This is a note to self, a journal of sorts. You might find it relevant too. Also, contrary to the title, this post is not about cheese…
A few weeks ago I was reading Humankind by Rutger Bregman (I may have mentioned this once or twice). Towards the end, I came across a quote:
‘If you make a film about a man kidnapping a woman and chaining her to a radiator for five years – something that has happened probably once in history – it’s called searingly realistic analysis of society. If I make a film like Love Actually, which is about people falling in love, and there are about a million people falling in love in Britain today, it’s called a sentimental presentation of an unrealistic world.’ – Richard Curtis
Incidentally, I was reading the book on a tram while heading to an open mic and it inspired me to play some of my most vulnerable material without fear of judgement. In truth, I didn't need much inspiration, I write more songs like this – songs that others may consider cheesy – than I don't, so it's near impossible for a set I play to not feature any such material. I write what I write because I believe the best music thrives on pure unfettered emotion, and it doesn't just have to be the sort of emotional expression that's considered too on the nose, too sweet-sounding, or too cheesy.
This is prevalent in the sorts of music I enjoy, but such is the case with other styles too, so much so that I'd consider it universal in the music landscape. Blues thrives on turmoil, it was born out of slaves' cries lamenting and bemoaning their situation. Punk thrives on anger, the righteous anger that fuels protests and propels social movements. Folk thrives on storytelling, and you can't tell a compelling story without tapping into the breadth of human emotion. I consider the same to be true of Soul, the difference being that the goal is to make you feel something, rather than necessarily being used as a tool for storytelling.
But what even is ‘cheesy’, and why is it relevant to this post? To answer that, I'd like to take you back to the open mic I mentioned earlier. After I came off stage, I was met with the characteristic warm reception from the host. He complimented my songwriting and I deflected the compliments with an apology for all the ‘cheesiness’. He kindly pushed back, saying something along the lines of ‘no apologies necessary’. To him, the material, however 'cheesy' it was thought to be, was well-received by the audience. Still, one thing led to another in our conversation and we ended up expanding on the cheese metaphor in the context of something well-known and well-loved throughout the western hemisphere: pizza.
Pizza! The goodness of dough, tomato sauce, and (dare I say the most essential ingredient) cheese. There are no limits to the number of topping choices, and almost every single topping is controversial. Does pineapple belong on pizza? Outside Hawaii, people have strong views on this. How about chicken? It's a desecration of the traditional Italian recipe, some would say. The one thing that is widely agreed upon, barring dietary requirements of course, is just the right amount of cheese.
Cheese is crucial to successful pizza construction; pizza just won't be the same without it. And yet, cheese, on its own, doesn't carry the same weight. The success of pizza – and any other staple that has stood the test of time – lies in its variety; the idea that you can combine seemingly disparate things, which on their own may be just fine, but together, create something infinitely better.
Dough is cool. It births bread, and it is essential for baked goods and some of our favourite carbs, but that's where it ends. However, roll it, knead it, flatten it, and slap some tomato sauce on it, and you get something different. The sauce in a sense elevates the dough, but the sauce on its own isn't much to speak of. The sauce literally needs a base to sit on so there'd be no need, or place, for the sauce without the dough. And then there's the cheese, rich with melting goodness that may be messy on its own, but on top of the sauce and dough, sits just right. Individually, dough, sauce and cheese are nice, but when brought together to make pizza, the resulting creation is greater than the sum of its parts.
Picture the perfect pizza for a moment, and then imagine it without dough. Do the same, but this time imagine it without sauce or cheese. It just won’t be the same. I’d hazard a guess that you wouldn’t want to eat it. You might even consider its existence to be sacrilegious. You'd probably wonder who had the terrible idea to withhold the dough, or the sauce, or the cheese, and you'd probably also wonder what made them do it.
This is what it's like when you decide to hold back on the thing you want to do, the thing you know you should do, for fear of judgement, or the risk of being perceived as too vulnerable, or sentimental, or happy, or joyful, or honest, or <your cloying adjective of choice>. In doing so, you are robbing the world of the variety that you and only you can bring. What you contribute, though unique to you, is just as vital as any other 'ingredient' in the recipe for a blissful and happy society.
Of course, not everyone will like what you bring to the table, and that's okay. If you bring the cheese, there'll no doubt be those who don't like dairy, but there'll be others who can't live without it. It has taken me a long time to make peace with the idea that the art I make may not appeal to everyone, and that even those it may appeal to, may not be willing to openly champion my art for fear of judgement in bad taste. Still, I consider it something of a mantle to make the art I make simply because if I don't do it, no one else will, and we'll all have to live in a world without it.
I'm the guy who writes happy songs. I'm the guy who sings love songs. I’m the guy who journals about past trauma and heartbreak. I'm the one brimming with joy and grinning from ear to ear. Of course, I'm so much more, and I do so many other things. This is merely the impression people come away with after sampling a handful of songs. What’s more is, for better or worse, I'm fine with it. I even lean into it on occasion, because I feel there's not enough representation in grassroots art (or at least my corner of it) for these aspects of human life. Life is dynamic and varied; there's joy and sorrow, there's love and loss, there's happiness and mourning, there's laughter and anger.
All this is to say we shouldn't be scared to let those emotions show. We shouldn't be scared to show vulnerability. Contrary to prevailing beliefs, it takes courage, strength and guts to be vulnerable. It takes courage to admit that you're in a happy place even when you know it won't last forever. It takes strength to open up about the hardship you're facing, even when you're unsure if or when it'll end. It takes guts to write, or sing, or talk about your experience, even when you’re almost certain your words will be misconstrued or taken out of context.
And yet, vulnerability is to art as cheese is to pizza. To eschew vulnerability in art is akin to serving baked dough with sauce on top to a room full of pizza connoisseurs; it may suffice if the entire room is lactose intolerant – the odds of which are infinitesimal – but what’s more likely to happen is you’ll leave them disappointed, confused and wanting the real thing.
Vulnerability elevates art and without it, art falls flat. Without vulnerability, art ceases to capture and communicate the essence of the emotional journey that drives its creation. This, I believe, is akin to that feeling you get when the music has no soul, or the painting doesn't pull you in, or the story is one-dimensional. Vulnerability is what makes art truly beautiful, so please, for the love of all things good and human, bring the cheese.