the cookie crumbles

will anyone come to my birthday party?

Nov 02, 2023

Hello! How are you?

I’m playing a show in London tonight, if you’re coming I’m very excited to see you! If you can’t make it, then check out this show I’m doing with Findlay Napier at Aces and Eights on the 19th of November in North London.

It’s almost my birthday, and playing a show near my birthday got me thinking about how inviting people to a party and inviting people to a gig often feels like the same thing.

Do you struggle with asking people to come to things, too?

🎷 The J.A.E.

I was nearly twenty, having an impromptu drink at a bar called The Rat Pack with my best buddies, Ian and Holt. When you’re nearly twenty, you realise you’re an adult and you can do fun things like go to the Jazz Bar and listen to jazz and sit at a small table, and even drink something eyewatering out of a short glass. When you’re nearly twenty you also still like to do silly things like play pretend. Ian, Holt and I liked to go places where we could assume our self-styled “Jazz Alter Egos”: Caskand Barrel, Dog Swalker and Valerie Voyle. There was no costume to the Jazz Alter Ego, no special accent or anything, it was just a knowledge inside you that you were your Jazz Alter Ego for the night.

All of us had acquired our J.A.E. (acronym for Jazz Alter Ego) names from plays on words. Holt was Caskand Barrel, named after a pub called The Cask & Barrell near The Meadows. Ian was Dog Swalker… self explanatory. I was Valerie Voyle, but ‘Val Voyle’ for short. A play on ‘valve oil,’ which is lubricant for brass instruments.

I always imagined Val Voyle as a woman of mystery, who knew how to play a trumpet. Her catchphrase would be Lounge, Laugh Love. She’d smell of pennies and French perfume. Her worldly belongings would consist of kohl eyeliner, unread poetry books and her golden brass instrument: a vehicle for jazz — no jazz in particular, maybe not even good jazz, just the idea of jazz.

For all the grace and poise of my J.A.E., my un-alter ego (just plain ego), was having a crisis. It was the same crisis I’d been having every year, the week before my birthday. I told Dog (Ian) and Caskand (Holt) my dilemma: I really wanted a party for my birthday.

Having a birthday party might not appear to be a ‘crisis’ at first glance, and to most people, it wouldn’t merit the title of ‘crisis’ at all.

But I was scared to have a party because there was always the chance that nobody would come. I was scared that the party would suck. I was scared that it would be a direct reflection of what people thought about me: not fun or cool enough to hang out with.

This kind of dilemma would probably never happen to Val Voyle. She’d spend her birthday leaning over a balcony in Paris, swigging a bottle of champagne, possibly spitting on passers-by underneath, and then start scatting ‘Giant Steps’ because that is the only jazz song I know, so that’s what she sings.

As we left the Rat Pack, Ian, Holt and I became ourselves again: a bunch of awkward nineteen year-olds, one of whom thought ‘Baileys on the rocks’ was a drink that definitely wouldn’t get her ID’ed (spoiler: it absolutely did). There in the cold, boring Edinburgh air, Holt and Ian told me to go for it. Set a date. Invite people. What happened after that wouldn’t be up to me anymore, whether the party was a raging success or a flimsy flop, that would just be how the cookie crumbled.

I worried. What if the cookie crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces and then spelled out, in cookie crumble all over the floor, ‘YOU ARE A LOSER’? What then?

A worry for another day.

The next day I took my notebook out and performed another stalling tactic. I wrote a list of everyone who I could invite to my party, then I separated them into columns of “Will Come,” “Might Come,” and “Maybe Won’t Come.”

Eventually it got to the point that I couldn’t put it off any longer. I steeled myself, made a Facebook event, pressed ‘publish,’ and let the cookie crumble.

It was amazing. Everyone came, and then everyone extra. We had disposable cameras all over the house. Picture of Joel pointing to cake on the floor. Picture of Holt’s jorts. Picture of Claire and Jenny in flower crowns. Picture of Kelsey jumping on the sofa, singing to “Holland 1945.” Picture of Robert and Francesca with too many wine glasses, making peace signs. Picture of me, lipstick smudged, end of the night.

We talked about that party for years.

🎶 Facing the Music

I’m playing a gig tonight, in London. For most of the year, in fact, let’s be honest — for most of my performing life, I have avoided booking gigs. When I go book one it’s almost like a fluke, like I’ve accidentally done it and now been roped into it against my will.

Every time, before I play, I feel the same feelings that I feel about birthday parties. I have to invite people. I have to say, “hey, this is very interesting and cool and you should come along!” And then leave it all on the table for people to accept or reject that invitation. I hate it I hate it I hate it with all my being. And yet, this is part of the job. This is the cookie I must crumble.

Recently I have played more gigs than I’ve played in… a while, I’d say. More gigs = more invitations to give out = more potential rejection which I could internalise as a reflection of how cool/fun/talented I am.

My ego, my regular, un-jazz ego, would suggest that the solution to this problem is to play less gigs. Why bother with the pain and embarrassment!

My ego has been winning this battle for quite some time.

Here is me, outing myself:

In 2021, I played one gig.

In 2022, I played 4 gigs.

By the end of 2023, I will have played 7 gigs.

As you can see 2023 has been an improvement.

What I have realised is that the more gigs I play, the more chill I become. If people can’t make this gig, then they can come to the next one. It’s almost like the inverse of what I thought would happen is happening. More gigs = less problems.

I hope one day to get to the point where the things which feel like ‘A Big Deal’ become less of a Big Deal. I think I am starting to crack that code: the way to make things less of a Big Deal is to do them more often.

Maybe I should have a birthday party every year.

Should I, Valerie?

“BWAAAAA” goes the trumpet.

“Go for it, kid.”