I went to a bar last night. Not to drink, not to hit on unsuspecting bar patrons who clearly want nothing to do with me (as TV has told me happens all too frequently). I went to see a friend play an acoustic set, which was bookended by EDM, DJs and a contemporary rock cover band. While I enjoyed my friend’s set, the other acts I saw were less than impressive. Well, at least that’s what other people told me, which begs the question regarding audience size. My friend brought in a modest crowd of ten or so people, while the cover band filled the room.
While I originally wanted to write this article about how music is a powerful force with a unique ability to bring people together more than any other art form, but the more I thought about the night and its audience sizes, the more I realized this ruminations could segue into my thoughts about fame, or at the very least, popularity.
The world, as some jaded cynics (myself included) will tell you, is a high school popularity contest. The obnoxious loudmouth with too much of his daddy’s money can inexplicably garner national support and become a presidential nominee. The airhead “popular girl” can become Instagram famous for nothing but photos of Chipotle and cute dogs. Of course, these are isolated incidents. And yet, how many of these kinds of people did you know in high school? And why the hell are they always in news headlines?
It seems that cheap, familiar garbage runs the world. What the people know becomes the norm, and the norm dictates future trends. My friend’s acoustic set was great, but only managed a few audience members. The cover band, which wasn’t as great but still okay, brought in way more people. The lead singer was evidently very popular among the crowd members, and her co-workers shouted and cheered after each song. My friend, a more quiet, reserved guy, received appreciative claps. It seems that the adage that Mom told us, “the nerds shall inherit the Earth”, proves false.
But that’s not entirely true. Larry Page, Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates and George R.R. Martin were probably picked on when they were younger, if not completely ostracized by their fellow, more popular peers. And here they are, running the world through search engines, multimedia corporations and motherf***ing dragons. But how many other people tried to do what they did and failed? Why are these people the chosen few, while anyone who tried just as hard to achieve fame and fortune ended up flat on their face?
The only conclusion I can think of is mere luck and circumstance. Maybe that’s giving a little too much credit to a bleak, unforgiving universe, but it’s my answer. It’s my answer to why the musical equation I postulated earlier. Why good, equally-as-hard-working folks end up in obscurity while a select few skyrocket to stardom. I’m not saying that popular means bad, or that successful people are bad people, because hey, even the less popular can be jerks too (read: me).
