Why playing a gig made me cry

The Saturday before last, I walked offstage at ArcTanGent Festival after playing a 25 minute set with my band Thought Forms and I burst into tears.

I collapsed onto the nearest flight case, shaking and sobbing as one by one my bandmates hugged me. Through the snot and tears I managed to get a few words out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to play again.”

Us playing at ArcTanGent 2023, photo by Joe Richards

Before that Saturday, it had been exactly three years and eight months to the day that we last stepped onto a stage together.

While part of that timeframe can obviously be explained away by a whole pandemic, when the restrictions eased and gigs started to happen again we still didn’t get back to it. It was the longest time in our history as a band that we went without playing live and it was because of me.

Why is this so difficult to write?

Ok. It was literally because of M.E … CFS. “Chronic fatigue”.

I had been experiencing symptoms of chronic fatigue for a long while and it came to a point in the last couple of years where it became debilitating - impossible for me to ignore, cover up or get around and almost as impossible to explain.

The idea of standing up and holding a guitar and playing at volume - even in private - became a flight of fancy, let alone all the added energy-zapping hoopla involved with doing an actual gig.

Of course for a while we were by no means the only band not gigging, so nobody noticed. We were really lucky, too, because we were able to make ourselves at home in Jim’s studio and keep creative that way instead.

Working on things in manageable chunks, I made a solo album and we recorded an album of acoustic versions of our songs. It wasn’t new material, so may have seemed like a strange thing to do - but it felt good and helped made sense of things, trying a different way of playing together instead of not doing anything at all.

Every time I found myself at any kind of social event, I knew that somebody (or indeed everybody) I spoke to would inevitably ask : “What are Thought Forms up to these days? Are you still together? Will you be playing live any time soon?” 

and I’d have to bat the well-meaning question away. 

“No, no plans at the moment!” or “No, I can’t be assed” or “No, Deej has just had a kid” - that one was a good excuse for a few months.

But a truthful answer would have been more along the lines of : 

“No, to be honest, I feel like total crap pretty much every single day and I can barely muster the energy for going to work and walking Coco¹, let alone playing a gig; I go to bed exhausted, I wake up exhausted and I often feel incapable of doing any of the things I had always felt were integral to what I had previously thought of as my identity. As a result, I no longer really know who I am or what purpose I serve. The fact that I’m out today attempting to socialise like an actual person is a small miracle, but you should probably now go and speak to somebody more interesting - this won’t be difficult for you to achieve, because I myself have nothing of worth to say. Good day to you!”

(I did not say that.)

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Early this year, we got an email asking us if we’d like to play at ArcTanGent. We were surprised, but very happy to be asked. We had played there before (twice!) and the organiser said he’d really enjoyed Clean, would love for us to come and play, that we could do whatever we wanted.

It seemed like a huge mountain to climb, but one that was so far away on the horizon that it didn’t seem real. We said yes.

Then as it loomed closer and closer, the panic started to set in - what the hell were we going to do?

The initial idea was that we should we try and do something more sonically aligned with Clean since that was, after all, partly why we were invited. But that would be a logistical nightmare. So we went about our business. We were hopeful. We were winging it. What about this new stuff? Would it be ready? Could I even stand up for a full set holding a guitar? Then the biggest one, the normal one - “what if we’re sh*t?”

The answer to that last one is always “it doesn’t matter as long as we are having fun” and that’s probably why we’re still playing together after nineteen years.

Note from Deej regarding a pedal he lent me in 2004 - words to live by.

We stuck at it, even though everything was a bit shaky right up to the very last minute.

Two weeks before, I arrived at Jim’s studio after a full day at work and realised that I just couldn’t do it, I felt too ill. I had to cancel. Stupid me, thinking I could do two things in one day. Stupid me thinking I could do anything.

One week before, I managed to practice standing up for the first time - but we still didn’t get through the whole set.

Three days before we were due to perform, we managed to play the set in full for the first time. Stood up. That’s it. Do or die.

So I walked onto that stage the week before last and we started to play. Head down I got lost in the sounds we were making, a cool English Festival™ breeze whipping round my legs. Feet bare, just like when we first started out and our pedals would be strewn around us on the floor, my weird toes once again on knob-turning duty.

I looked up and the tent was packed full of people. Our first song was a lengthy number and when it ended, the audience… clapped. I dared to look up again. Yes, they were still there. They even appeared to be enjoying it. It was really happening. I was actually playing a gig. I managed to say “thank you” into the mic but I didn’t trust myself with more words.

We carried on playing to those people and to each other, my hair stuck to my face so I couldn’t see anything - just like it always did! I remembered.

The weirdest thing was how well it went. Nothing went wrong. No colossal mistakes or howling feedback or cables pulled out accidentally. Everything felt strangely perfect. I loved every second of it. It feels like a gift we were given, because we needed it so badly.

But it wasn’t until we had played our final note that I was able to really believe that it was possible. As I walked shakily down the metal stairs that led offstage, three years and eight months worth of tension poured out of my eyes along with sheer relief, joy, gratitude and so much love for Jim, Deej, Guy and all the fun we’ve had together over the years, over half my life - and the realisation that actually - it wasn’t over. The fun or my life. I got a part of my life back, a part of myself back.

Creating and sharing has always been really important to me and this experience has made me realise that I don’t have to and actually, CANNOT, wait to feel “better” or even just “ok” physically before I continue to do the things that make me feel like myself. I need to make and take the time… Even if those things now take 10 x more of it than they used to.

Part of this is I’m going to be writing more, so I’ve moved the email list which you had signed up to from MailChimp over to SubStack; I’ll be in touch every other Friday!

Thanks for being here.

Love,

Charlie

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At the park with Coco before the festival, photo by Amy Drezner