The Comparison Trap

First published on May 18, 2018

I went to a festival last weekend. Punk-Folk singer-songwriter Frank Turner took over the Roundhouse in Camden for four glorious days of music and great company. I left it feeling in awe of what the man has created. All four evenings - Frank (sometimes with his band) playing each night - were sell-outs. 3,000 people, four nights in a row. That in itself is really incredible, considering that 10 years ago, when I first saw him live, he was playing to rooms of a few hundred. 

But it was more than that, these people that he had brought together through a love of his music were a truly beautiful group of people. So diverse in many ways, and incredibly friendly and kind. And, this music mattered to them. There's almost nothing like being in a room of 3,000 people, all singing together. At Frank Turner gigs, this happens partly because Frank encourages it ("There are two rules for my gigs: number 1) Don't be an arsehole. And number 2) If you know the words, sing!"), and partly because this music matters so much to these people. The humanity and wisdom in his words has changed the lives of so many of these people, as it has mine.

The festival was such a beautiful experience, lifting me in ways that very few things can. And, it showed me starkly the scale of the work that is possible for a human being. It is possible to create something that matters that much to thousands of people.  

And the festival left me adrift with my own work. Because how can I ever create something which matters that much to that many people? I am so far from that.

This is a trap I fall into so often. A trap of comparison. Because the answer is almost certainly that I can’t. I will almost certainly (you can never be sure) create a festival at somewhere as big as the Roundhouse that matters that much to that many people. And at that point there is a part of me that makes me want to give up. If I can’t create something like that, then what’s the point? I might as well stop now. And, more than that, the journey of entrepreneurship is hard and unforgiving. So if I can’t create something like that, perhaps it’s time to stop, and do something different, something easier.

Except that the story of Frank Turner shows the falseness of that comparison. 

Frank first achieved success in a punk band, Million Dead. His lyrics, the incredible energy of the Million Dead live shows, and their great music took him and his band to success in the scene, and the edge of much more. Before it came crashing down. 

And then he started again. With something different. He tells it differently, but either listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Nabraska and Johnny Cash, or a prod from one of his friends, set him moving in a very different musical direction. And he didn’t set out to create Lost Evenings at the Roundhouse. He set out to play his songs, wherever and whenever he could. His criteria were: “I’ll play anywhere if I get £50 and a place to sleep.” And he played, and he played, and he played. And each time, because he did the best work he could, he picked up a few fans. And every now and again, his work touched someone – like me – who would be so affected by his work that they would be around a decade later, at four shows in a row, in a festival in Camden. 

And then, after many years, as he continued to play, to play, to play, things moved. His work touched enough people that the industry started to take notice. And, in the end, this took him to the Roundhouse. And by this time, he has mastered his craft. He has found his audience.

So we keep going. We keep learning, and playing. Until we create something. Something that matters. Something that is not theirs. We can't make that. That's Frank's, or it's yours, or it's hers or it's his. It's not mine. So we keep going. Until we create something that is ours.

Is it really worth it?

Is any of this worth it?

Well the whole thing's far from perfect...

But I've yet to figure out a better way to spend my time.