people just suck.

  Moving right along.

  Shortly after my tour with The Danger Ensemble ended, I went on a solo tour of the American South with a sister duo called Vermillion Lies opening up for me, plus a merch girl and a sound guy, which made us a small, cramped van of five. We were staying with fans wherever people had volunteered, and in cheap motels when they hadn’t.

  The morning of our Miami show, we navigated our van through a rough-looking neighborhood towards the house where we were staying, eager to unload our stuff, say hello to our hosts, and take a nap after the long drive from Texas. As we approached the address, we exchanged worried glances as we passed desolate, boarded-up houses, cars broken down on lawns, and the subtle signals that crystal meth was probably easy to score. Arriving at the house, we were welcomed by Jacky, our eighteen-year-old host, into a small but warm and inviting home.

  Jacky’s family were undocumented immigrants from Honduras, her mother barely spoke English, and they made an absolute fuss over us. Jacky, who was beside herself that we were staying, brought out the medical-lab jackets that she and her friends had bedazzled and paint-splattered to wear to the show the next night, before showing us to our beds. There were only three beds in the house, but I had already met Jacky, her mother, and her brother.

  I’m confused, I said.

  No confusion! In our family, the guests always sleep in the beds. We’re all sleeping outside and on the couches… We’ve been planning this for weeks. You should have seen our shopping adventure for vegan food for you! She looked so happy. We’re going to give you tortilla lessons at breakfast tomorrow!

  I lay awake that night in Jacky’s comfy little bed with the purple quilt, staring at her moonlit dressing table covered in tiny perfume jars and books and the necklaces she’d hung on the mirror.

  How is this fair? I thought. These people have so little. I’m being treated like royalty by a family living in poverty.

  It wasn’t guilt that I felt; that would have been an insult to their generosity. It was an overwhelming gratitude, more than I knew what to do with. I thought about how I used to feel as The Bride, when people would throw in a ten- or twenty-dollar bill. Or when a homeless person would give me a dollar, and all I had to give them in return was my gesture of thanks, my gratitude, my stupid token flower. And sometimes it would feel so small.

  We woke up the next morning, and tortilla lessons were under way. They tried their best to teach us, Jacky’s mother gesticulating helpfully in Spanish. My tortillas were terrible and fell apart immediately. Jacky’s and her mother’s were perfect. My tortillas, even after many tries, did not improve. Everybody laughed. Breakfast was delicious.

  We hung around the kitchen for a little while, and Jacky told me the complicated story of her dad—who was stuck in Honduras—and how everybody was living on a knife-edge of worry that he wouldn’t be able to get back to Florida because of immigration issues. Jacky’s mother called out from the living room.

  Ooh! My mother wants to give you a present, said Jacky. She’s all excited.

  Jacky’s mother took me aside and pressed a teeny little Bible, the size of a pack of cards, into my hand. Then she said,

  For you. Thank you, for stay here. Your music, helps Jacky. You make her so happy, you help her. Thank you, thank you.

  I felt my insides cringe.

  How is this fair?

  This is fair, I realized.

  This is fair.

  The music is the flower.

  Things you get when you couchsurf that you don’t get in a hotel:

  The rattling sound of pots and silverware in the morning. Bathrooms with ratty, beloved mismatched towels. Leftover birthday cake. Dark hallways humid with the smells of baking. Looking at the weird shit people keep in their medicine cabinets. Cats to pat, who are at first standoffish then decide they love you at four a.m., when you’re finally asleep. Walls of Elvis plates. The recaptured feeling of having a sleepover party. Dodgy electric blankets. A chance to try on hats. Morning coffee in a wineglass for lack of enough cups. Children of all ages and temperaments who draw pictures for you. The ability to make your own toast. Reco
rd players. Wet grass in the backyard sunrise, where the chickens are roosting. Out-of-tune pianos and other strange instruments to fondle. Candles stuck to mantelpieces. The beautiful vision of strangers in their pajamas. Weird teas from around the world. Pinball machines. Pet spiders. Latches that don’t quite work. Glow-in-the-dark things on the ceiling.

  Late-night and early-morning stories about love, death, hardship, and heartbreak.

  The collision of life. Art for the blender.

  The dots connecting.

  I assumed that because Neil had poured out so many details of his life the second time we met, he must be, like me, a chronic self-sharer. In fact, he was the opposite. Shy and guarded about his real feelings most of the time, he had a lot of friends, but hadn’t told many people about his past and his own personal stories. That surprised me.

  You tricked me, I said. Why did you tell me so much about yourself when I first met you?

  Because you asked me, he said.

  Asked you…what?

  How I was doing. About my life. Nobody else had ever asked me before, he said.

  That’s totally ridiculous, I said. You’ve been surrounded by people all your life who love and worship you. You have friends. You’ve had a million girlfriends. I’m sure you’ve been asked relentlessly. Like, to the point of being annoyed.

  No, said Neil.

  Nobody ever poured you a Scotch and said, “So, hey, Neil, how the hell are you really doing?” No girlfriends ever asked what was truly going on? That’s utterly impossible. I’m sure they were asking but you weren’t hearing them.

  Maybe, said Neil.

  Maybe you just weren’t ready to be asked, I said.

  Or maybe, he said, I found the person I could answer.

  Back in music-release-land, I decided to stay totally independent. I’d had it with labels. I decided to see what would happen if I released everything direct to the fanbase, posting digital downloads using pay-what-you-want and sending CDs and vinyl straight to their mailboxes. I recorded two experimental little records: Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under, a mishmash of live recordings from Australia and New Zealand (including a song about how much I detest Vegemite), and Amanda Palmer Performs the Popular Hits of Radiohead on Her Magical Ukulele (featuring “Creep” by Radiohead, of course, and four more songs I’d proudly added to my burgeoning Radiohead-ukulele repertoire). I hired a publicist so that the newspapers wouldn’t forget I existed, but other than that, I flew under the radar and went straight to the fanbase, using the golden email list, my blog, and my Twitter feed to spread the news of every release. As I’d do later on Kickstarter, I released both of these records along with Bundles of Extra Things: $15 for the CD, $25 for the CD plus a personalized Polaroid sent from the Australian tour, $35 for the vinyl + T-shirt + button, $100 for the CD + the pillowcase + screen-printed tie + poster + pilsner beer glass + neoprene beer cozy + T-shirt + orchestra patch + three stickers + two buttons. (That’s not made up. That was an actual package.)

  It was also my first experiment selling house parties. When I released Amanda Palmer Goes Down Under, $3,000 bought you All The Things plus a show in your own home; I sold half a dozen of these, and had a blast delivering them throughout my next Australian tour. I took these preorders well in advance of manufacturing the goods so that we didn’t over- or under-order and wind up with an excess of neoprene beer cozies (the realities of price breaks meant, unfortunately, that I am STILL the proud owner of about 500 neoprene Amanda Palmer beer cozies—these are the joys of small-business entrepreneurship).

  I coped with the gargantuan task of manufacturing and shipping all of these releases with the help of my office staff of three or four people, some part-time, some full-time, all working in different parts of the world, on the Internet, from their own kitchens.

  Neil and I also did a quick tour together, recording a bunch of live songs and stories we released as An Evening with Neil Gaiman & Amanda Palmer. I was very proud: Neil sang onstage for the first time since getting a full beer can thrown at his face (requiring stitches) during his very brief tenure as a punk singer in the 1970s.

  Instead of selling that record straight from one of our websites, we decided to try using Kickstarter, which indie artists were just starting to use as a way to finance and ship records. I chatted constantly online, and listened to input and feedback from the fans. If they wanted high-end lithograph posters, I made high-end lithograph posters. If they wanted 180-gram vinyl, I made 180-gram vinyl. If they wanted Things—pillowcases with hand-drawn art on them, T-shirts that came in gray in size XXXL—I made the Things. The only department where I wasn’t open to input was the writing, the music itself. That’s my job, not theirs, but I tried to involve them in every other facet of the new world of independent artist-hood. They were now officially along for the ride.

  Right around the same time, I was with Jason Webley in New York doing a weeklong run of shows in a small theater in the West Village. We were performing in character as the conjoined-twin Evelyn Evelyn sisters, wearing a custom dress lovingly hand-sewn for two people of considerably different heights by our seamstress friend Kambriel. I was the right Evelyn, Jason was the left Evelyn, and we each used a single hand to play one side of each instrument—guitar, piano, and accordion. We wore matching wigs, Jason shaved his beard and wore lipstick, and the result was absurdly unconvincing. Our friend Sxip played the role of our sleazy Svengalian stage manager, and our actual tour manager, Eric, pulled double duty playing the role of the silent, oppressed, and worrisome stagehand. The twins were reluctant performers. The shows were shambolic and perfect.

  As usual, I was crashing with Josh and Alina across the river in Brooklyn. One day I realized that our show and signing wouldn’t be over until eleven thirty, and I had a meeting next door to the theater at ten the next morning. It seemed pointless to spend an hour getting to Brooklyn just to sleep, get up, and turn around again, but it also seemed ridiculous to splurge on a hotel. Without giving it much thought, I twittered:

  Who’s got a couch/decent bed anywhere in/near West Village? Need crashspace. Will be low-maintenance, in and out. Will trade tickets for the @EvelynEvelyn show

  Which is how I arrived, six hours later, at the doorstep of Felix and Michelle. In the moment my finger touched the buzzer, I started to worry that perhaps I was taking this whole Twitter-crowdsourcing thing too far. I’d only ever couchsurfed with Brian, or with the Australians, or with Jason by my side. What if these people were axe murderers?

  Axe murderers don’t follow me on Twitter, I reassured myself.

  But think about what the neighbors say about certain killers, I argued back, as they’re being interviewed by the local news. “They seemed so normal.”

  They said in the email that their names were FELIX AND MICHELLE. How could a nice-sounding couple like FELIX AND MICHELLE be axe murderers?

  Bonnie and Clyde, I argued. Bonnie and Clyde. Plus—

  The door opened and there was Michelle.

  Hi, Amanda! She threw the door open and ushered me into the kitchen of the apartment. Jesus, you must be exhausted. How many shows have you done in a row? Five? Sorry we couldn’t take you up on the ticket offer, we had some stupid museum benefit to go to. Let me show you the guest room…I’ve just changed the sheets for you and…wait, before anything…WINE. Red or white? Or Scotch? Felix just brought back a special bottle from Scotland…

  And she bustled me into the guest room, where fresh towels were folded on the bed.

  I stood there in awe, wondering how I ever could have doubted the universe.

  In 2011, I was on tour in New Zealand, an hour from boarding a small plane bound for Christchurch, when the giant earthquake hit. My flight was canceled. All the flights were canceled. My show, which was scheduled that night in central Christchurch, was also canceled. The venue no longer existed.

  I spent that entire day—and most of the next few days—on Twitter, talking nonstop with my Christchurch fans. All of them were okay, but a lot
of them were freaked out, and everybody knew someone who knew someone who’d been killed, since it’s a small community. Some people had traveled there for the show and were trapped with no place to stay. And everybody shared their stories, and I shared the stories back out to the worldwide crowd. We tightened.

  One of the New Zealanders, Diana, had suffered an unbelievable loss. Her entire family—mom, dad, and two brothers—had been killed in the earthquake. I reached out to her online and asked for her address and phone number. She was staying with cousins in Australia, and in too much turmoil to talk, but I told her to stay in touch, to call if she needed me, to use me, to use the whole community.

  A few days later, I played a show in Melbourne, and over a thousand fans decorated, kissed, and markered love-wishes for Diana on a bedsheet-sized blank poster I arranged to have hung in the lobby. I mailed it off to her. A few days later, she did call and we spoke for about an hour while I paced around a friend’s backyard in Melbourne.

  What could I say? She’d lost everything. Her family. Her home. Her whole life. Her Australian cousins were being kind, but she was having difficulties sorting out her head, and I asked her gentle questions, comforted her, tried to distract her and make her laugh. I assured her that she was loved, that she had a whole human family around her that would not let her fall or feel alone. She sounded strange, despondent, distant, confused, which wasn’t surprising.

  A day later a friendly newspaper journalist called me from Auckland. He was a fan as well, and had done some research because he wanted to do a story about this phenomenon: the girl, the fans, me, the net. He had just talked to the Christchurch Red Cross, asking for the details of the teenage girl who had lost both her parents and siblings.