I will never be someone’s favorite band because I am a woman. I am only one. I try not to let this break my heart.
Two months ago, I played an excellent show. In an ideal world, this would be the last sentence to this post. In an ideal world, I would walk away from an excellent show feeling satisfied, good enough, accomplished, but I don’t—not always.
I have been the opener for almost every show I’ve ever played, since I first started playing shows in 2007. I never used to question this, I was mostly just grateful to be playing at all. But as I got older and more experienced, I started asking myself: Why? The answer: Because somebody somewhere decided that “standard show protocol” means having the solo singer-songwriter open every show. Because most of the time, the other acts on the bill consist of louder acts. Louder acts, at least in the Boston area, consist of, more often than not, men. Because somebody somewhere decided that it makes sense to have women open for men, to have women be the “primers”. Because showgoers care more about seeing bands than they do about seeing solo female singer-songwriters. Because we are naturally seen as less talented than our male counterparts. Because we are below the big names on the show posters, we are at the bottom of the totem pole, we are the part of the show that isn’t a part of the show. Somebody somewhere decided this.
A friend I love very much was in charge of booking the aforementioned show, so when he asked me to play a few months prior, I was overjoyed. I specifically asked him if I could not open the show, because I knew I was the only female solo act on the bill, and because I knew that most of the crowd wouldn’t show up until a bit later in the evening, and I wanted to have a decent audience because it was my first show in quite a while—I had been on a bit of a performing hiatus. My friend agreed. He said I wouldn’t be the opener, but I would play second. I was, again, overjoyed.
Fast forward to one week before the show, and my friend posts the set times. All of a sudden I am the opener, and I felt the agreement between my friend and I get swiftly and quietly flushed down the toilet. I cried. I had given up. I wanted to return to the scene strong with this show, really make an impression, but once again, I felt pushed down and ignored, amongst a bill full of mostly male-dominated bands. It had happened again.
For the first time in my life, I called my friend on the phone and I put up a fight. When I called him out, he told me, “I understand. You’re definitely more right than I am,” and I wondered: Why can’t I just be right? Why does my rightness have to be in comparison to yours, why does it have to be lesser than yours? He asked, “Would you put up this kind of fight with another promoter? Probably not, because I am scared, and because you are my friend, because you are a man that I trust. I trust you to help me navigate this unfair space. Use what you have that I do not have, to help me. He said, “Whoever is most active in the scene plays last.” But even when I was active in the scene, I was playing first. I’ve always played first. How am I supposed to be active if no one will let me?
He listened to me when all was said and done, and I played second, but I had to fight for it, and that hurt me more than anything, more than the initial let down.
The show ended up being great. I felt well-received and appreciated by the audience, who genuinely paid attention and seemed to enjoy my set. I heard sniffles during quiet moments. I knew I was doing my job, and that gave me an intense and joyous feeling I hadn’t felt in such a long time. But right beside that pride and happiness was the anxiety from the effort I had to put in in order to get what I wanted, how I felt like a “bitch” for having done that—for finally voicing my opinion and attempting to justify to my friend the unfair dynamic of booking shows. It was my first time fighting for a spot other than the opener, an argument I know my male counterparts probably never have to have.
As anxious as I felt about the altercation with my friend, I felt as though fighting for my spot made the turnout even better. It made my performance one of power and ferocity. I wasn’t afraid to be angry. I wasn’t afraid to sound ugly—to not sound like an angel. I wasn’t afraid to let the songs speak for themselves. I just wasn’t afraid anymore.
It took me a very long time to realize that there is a special kind of vulnerability you must be willing to offer an audience if you’re a woman on stage with a guitar, playing by herself. I know this now, and I recognize the strength in it.
I am still living inside this narrative. I know there will be other arguments. I know there will be times when I am too afraid to fight for what I want. I know my absence of fear is not permanent, I know that it may be fleeting.
So, to male musicians, bookers, promoters, audiences:
Pay attention to women who play music, whether we are in bands or not. Pay attention to what we have to say. Don’t lump us into a “basic” category; stop pretending that we’re all the same, that we all sound the same, that we’re all Taylor Swift. Just stop. Pay attention. Pay attention. Look a little closer. I dare you.
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