SongLab Deep Cuts Vol. 30: You’re Supposed to Be Nervous

There is something I wish more musicians talked about.

Being nervous is normal. FOR REAL.

The anxiety before a show.

The feeling that maybe you aren't good enough.

The second-guessing…

The voice in your head asking whether you actually “belong in the room.”

The fear that the song isn't good enough.

The feeling that everyone else knows what they're doing and you're somehow the one person who doesn't.

That feeling has a name now.

Imposter syndrome.

And almost every artist we know has experienced some version of it.

The Vulnerability Is the Point

Being an artist is an incredibly vulnerable thing.

You are taking something that exists inside your head and putting it into the world.

Sometimes you're doing that in front of thousands of people.

Sometimes you're doing it in a writing room with three people you've never met.

Sometimes you're singing a lyric about something deeply personal while somebody sitting across the room is taking notes.

That's vulnerable.

Writing rooms can sometimes feel like therapy sessions.

You're talking about relationships.

Your childhood.

Your parents.

Your insecurities.

Your mistakes.

Your heartbreak.

Your fears.

Then somehow you're supposed to turn all of that into a chorus.

There is something incredibly cathartic about that process.

You take something emotional and intangible and turn it into something tangible.

A song.

A melody.

A lyric.

A performance.

And then you have to stand behind it.

Of course that can make you nervous.

Nerves Mean You Care

We actually don't want you to get rid of all of your nerves.

We want you to learn how to use them.

That feeling you get five minutes before you walk onstage?

Your senses are heightened.

You're paying attention.

You're listening.

You're aware of your surroundings.

You're aware of your voice.

You're aware of your instrument.

You're aware of the audience.

You're aware that something important is about to happen.

That's not necessarily a bad thing.

Sometimes nerves are your body telling you that this matters.

During our careers, we have experienced all of it. Dave has played in front of thousands and thousands of people. I have written with hundreds of people.

And we can tell you something honestly:

There has never been a performance or experience where there wasn't at least some element of nervousness.

Not one.

Even when you've done it a thousand times.

There is always that moment.

The preparation.

The anticipation.

The little bit of uncertainty.

And honestly, some of our best performances have happened when we felt those nerves.

Because we were paying attention.

We were locked in.

We cared.

The Problem Isn't the Feeling

The problem is when the feeling starts controlling you.

There is a difference between being nervous before a show and being unable to function because of anxiety.

There is a difference between wondering whether your song is good enough and becoming so consumed by self-doubt that you stop creating.

There is a difference between being excited and being overwhelmed.

Those things deserve to be taken seriously.

And musicians have historically found all kinds of ways to try to turn those feelings down.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Anything that temporarily quiets the voice in your head.

But numbing yourself isn't the same thing as learning to manage what you're feeling.

The goal isn't to become someone who never gets anxious.

The goal is to become someone who knows what to do when anxiety shows up.

Build a Ritual

One of the simplest things you can do is create a pattern.

Something that tells your brain:

We're getting ready.

Maybe it's 20 minutes alone in the green room.

Maybe it's vocal warmups.

Maybe it's stretching.

Maybe it's listening to the same song.

Maybe it's sitting quietly.

Maybe it's breathing.

Maybe it's walking around the venue by yourself.

For me, there is always a moment before I perform.

Sometimes it's vocal warm-ups.

Sometimes it's quiet.

Sometimes it's simply taking a few minutes to get my head in the right place.

But I make room for it.

It's part of the show.

Just like rehearsal.

Just like soundcheck.

Just like getting onstage.

And knowing that those moments are coming helps me harness the energy instead of fighting it.

Routine gives anxiety somewhere to go.

Don't Try to Eliminate the Energy

This is an important distinction.

You don't necessarily want to eliminate the adrenaline.

You want to direct it.

That energy can make you more present.

It can make you listen harder.

It can make your performance more physical.

It can make you more emotionally connected to the song.

The trick is learning how to take all of that energy and put it somewhere useful.

Into the vocal.

Into the instrument.

Into the lyric.

Into the audience.

Into the performance.

Don't fight the energy. Give it a job.

And Then Something Goes Wrong

Here's the other thing about performing:

Something will eventually go wrong.

You will miss a chord.

Forget a lyric.

Come in early.

Come in late.

Hit the wrong note.

Lose your place.

Your guitar string will break.

Your in-ear will stop working.

A monitor will go down.

Something will happen.

And when it does, you have a choice.

You can let the mistake take over the performance.

Or you can make the mistake part of the performance.

The audience doesn't know your arrangement the way you do.

They don't know that you were supposed to sing that lyric differently.

They don't know that you were supposed to hit that chord.

They don't know what was happening in your in-ears.

You know. They don't.

So don't necessarily stop the entire performance to punish yourself for something they may not have even noticed.

Laugh.

Acknowledge it.

Keep moving.

Let the audience see that you're human.

Sometimes that becomes the moment they remember.

Adele Did Something Important

One of the best examples I can remember of this happened to Adele at the 2017 Grammys.

She was performing a tribute to George Michael when something went wrong during the performance.

Rather than try to power through it, she stopped.

She apologized.

She told the production team she wanted to start again.

And then she did it again.

The Recording Academy described the moment as Adele stopping the tribute because she felt she had made a mistake, before restarting the performance.

The moment became bigger than the mistake.

Because everyone watching suddenly saw something they rarely get to see at that level:

A human being having a human moment on one of the biggest stages in the world.

And then she finished the song.

That's professionalism.

Not perfection.

Recovery. Watching her grace and poise in that moment floored me. I became a bigger fan of her because of it.

You Don't Have to Hide the Human Part

I think artists sometimes believe the goal is to make the audience believe everything is effortless.

I don't think that's true.

The best performers I've ever watched make you feel like you're experiencing something with them.

They're not hiding behind perfection.

They're present.

They're reacting.

They're listening.

They're responding to the room.

They're willing to take a chance.

And when something goes wrong, they know how to keep going.

That's what makes a live performance different from a recording.

A recording can be perfect.

A performance is alive.

And alive means unpredictable.

The Same Thing Happens in the Writing Room

This doesn't only apply to the stage.

It applies to songwriting.

You walk into a room with people who are better writers than you.

You immediately start comparing yourself.

Why did they think of that melody?

Why didn't I hear that?

Why is their lyric better?

Why do they understand structure so quickly?

Why am I struggling?

STOP.

You're there to learn.

The fact that somebody in the room is better than you at something isn't evidence that you don't belong there.

It's the reason you should be there.

Put yourself in rooms that stretch you.

Let yourself be uncomfortable.

Listen.

Ask questions.

Try things.

Write something terrible.

Write something great.

Get rejected.

Get encouraged.

Go home and do it again.

That's how the anxiety eventually becomes experience.

That’s how you get better.

You Don't Outgrow the Nerves

This is probably the biggest misconception.

People think that once they become successful enough, they'll finally feel confident.

That one day they'll walk onto a stage and think:

“I've got this. I'm not nervous at all.”

Maybe that happens for some people.

But in my experience, the nerves never completely disappear.

They just become familiar.

You learn what they feel like.

You learn what to do with them.

You learn that the feeling doesn't mean something is wrong.

You learn that you can be nervous and still perform.

You can be scared and still walk onstage.

You can question yourself and still write the song.

You can feel like an imposter and still belong in the room.

Confidence isn't the absence of nerves.

Sometimes confidence is knowing you can perform while you're nervous.

Learn to Live With It

If you're an artist, there is probably going to be some version of this for a long time.

The nerves.

The doubt.

The anticipation.

The excitement.

The fear that the next song won't be as good as the last one.

The feeling that everybody else is ahead of you.

Don't let those feelings convince you that you shouldn't be doing this.

Learn to recognize them.

Build routines around them.

Create moments for yourself.

Get prepared.

Get comfortable being uncomfortable.

And if those feelings become overwhelming or start interfering with your ability to function, don't treat that as a failure either. Talk to someone. Get help. There is no prize for suffering alone.

But if you're standing backstage with your heart beating a little faster than normal?

Good.

You care.

You're paying attention.

You're about to do something that matters to you.

Take that energy with you.

Walk onto the stage.

And use it.

Final Musings...

You are never going to eliminate every uncomfortable feeling that comes with being an artist.

And maybe you shouldn't.

The nerves mean you care.

The vulnerability means you're connected to the work.

The uncertainty means you're still taking risks.

The mistakes mean you're human.

And the ability to recover from those mistakes is part of becoming great.

So the next time you're backstage and your heart is beating a little faster, don't immediately think:

“Why am I so nervous?”

Try thinking:

“I'm nervous because I care.”

Then take a breath.

Trust your preparation.

Walk out there.

And do the thing.

Keep creating. Keep showing up. Keep learning.

- SongLab