Competition Ethics (what we can learn from pick-up artists)
Written by Julie Moffitt
Wednesday, 12 July 2006
Let’s say you’re a young man who has never really been comfortable with women. For whatever reason, you never quite mastered the ability to flirt with, talk to, or even approach a beautiful girl without stuttering or tripping over your own feet. It has been the lifelong bane of your existence. It sucks.
Now let’s say you’re in a bar one night and you see another man walking up to all the most attractive or confident or desirable women, assuredly talking to them, making them laugh, and getting phone numbers left and right. He, my friend, would be a pick-up artist. And you could do one of two things – leave the bar jealous and upset that someone like him is so much better at this particular skill than you, or stay, watch and learn.
It’s been a couple of months since I last blogged. I confess, this post isn’t 100% about arranging – but it is about music, and being a writer / arranger / performer. And pick-up artists. Bear with me.
June found me on a last-minute trip across the country as I joined the Hit & Run Tour to promote my new EP, "The Stolen EP" (creative title, eh?). It’s a long and haphazard story that led me to the Bay Area of California on a day when I should have been slaving in a Milwaukee office, but in the process of venturing forth on the tour to promote the future of my musical career, I was simultaneously thrown back in time to the early days. The days of singing with my college a cappella group, stocking up on beef jerky and N*Sync CDs and making our annual road trip from LA to Stanford University to compete in the West Coast ICCA semi-finals.
This year was my first as the Midwest Producer for the ICCA, and with finals over and the 2006 winners crowned, I’ve had a little time to reflect upon the role of competition in the a cappella world. And I mean competition in general, not just the kind where there are judges seated in the audience and a mixed bag of competitors battling to be in the final four.
As a college student, when my group was also my circle of friends and the time we spent on stage together was the only performance time I had to look forward to, competition was a religion. The ICCA was one form, certainly, but there was also the rivalry between us and other groups on campus, something that I’m rather reluctant to admit to in hindsight, and even the small rivalries within the group. Fresh out of high school and intent upon proving ourselves in the huge “real world” we were discovering, it became something of a mission to be perfectly amazing in every performance. Keeping our distance from the other groups, having the tightest arrangements and the most captivating choreography, even attracting the best newcomers from each fall’s incoming freshmen. It was all in the name of being the best, the “premiere” group on campus – a moniker that I’ve noticed attached to a rather hefty number of groups, often all from the same school.
Only it didn’t stop there. In so many groups, I watched as good-natured competition morphed into something ugly. The need to win became more important than the joy of performing that brought us together in the first place. What started off as a night of awesome entertainment and the chance to learn a few new moves from other groups became months of bickering and blaming afterward, tears flowing freely from those who did not win and, often, an embarrassment of phone calls from parents questioning the judges, the tallies, the organization, the method.
This year has offered me a wealth of new perspectives on competition, from participating in what happens behind the scenes to spending a month on the road with two other women who, like me, are trying to make it as singer/songwriters. Looking back on the jealousies and rivalries that were fostered during those college years, I’m embarrassed to think about how intensely I felt that it was necessary to be on top at all times. In the end, I left my beloved ensemble because the power struggle within the group became too much. Today, the situations are no different: there are still other arrangers trying to win as many groups over for assignments as I am, other singers trying to become known, other songwriters trying to license their music to the next big TV teen drama. There will always be somebody else out there doing what I’m doing, and probably doing it better, or with more devotion, or with a bigger budget.
But instead of simmering in anger or jealousy, it is high time to learn from everyone else out there. That girl who just rocked me off the stage – she knows something I don’t, and I’m going to watch her until I figure it out. That arrangement I just heard that moved me to tears – I’m going to transcribe it and figure out why it was so intense, what chord progression or syllabic layering pushed it over the edge. Healthy competition fosters growth and progress in any field, but especially in one where creativity is the key and we are presented with constant opportunities to build off of each other’s strengths.
Which brings me back to pick-up artists. On the road, one of the books I enjoyed was The Game, by Neil Strauss. Yes, I know it’s about picking up women, and yes, I realize it could seem incredibly degrading to the fairer sex if taken too seriously. But those guys were the masters of taking healthy competition and turning it to their own benefit, especially one “Tyler Durden”, a scrawny, barely-out-of-high-school nerd who buckled down, acquired the best tricks of every other pick-up artist out there, and became a master. If he could get phone numbers from women most men wouldn’t even dream of approaching just by admitting that he had a lot to learn, surely I can become a better arranger, writer and musician by listening more and worrying about my rivals a bit less.
