The following is a work of fiction that happened last week. Any similarity to person or persons is entirely likely.
The gig is over. Nothing broke, up to and including equipment and/or bones. The crowd seemed happy, or at least, no one threw anything. But who can really tell? The band rush to pack leads, instruments and sweaty t-shirts into whichever bag is closest. I crouch at the front of the stage fighting a particularly impudent stretch of gaffer tape as a figure approaches.
“Great set man!” he smiles.
Shit. I think to myself. Not now. But it’s too late. I can hear the gavel banging already…
Anxiety: “ORDER! ORDER! I call to order the Council of the Inner Monologue.
[Indecipherable murmurs from the countless other voices in Luke’s head]
Anxiety: “I have called this urgent meeting to discuss the most recent and egregious compliment from a stranger, to wit, ‘Great set man’…”
Depression: “Point of order! We are yet to discuss the matter of Something Stupid the Host Body Said When He Was 13.”
[More murmurs and disagreement]
Anxiety: “On the contrary, we went over this in great detail every week for the past 23 years.”
OCD: “Point of order! We can’t start the meeting until we’ve established absentees. Confidence isn’t here.”
Self Hate: “He never is.”
Anxiety: “ORDER! ORDER! Absentee noted. Now, all in favour of replying to the stranger with an inaudible mumble, say ‘Aye’.”
I mumble something inaudible in response, offering a smile so lacking in conviction it’s hard to tell if I’m even conscious.
“Yeah man, I really love how much fun you guys have on stage.” He offers with a warm smile.
Self Hate: “Point of order! Raising the issue of the errant ‘really’ in the strangers follow up compliment.”
Anxiety: “Noted and seconded. Too much stress on the word to seem genuine. All in favour of raising the threat level to ‘Suspicious’, say ‘Aye’”
[Cries of ‘Aye’]
Anxiety: “Motion carried. Trigger the Self-Deprecation Clause and instruct the host body to pour scorn on the compliment in principle.”
“We’re normally a bit tighter than that.” I stutter. Crisis averted. For a second there, he might’ve gotten away with thinking we were good.
“No seriously, you were so tight. The breakdown in that last song was insane!”
Anxiety: “Emergency point of order! Suspicion duly confirmed. Host body was erratic in execution of musical instrument during last song.”
Depression: “Motion to abort Council of the Inner Monologue, quit the band and move to Dieppe to make shoes.”
Anxiety: “I see no other sensible option.”
Self Hate: “Initiate the Cobbler Protocol!”
Anxiety: “Noted and seconded. All in favour say–”
OCD: “Emergency! Emergency! Host body placed the wires ABOVE the foot pedal in the bag. Unacceptable. Motion to–“
“I also wanted to say,” the man continues, unaware of the eight-way conversation the voices are currently conducting in my head, “Thank you for talking about mental health. I suffer myself and it means a lot that you bring it up.”
Anxiety: “I… well… this is most unexpected.”
Empathy: “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”
Depression: “We’re moving to France.”
Anxiety: “The host body was presented with an unexpected compliment. We’re trying to establish the root cause of such a breakdown in social protocol.”
Empathy: “Maybe it was genuine? It probably took everything the guy had to come out to the show tonight. Maybe, it took even more for them to walk up to a stranger and start a conversation.”
Self Hate: “He’s right. Motion to discuss this awkward moment in detail at 3am every morning for the next week.”
OCD: “I’ve already made a note.”
Anxiety: “Agreed. Now, I suggest we enshrine in law the Imposter Syndrome Initiative. To wit, from now on, all compliments are met with a genuine ‘thank you’. All in favour?”
Before I can respond, he leaves. I mull over whether I’ll ever feel comfortable in conversations with strangers, moreover ones offering compliments. Either way, I know it’s already on the agenda for a lengthy 3am brooding.
Moments later, I’m packed up and standing by the merch table, offering my best ‘come hither and part with your money’ eyes to people glancing at t-shirts. It works, because a figure approaches.
“I thought you guys were great today,” she offers.
Anxiety: “This is it folks, this is everything we’ve trained for. Triggering the Imposter Syndrome Initiative…”
“Thank you!” I insist.
Anxiety: ““ORDER! ORDER! I call to order the Council of the Inner Monologue. Host body accepted compliment with entirely too much enthusiasm. May be taken as sarcastic. Abort! Abort!”
“I’m sorry.” Shit. Baby steps, Luke. Baby steps.
Written by Lucias Malcolm of Call Me Malcolm. They’re excellent, they’re great live, they talk a lot about mental health, and you should definitely go compliment them after their set.
If you enjoyed this, read Lucias’ other articles about music and anxiety: There Is A Bear On Stage and Everything Is Probably Fine.