Latest / The Culture Club: Books, Art, Film, Music & Entertainment / The Open Mic Terror: How to Stop Caring What They Think | The Culture Club
Transcript
- You know that specific flavor of terror when you stand behind a microphone, the spotlight hits your face, and your brain simultaneously screams 'run' and 'say something brilliant'? I’ve been there. I still feel it, actually. Let’s dig into the velvet of this feeling for a second. It isn’t just nerves. Nerves are physical—shaking hands, dry mouth. This is deeper. This is existential. When you walk up to an open mic, whether it’s poetry, stand-up, or a short story reading, you are voluntarily stripping away every layer of protection you spend your week building. You wear armor at work. You curate your feed. You edit your texts three times before hitting send. But in that circle of folding chairs and dim lights, you are offering something raw, unedited, and deeply personal to a room full of strangers who are mostly just trying to get through their Tuesday. I remember my first time. I was twenty-four, living in a city that smelled like rain and old books, standing in the back of a basement bar that had seen better decades. The host called my name. I walked up, my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else, and opened my mouth. And what came out wasn’t the polished piece I’d rehearsed in the shower. It was shaky. It was quiet. And for three seconds, I thought everyone was judging the crack in my voice. But here’s the truth I didn’t know then, and maybe you’re carrying it right now: nobody was listening to judge. They were listening to breathe with you. We all want to be seen, but we’re terrified of being seen. That tension? That’s the texture of the room. What’s the texture of this fear? It’s usually made of ghosts. Not literal ones, though it can feel like it. It’s the ghost of your high school English teacher who circled a metaphor in red ink. It’s the ghost of the friend who laughed at your joke at a party three years ago. It’s the ghost of every critic, real or imagined, telling you that your art isn’t 'good enough,' 'too much,' or 'not quite right.' We carry these voices into the booth. We invite them to sit in the front row. And when the silence stretches after we finish speaking, our brains instantly fill that void with their critiques. Did I sound stupid? Was that too long? Did they notice my hands were shaking? But let me tell you about that silence. In creative spaces, silence is not empty. It’s heavy. It’s charged. It’s the space where connection happens. When you speak from a place of authenticity, even if your voice cracks, people aren’t analyzing your technique. They are recognizing their own vulnerability reflected back at them. I realized this years later, watching a poet stumble over a line. She stopped, apologized, laughed nervously, and started again. The room didn’t groan. They leaned in. They waited. Because she was being human. And humanity is messy. Humanity is stuttering. If you wait until you are perfect to share your work, you will never share it. Perfection is a wall. Vulnerability is a door. And open mics are all about opening doors. We live in an era of the perfect take. TikTok videos are looped until they flow seamlessly. Instagram photos are filtered until the skin looks like porcelain. We have forgotten how to embrace the glitch. But art—the good stuff, the stuff that sticks to your ribs—is found in the glitch. It’s in the breath you didn’t plan. It’s in the word you mispronounce but keep because it feels more honest than the correction. It’s in the pause that lasts two seconds too long because you’re remembering why you wrote this in the first place. When you go to an open mic, you are signing up for imperfection. And that is liberating. Once you accept that you might mess up, the pressure valve releases. You stop trying to perform 'artist' and start trying to communicate 'self.' I used to think I needed to impress the room. Now I know I just need to trust it. There is a radical empathy in these rooms. People are rooting for you. They want to believe that creativity is safe, that risk is worth it, that words matter. When you show up, flawed and trembling, you give them permission to do the same. Think about the last time you saw someone else fail gracefully. Didn’t it make you feel closer to them? Didn’t it make the world feel smaller, kinder? Your stumble is a gift to the audience. It reminds them that they are not alone in their awkwardness. It reminds them that we are all just figuring it out, one sentence at a time. So, how do we actually do this? How do we walk into that room without wanting to dissolve into the floorboards? It starts with redefining success. For me, success used to mean applause. Then it meant not crying. Now, success simply means showing up. If you stand there, read your piece, and survive, you have won. The rest is bonus. I have a ritual now. Before I step up, I find one person in the crowd. Just one. Maybe it’s the bartender polishing a glass, or the woman in the corner checking her watch, or the guy in the hoodie who looks like he’s thinking about his day. I look at them. I smile. And I realize they are just a person. A human being with worries and hopes and bad hair days, just like me. The monster shrinks when you see the human behind the eyes. Also, bring a prop. Seriously. Hold a pen. Clasp your hands. Have something tactile to ground you in your body. Anxiety lives in the head; grounding lives in the fingers. Feel the weight of the microphone. Feel the cord trailing down. Connect with the physical reality of the moment. Remind yourself: I am here. My body is here. This air is mine to breathe. These words are mine to speak. No one can take them from you unless you hand them over in shame. Don’t hand them over. Keep them close. Let them warm you. There is a magic that happens after the mic is off. The adrenaline fades, replaced by a strange, quiet clarity. You might feel exhausted, yes. But you also feel lighter. Like you’ve put down a backpack you didn’t realize you were wearing. This is the 'afterglow.' It’s the knowledge that you did the thing. You faced the fear. And the sky didn’t fall. The earth didn’t swallow you. You are still here. You are still you. But you are braver. This feeling becomes fuel. It seeps into your other creative endeavors. Writing at home feels less daunting because you’ve already survived the public version. Painting feels less risky because you’ve already offered your vision to the world. Each open mic is a rep in the gym of your confidence. At first, the weights feel impossibly heavy. Your form is shaky. You struggle to lift them. But slowly, muscle memory kicks in. You learn that your voice can carry. You learn that your stories resonate. You learn that judgment is often just projection—that people are too busy worrying about their own next set to dissect yours. And if someone does judge? If someone is rude, or dismissive, or cruel? Remember that their opinion is not a verdict on your worth. It’s data. It’s information about them, not you. You can file it away and keep walking. Your art belongs to you. Your voice belongs to you. No one else gets to hold the title deed. Before we wrap, I want to touch on the community aspect. Open mics thrive on care. When you are done, stay for a minute. Listen to the next person. Offer a genuine compliment. Buy a drink for the host. Create the warmth you wish to receive. This isn’t performative politeness; it’s the glue that holds these fragile ecosystems together. We are all vulnerable together. Let’s treat each other like gold. I recall an episode we did a while back about cello strings tuned to dissonant drones. We talked about how discomfort can create beauty. Open mics are similar. The discomfort of being watched is the drone that creates the resonance of connection. Without the tension, there is no music. So lean into the dissonance. Let it vibrate. Let it remind you that you are alive, present, and participating in the ancient, sacred ritual of storytelling. Whether you write in notebooks hidden under mattresses or record voice notes you never send, you have a story. It deserves air. It deserves ears. It deserves to be heard, even if it shakes. Especially if it shakes. Because that shake is proof that you care. And caring is the most courageous thing you can do in a world that often rewards indifference. Stay tender, stay loud, and keep showing up. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.