A few weeks ago we finally got around to watching the movie, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” based loosely on the English rock group Queen, but focused primarily on its flamboyant singer, Freddy Mercury. That’s just his stage name, I know, but this essay is not about Freddy nor the movie. For me, the latter was somewhat disappointing, in that it held tightly to the formula theme that is always used for performance stars: improbable rise from obscurity, outrageous fame that leads to outrageous excess, and then some sickness or slump that turns the star towards an inward reflection that makes all right again one way or another. Yup, all there.
What interested me most, however, was how Freddy handled the intense pressure that must have come from playing before huge crowds. The crescendo to the movie was the band’s performance at Live Aid before hundreds of thousands in live audience, and billions of others watching on TV. The movie showed him walking out from behind the curtain to greet them all, which he did in a way typical of stars: he opened his arms to them and told them that he loved them. At the end, he blew them kisses and, if I remember right, told them again of his love. That, too, was cliché. But that, this professed love for the crowd, is often really expressed by the stars. Just last month, I learned ‘why’ in a personal way.
If we can believe it, word on the street has it that most people fear public speaking more than death. Such we hear, and although I have never seen that specific poll and somewhat doubt it, there is some truth to it. People hate public performance, the worse for the more exposed they are. I have sat with people taking turns saying common prayers that have been said thousands of time, and have seen many forget the words. They at least have the courage to try, but there it is: the fail. And if some fail, so could you. And if you could fail, you probably will sooner or later – if you take to public performance. So you try like hell not to.
I am not immune to this fear, and in fact have failed spectacularly in some public performances. The fear is there in me, and were it not for my interest in playing guitar, I would probably never do anything in front of a large audience, or an audience filled with strangers, again. What happens is, if you play a group instrument such as the guitar or piano (or, gasp, the accordion) you are going to be asked to play. And sooner or later, you will not be able to refuse.
So it was that I took up with a classical guitar ensemble, to both get better at guitar and learn how to handle public performance better. It should work, I had thought, as years of classroom teaching had finally gotten me comfortable with that form of public performance. However, I was to find that playing in the ensemble resisted comfort or peace. Playing chords for popular songs was one thing; playing individual notes in tandem with several others was another. There, every mistake could be heard and noted; there, everyone, from your fellow players to the audience, could easily detect your mistakes. And with each mistake, lack of confidence could spiral out of control.
All was made tougher by a two-year reprieve from performance do to our spectacular reaction to Covid. When we came together again, most of us were raw, almost like newborns in the harsh Darwinian world of the performer. We practiced; we got by with a few puff performances; then we began some really tough stuff that was destined for a higher goal. Finally, the time for that goal arrived: we would play in the big city, the metro of big shoulders, Chicago.
Yes, it was to a small audience at a college of music, but still, this would be among people who were accustomed to attending – and comparing – innumerable performances. Surely, some hicks from the Land of Cheese could not measure up.
Fortunately, Chicago was far away and the venue was so short – no more than a half-hour of our own individual effort – that a good excuse for not going was ready-made. I told the disapproving master of the ensemble, the former band leader of the local high school himself, that I could not attend. My reasoning was true, and peace fell upon me. Until it didn’t.
Doubt began to form: was I just chickening out? Wouldn’t the ensemble be underrepresented beside the bigger group that had invited us? The others were going because they were making a trip of it, staying overnight in hotels with their spouses and shopping for Christmas on the Magic Mile. For me, it would be a two-plus hour drive down, a little bit of playing, and then the same drive back that evening. A huge waste of time and money for a gig that was being done gratis. All true. But still I felt that I was somehow missing out.
Another guy in the group had the same situation, and I had left it to him – clever me – saying that I would drive down if he decided to go. He said nothing, and it appeared that I was in the clear, until a few days before the performance. Hey, says he, shifting the burden, I’ll go if you do. Feeling guilty already, I would not go back on my word. We would go.
It was on the drive down that something happened – or didn’t happen. I felt a bit of adrenalin psyching up for the event, but no fear, not even the fear I had felt for the minor performances before. Instead, I felt comradery, as if we were all equally in this together. This continued right on down to the college, then right on up to the stage. When it came time to play, it was felt as a fun challenge that was actually enjoyable, accompanied by the knowledge that the audience was getting something out of it – even if only some pointers on what NOT to dol. We came together later in a joint performance, the professionals among them spectacular, and then had a pretty good smorgasbord afterwards as we talked congenially. The food was better than ours up north, too, except for the cheese.
Sure, we are not talking about Live Aid and Queen, but now I understand the stars better and how they can handle being stars. The problem with people who avoid like death giving a speech or public performance – and that includes most of us at times – is that we feel that the audience is there only to criticize. In most venues, particularly those that are free, that is simply not true. If we stumble and fail, people feel sorry for us, but will not throw stones. Rather, what the stars know is this: people want to be entertained or informed by someone who has the guts to entertain or inform. Just by willingly standing there before them is a sacrifice that most appreciate. In a way more subtle than obvious, they love you. The stars recognize this by telling the audience that they love them. The crowd loves being loved and so showers the star with more love. As we are comfortable to be ourselves with those we love, the star outshines himself with whatever talent he has. This brings more love. A star is thus not only born but maintained. We could do the same. It happened to me by accident, and with that, can be made to happen again.
So it is with ‘A Star is Born.’ Our species has been following stars for eons. We have now passed the height of one star that was born, Christ on Christmas, and the tale of the three wise men who followed that star. Christ came to earth to be king, which is always a sacrifice for the better ones, but this kingdom was to be much more. There would be no applause or love showered upon him in his final performance. He would be stretched out in pure humiliating sacrifice. But instead of condemning the jeering crowds, many of whom did come to criticize him, he begged his Father to forgive them. His last performance was the ultimate sacrifice and projection of love in the most hostile of crowds. Like Freddy Mercury, he was doomed to an early death. And like Freddy in the movie, if not in real life, he was ultimately reborn a star.
Big time. Like Elvis, Christ’s fame actually grew after his death, until the greatest empire the West had ever known officially deified him. For the ultimate in sacrifice and the ultimate in love – to give his life for his fellow man – he became the biggest star ever born. His life became the template for the star, although his falling from public grace came from the faults of the public and not his own.
A star is made to shine above the earth. Among mortals, the path to becoming a star is propelled by ego, which has to be chastened to make the star a true star. For the biggest star ever, the ego to be chastened was that of the crowd. We were taught that to follow that star in sacrifice and love would make each of us the biggest star of all. We fear rejection, but cannot resist the call. Like the star, we want to be loved and are pulled this way just as Freddy was pulled to the stage. And like Freddy, we must go through our periods of sin and redemption to claim the ultimate prize.
Freddy’s star will not come to this Freddy. I don’t have the talent and would be paralyzed before a large crowd. There is fear again, the opposite of love. But the template is there for all of us to see. We will all try to follow it one way or another, and with faith will come to understand that it was never about “me” but about all of us: every one of us both audience and performer, each of us reaching for the same star.
Happy New Year!
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