Isolation Gospel
A musical coming-of-age in lockdown (2021).
Ah, shit — here we go again. I had wanted to write quite a different piece than what you’re about to read, but that was before the entire country ended up in a Level 4 lockdown again. I’m writing from near the other side of it now, and to be honest it wasn’t any worse or better than I was expecting. At least with the first one we sort of knew how long it was going to be, but it’s a whole different kind of fucked up when we’re being drip fed long weekend-sized extensions every four days or so. Then again, as usual, at least we’re not Australia. So in the spirit of my newfound COVID-era Aotearoa patriotism, I’d like to talk about some things I’ve learnt about myself and our music since the last Level 4 lockdown.
I remember sitting in bed at the end of 2019, scrolling through the news about a nascent, unknown virus being born on the other side of the world. I assumed, in typical Kiwi fashion, that it was just one of the hundreds of faraway tragedies that populate the ‘international’ section of our news outlets. Obviously, I was wrong. Our lives would never quite be the same kind of normal again. As the following four months unfolded, the joys of brisk cross-city walks to high school were replaced by a genuine fear of large crowds and physical proximity to other humans. I was sitting in a cafe on Wellington’s Webb St when our collective suspicion was confirmed: we were heading into a 6-week absolute nationwide lockdown. As the true gravity of our situation hit me, my first thought was to make a bee-line for the Rockshop.
For all my obsessive tendencies, I’m usually the kind of creative that needs to carefully balance my art with the rest of my life. I’ve always applied Leonard Cohen’s philosophy to my music: it’s just “the evidence of life.” I need to live in order to create. I once thought I’d be a full-time jazz drummer, but I got so isolated in my practice that I soon burnt out spectacularly and ended up not touching my drums for a whole summer. And so here, half a year later, was lockdown, a time in which I’d have no choice but to be locked inside with my pretty fragile self-image with no excuses as to why I couldn’t make music. It felt all too familiar. I found myself at a creative crossroads.
The first days of lockdown were a matter of desperately trying to stay afloat in the wake of an ever-deepening existential crisis. I knew I was one of the lucky ones — still living at home, and managing to keep my job at Pak’n’Save over the entirety of lockdown — but that didn’t stop me from feeling like the fucking world was ending. I quickly began to find that if I wanted to create as normal in the End Times, lockdown was going to be exceptionally boring. There had to be something to replace the inspiration I would usually find in my day to day life, so I fully turned the microscope on myself.
It may sound counterintuitive for a musician, particularly a lyricist, but I think before lockdown I was afraid to be fully vulnerable in my art. I didn’t even really like the sound of my voice yet, and I could always feel a degree of separation between how I was feeling and what I was writing. I had gotten really good at masking this fear with big words and elaborate metaphors, but to not be blunt with myself in such an emotionally taxing time felt wrong. It was like I had been inhabiting my idea of what a musician or an artist should be, and in the process ignoring my own creative voice. So the first big lesson I learnt during my time in lockdown was that I had to unearth, again, why I chose music in the first place.
“Finding the essence of my creativity allowed me also to be far less concerned about what other people think of the music I find a connection with.”
I reconnected with my inner child; the unbridled joy of hitting things and making loud noises and singing in the shower. Finding the essence of my creativity allowed me also to be far less concerned about what other people think of the music I find a connection with. For all its (pretty accurate) connotations of male-centrism and snobbery, I really enjoy a bit of jazz. But I also unabashedly enjoy BTS and Kacey Musgraves, and Chopin and ABBA. Music is just music, and within reason I don’t think it’s anyone’s place to judge someone purely for finding a connection in whatever they please. My concept of creative identity before lockdown, wasn’t one that allowed myself to grow up and give myself and other people a break.
The second big realisation I had in lockdown was that I desperately needed to alter my expectations of myself. I had gone into this period of isolation starry-eyed with excitement for all the time I would have to focus on my music. But when I inevitably failed to meet my lofty goals, this excitement turned quickly into an obligation to emerge from lockdown with at least something meaningful. What was my excuse - that I was busy? Again, it felt way too familiar. In the early days I’d wake up hopeful, but go to sleep most times hating myself. Slowly though, I got into the groove. I set up my drums in my mum’s garage and started recording oddly-shaped ideas for songs I’d come up with in my bedroom. I realised that staying afloat in lockdown meant finding a comfortable middleground between my personal obligation to create and allowing myself to just play Minecraft (don’t lie and say you didn’t at least think about it).
I think that a lot of the time we creatives place really unfair expectations on ourselves, even outside of a really weird situation like lockdown. Of course there are things that you just have to do to become good at something; doing your scales is like eating your vegetables. And I don’t think we should delude ourselves either — work is just work, which will always be a bit shit — but the power of taking a fucking break is really underrated. Obviously, anyone who’s worked a day in their life can tell you this. But I also think there’s something about creative work that can deplete your soul in such a unique way, especially because it’s so much a personal endeavour. There is also the fact that most normal people wouldn’t choose a profession with no guarantee of making you any money. Just like we have to breathe to stay alive, I think there is so much to be said for giving your mind and your work a break.
Beyond the revelations to do with my personal artistry, the COVID lockdown also forced me to re-examine the musical going-ons of Aotearoa and the various reservations and assumptions I had to do with it. I had grown up believing, like so many generations of this country’s young creatives, that the only way to approach any true “success” as a New Zealander was to escape overseas. Doe-eyed and bounding into the endless Great Beyond, riding youth by the horns. It has always felt like music by a New Zealand artist is automatically measured (and diminished) by default against the standards of relevance and success dictated by far larger overseas music markets like the US.
However, with any hopes of the traditional ‘escape from New Zealand’ now dashed by the very real possibility of a number of years stuck at home in Aotearoa, I felt a duty to connect with the music from the country I’ve called home since I was a toddler. It was an incredibly gratifying experience to recognise, to a greater extent than ever before, how great a lot of the music currently being made in this country is. I can’t help but think that lockdown, and our subsequent year-and-a-bit of isolation from the rest of the world, has perhaps bred a whole new generation of NZ music advocates.
“I can’t help but think that lockdown, and our subsequent year-and-a-bit of isolation from the rest of the world, has perhaps bred a whole new generation of NZ music advocates.”
I also wonder how many young musicians, eager to jump ship for a chance to make it big, have been stranded here since the world turned to shit. I had had my sights set on a place like Melbourne, but even a city so relatively close now feels impossibly far away. Although we’re not invulnerable to COVID, Aotearoa benefits from pretty unique social freedoms compared to the rest of the world. So not only have we managed to keep a lot of young musicians whose aspirations outgrew a position in the team of five million, it’s actually advantageous for them to stay here.
You don’t have to be a genius to know the world is a really weird place to be right now. Especially when you’re young and scrambling to find your place in all of it. But I think us young musicians of Aotearoa have a really unique opportunity, for ourselves and for generations to come, to redefine what it means to be a musician in this country. Above all else though, let’s be kind to ourselves while we do it. So write your indie anthems, club bangers, chart-toppers, sea shanties and spoken word arrangements. There is no better time than now.
Instagram: @sebasti4nbell