The day I made my first concert, sang a note terribly off-key right in the last phrase of the first song and then all the power went out
What could go wrong in my first concert?
I hope this email list is like a Friday night when you come over for dinner at my place. I make you take off your shoes at the door (why would anyone wear shoes inside the house?), you sit on the couch while I serve a bowl of pistachios, and I don't stop talking about everything and nothing. I ask if you want tea while telling the story of the day I had my first public concert, where I went out of tune right on the last phrase of the FIRST song, and then the lights went out.
It was November 2022, the last month I lived in Lisbon. On a rainy autumn day, we were in a hall with blue and green tiled floors, setting up the "stage" for what would be my first public concert. But the concert wasn't just mine; Max Deme was going to do a performance that mixed improvisation with DJing and a projection of videos generated automatically from the sound. He was kind enough to use the videos in my presentation as well. All of this was part of an exhibition by the Itinerant Project, a very cool initiative for contemporary art by independent artists. Various artists exhibited their works of painting, photography, sculpture, and ceramics for one night.
Connecting cables, keyboard, speakers, computer, equipment whose names I don't know, and a spotlight hanging to the side for a dramatic lighting effect. The immense reverberation caused by the large empty hall made every note echo and extend like in a Gothic cathedral. We were stepping on the "weapons room" of an old barracks, long abandoned and recently transformed into a multicultural event space.
There were still shelves and hooks on the wall that I assume were used to store hundreds of weapons. I remember thinking about a world where more weapons rooms are deactivated, and more cultural spaces take their place. But on this day, my concerns were more related to whether my memory would cooperate in remembering the lyrics of my own songs and if my throat would be able to reproduce them correctly.
With the exhibition already underway, the audience was present, and it was time for my show.
With the spotlight pointing to the right side of my face, "Museum Hall" was the chosen song to start. Conceptually, it made complete sense, as it was composed precisely inspired by the day when the Itinerant Project itself turned my home into a museum (that part is for another story), with an exhibition of various independent artists, many of whom had never exhibited anything before. It's about using the space of your own home to be a museum of yourself, your quirks, habits, your art, bringing your friends as guests, and proudly displaying your history even if it is not validated by a large institution or a huge number of people. The perfect full circle choice for the concert opener in the Itinerant Project, which this time was no longer happening in my home but in a public space redefined for culture. What I didn't consider was that this was one of the most difficult songs of mine to sing, as it stretches for what seems like 17 octaves with few spaces to breathe, precisely at the moment when I am most nervous, at the beginning. I gave my opening speech telling the story of the song, talking about the Itinerant project, and started singing.
In the last phrase, I wanted to create a prolongation and suspense effect, extending the notes beyond what would be normal. It would have worked very well, but my breath couldn't handle how much I extended the "muuuuuuu..." to then say "...seeeeeeummmmm," and the air came out wrong, and I went out of tune on this note. It was terrible. Internally, I just wanted to go back in time and redo it, but of course, that wasn't possible, and the song had to go on. So, I did my best to make the rest of the notes come out perfectly. The song ended well, the audience applauded, and the dramatic spotlight went out.
It would have been the perfect timing if it weren't for a general power outage throughout the complex. At this moment, I found that telling the truth could be funny because I blurted out, "the power's out," which led the audience to laugh.
There was no more sound system, keyboard, or microphone. I paused the show not knowing if I could restart and wondered what the chances of this happening, especially to me, especially there, especially at my first concert, the first time in my life my voice reached a public place to sing the private symphony in my head. Bad luck, they would say. And my pessimistic mind confirmed it. There was nothing left to do but wait in the dark for the "technical difficulties" to be resolved by the power technician who was called.
Satisfactorily, the power was restored in 25 minutes, and the show could continue. From there, I relaxed more, let myself be content with what had already gone wrong and gave my best from there.
And here, me today writing this text initially dug out the memory for the aspects that had marked me the most: nervousness, a mediocre presentation, going out of tune on the last phrase, and the power outage.
Fortunately, everything was recorded on video, and after that, I edited it. Perhaps with a more discerning and affectionate look, I realized that my perception was completely wrong. The presentation was good, the audience applauded. Yes, I went out of tune on the last phrase because I wanted to create a prolongation and suspense effect, extending the notes beyond what would be normal. But the rest of the song I performed very well, without mistakes on the keyboard, and most importantly, what had completely escaped me: after singing only one song, not only dear friends who honored me with their presence but also complete strangers remained in the dark for 25 minutes with no guarantee that there would be a continuation. Thinking today, the "misfortune" of the situation was minuscule compared to the luck of having captivated these people with just one song, with 98% of the notes not out of tune. And the off-key moment happened precisely because I tried to extensively use the vocal power for a message: that independent artists do have the power to create their own spaces, to organize collectively, and create independent exhibitions with no financial support from any institution. That it's worth externalizing your creations and touching people through art. That with creation also comes the possibility of error, but above all, the certainty that it will have been worth it nonetheless.
At this moment, the tea is ready, and you wonder, 'how the heck did I end up here? I just wanted pistachios.'
So, pistachios for you, with much affection,
Andre
PS: By the way, I’m using a substack right now! You can actually respond to this email (please do! I’ll be happy!) or comment on the post on my substack: