There's no glorification in being mentally ill to some capacity, although it seems to be the romantic tale to sell in a time where we're all looking for or looking to be a headline. Media perches on the hope of mention by suicide for a reason to shine their light on "get well" culture, then partake in a sense of bereavement of the dull luster of a lost bright future. When comparison presents itself as hardly a gift, it happens to be undeniably insensitive to list any names in the public eye comparatively to those who came out on the other side covered in battle scars; emerging nonetheless. Given the notion that it is absolutely imperative for everyone to cater to those sensitive in these times, I have an unwavering desire to know when the need for sensitivity ceases. Perhaps it isn't that it is non-existent otherwise, but when a situation calls for a little extra TLC, those that don't have it ready at their disposal tap into an inconspicuous falsehood of it, hoping to show their lack of sticking to the rivers and the lakes that they're used to is to not overshadow the care for the person at the forefront of this limelight, thus proving that when it comes to a pat on the back at the expense of someone else, they're more than deserving.
As someone who existed solely within her explicitly labeled emotions for 23, almost 24, years, my concern for discussing how I found New York based musician Two Feet erred on the side of the latter topic, afraid that my interest would be deemed suspicious. That my only enthusiasm for this music would be misconstrued as an attempt to find a way to ease the pain of whatever this music was being produced from, in the person producing it. While I am naturally influenced by other people and their emotions, my concern for the heaviness I was bearing for this person proved to be rather peculiar on account of not interacting with him in person, but being aware of his willingness to be vulnerable with anyone who followed him in the dawn of his recovery following July of 2018. My heart grew heavier the more I saw the distaste in him opening for Panic! At The Disco in January of the following year, so brought both mine and his sensitivity to these happenings into question.
Before I begin unwarranted comparisons between the both of us, I want to make sure you understand that this isn't for the sake of putting one emotion on the scale against another, but for the sake of understanding and being able to relate to why it is all that encompasses Two Feet that brings uneasiness to my natural reluctance of this conversation. Having seen the disliking of his lack of theatrics, I became empathetic in noticing the likeness of our personalities in that sense. Having been taunted my entire life for remaining quiet and to myself, I developed not only an insecurity now in my adult years for either talking too much or not talking enough, but a defensiveness to the attention on Bill's comfort in not moving about the stage. While it has come to me that you will never be everyone's cup of tea, it has also encouraged me to spoon feed (and to myself, digest) the idea that it is unnecessary to have to face ridicule for not doing what was expected of you, when to them you owe nothing. Twitter is no place to judge any sort of personality traits as it happens to be the worst place to analyze anyone's character, yet the internet remains to be simultaneously the best and worst place to find criticism because anyone and everyone will give it to you, whether prompted or not. For that I feared a tepid response when the lights dimmed on Tuesday night, and listened with my own enthusiasm as if that would be enough on its own to change the whole energy of the arena.
Within seconds of the lights dimming, the crowd roared and my apprehension toward what reaction would be presented disappeared, much like my concern with what was happening around me. Quickly my attention focused on center stage and the only concern that remained was whether or not I was present enough to benefit from such a moment of ease. Having attended enough shows in the past 6 years to understand my highest level of fixation vs my lowest, I was left with a confidence of never having experienced such a concentration. This was a musician that undoubtedly began to reign as one of the greatest of all time; not because of the theatrics or the level of relation to people his age or younger, but because of the raw talent and honesty in what he was presenting to all of us, nervous or not. Similar to a flickering bulb I had seen hours before at a French Bakery just a block up and a block over from Spectrum Center, the lights silhouetting this guitar and soul bearing figure continued to keep in time with the tightening in my chest. My sister kept yelling "people DON'T like this?" and I continued to watch, showing a slight acknowledgement with a nod to such a disappointing observation. By the time the stage was being prepped for Panic!, I had said a variation of "this is UNBELIEVABLE" more times than I could count on both hands. Whether that's credible information based on my level of awe is neither here nor there. I can assure you, however, that this is a musician and a human being bursting with talent from every pore that deserves more than what he's been given.
Much like happenings with Chase Atlantic, I find myself in a changing head space while listening to Two Feet. Whether accepting my often overwhelming wave of emotion or feeling a shot of confidence through a body and mind I've gone to battle with for so long, there is almost always a side to me I only ever see in these 3 minute increments. It isn't often you find that spec of gold in a pile of mud that makes you stop and think "I've got something worthy," but I'll never be the one to not run with it because of what these artists give to make me feel such a way.