How a Friend’s Death Helped Me Battle Stage Fright
She fearlessly performed, and so should you.
Most of us who pursue music can name someone who inspired us along the way. John Coltrane often cited Coleman Hawkins. For Bill Monroe it was his Uncle Pen. Bonnie Raitt talked about the influence of Sippie Wallace.
While it makes sense that such a fundamental influence be either a music legend or a close family relative, in my case, it is a musician who never recorded and whom I never heard perform. I doubt that you know who Valerie Papillo is, but her story is exactly the sort that we music makers—especially aspiring ones—need to hear.
I met Valerie when we worked together in Boston about twenty years ago. At the time, it was her husband who was the musician in the family, while Val played the role of manager, booking agent, and fan. As far as I knew back then, she had no interest in learning an instrument, but she encouraged everyone who did.
My main instrument at the time was tenor saxophone and on one of the rare occasions when I played in public, Val and a number of other friends were there. I remember being nervous during the performance and embarrassed about it after. I knew I wasn’t reminding anyone of Stan Getz, but when Val spoke to me afterward, she made me feel like I was a star. I appreciated the support, but I wasn’t sure I trusted her judgment. I was quite convinced that I stunk.
That was the attitude I had about myself as a musician at the time. I could make some decent noise in the practice room, but I could never quite measure up when I had an audience. It seemed easier to avoid listeners altogether, despite what I heard from folks like Valerie.
A short time after that, Val asked if she could borrow my alto saxophone, and try to learn how to play. On the day I loaned it to her, she popped out a few notes right away. The tone was unstable, like it is for most beginners, but for a small person, she was getting a very big sound. I remember thinking at the time, “Wow, she’s pretty loud.” And Val seemed to be enjoying herself. As she played, her eyes got big, as if she was a toddler taking her first steps. And when she pulled the reed out of her mouth, all she could do was laugh.
Val’s marriage broke up about a year later and she decided to move to Vermont. In the first year or two of living in her new state, Val returned to Boston a few times. On one of those trips, she brought back my sax because she had bought one of her own—she, too, had switched from alto to tenor. For several years, I didn’t see Val much, nor did many of her Boston friends.
Then came one October the shocking news that Val had been shot and killed in her adopted hometown of Montgomery, Vermont. It was a random act of violence in a place where newsworthy crimes rarely occurred. She had just arrived at a friend’s house for dinner, but the friend had already been beaten and shot. The murderer, despite being away from the town for 20 years, was convinced there were drugs in the house. It was very hard to accept that such a generous and vibrant woman’s life ended in such a violent way.
At a service in Connecticut, I saw a photograph of Val playing tenor with a group at some outdoor venue. In another, she held her sax as she posed with her St. Bernard Mabel, who, I learned, used to sing along with Val, howling skyward while she wailed away on the horn.
Most of the stories told about Val that day related to music. Val had not only created a new life for herself in the Green Mountains, she had reinvented herself as a musician.
In Boston, she had been a purchasing manager and a fan of music. But in Montgomery, she was a saxophonist and a sort of pied piper. Val played, but also evangelized for aspiring musicians by co-leading a weekly jam session at Montgomery’s Snow Shoe Lodge. All were welcome to play, no matter how experienced or talented. And always, at some point, the Val and Mabel duo would take the stage.
When people close to you die, particularly someone so young — Val was only 36 — you search for ways to keep their spirit alive. How to do that is not always so clear. But for me, a person who loves music but rarely played in public or even with other people in private, the answer was obvious. Honor her by playing music the way she did.
By that time, I wasn’t playing saxophone as much, but as a guitarist and Tom–Waits–style vocalist, I started playing open mics, in front of mostly strangers. On early attempts, I suffered from sweats and a pounding heart, but persisted, and eventually arrived at a place where I could play a couple of tunes without feeling like I was about to pass out. It’s still hard, but now, I don’t worry as much about self-judgement or perceived self-judgements.
Working through musician stage fright eventually enabled me to try — and succeed at — something I’d wanted to do for years: teach. Now, that’s my new career.
Had it not been for Val’s bravery and influence, I would still be sitting on the sidelines.
“She was fearless. She just wanted to get up there and play and didn’t care about making mistakes,” my friend Jeff, a trumpet player, told me.
Good advice for all of us. Be like Val. Get out there, play your instrument, and share the music.
