Who Are You?

A few days ago, one of my clients for my new tech leg of BugByte asked: “So you are a professional musician? Where do you perform?” I laughed—half Gemini stall tactic, half discomfort reflex. I’m not used to fumbling that question. For nearly 30 years I answered it without flinching. I gigged regularly at festivals, theaters, bars, and churches, hauling huge amps and a car full of gear. These days my rig is one acoustic guitar, a mic, and a music stand. The biggest shift came during Covid. I’ll admit, I’m not over the way musicians were deemed inessential. Singers were masked in choirs and labeled “super spreaders.” We were essentially silenced. Maybe it’s because I’m first-generation American on one side. My father fled Iran under cloak and dagger when the Shah fell. I often think about how different my life would have been under slightly different circumstances. It’s part of why I walk through the world with my fist in the air. Silence is death for someone like me. So, I pivoted hard. I gave away most of my gear, shut down my recording studio (an empty studio is a money pit, folks), shifted my businesses online, and helped fellow singers put food on the table through one of the hardest periods I can remember. I kept teaching. I reopened my recording studio virtually and have been churning out tunes for myself and other artists ever since. The powers that be shoved me into a box, so I tried to thrive inside it. But like they said, we would never go back to the way it was. And we haven’t. There were perks. I could hop on a plane on a whim. I moved to Santa Fe, bought a ranch and work with an incredible network of virtual collaborators. But the next live performance I formally have on the books is Carnegie Hall in June 2027. So, when someone asks where I perform, I don’t feel comfortable quoting Joni Mitchell: “I play if you have the money or if you’re a friend to me.” At best it sounds pretentious. At worst my autism would immediately tell on me. I already burst into song with little enough filter. But that’s my answer. I can’t even imagine what it would take to get me on a tour bus again, or to play a dive bar at 10pm. It’s hard being a working musician. There’s very little money in it—don’t let Taylor Swift fool you. I’d rather pull out my guitar and play for myself or a quiet patio than a room full of people who wish I’d just “shut up and sing.” Last year I flew to California for a few gigs. After rehearsals we were asked not to wear political t-shirts onstage. This was after I, as the token queer, had been asked to close the night with “Beautiful Noise,” a song about the fight against injustice whose opening line is, “I have a voice.” My BLM shirts are practically a uniform, so I could only assume the request was directed at me. The cognitive dissonance was heartbreaking. So, I produce. I write. I record. Lately, though, I just haven’t felt like using my voice to bring joy to people who forget about me so easily, so quickly.

Reading this back, I can see the chip on my shoulder. But that wound was earned in battle. As Alanis would say, “I am here to remind you—” Oh wait. Shut up and write, Frannie. This is a music column, after all. (Shout-out to my editor, who has never once sent it back for a rewrite.) And it’s written by a lifelong musician who, like so many of us, is burned out. We fed our creations into a society that now uses AI to replace us for entertaining Instagram videos. Years of practice, blood, sweat, and tears can’t compete with someone cutting a cucumber on camera. So, I softly opted out. I moved to the middle of nowhere and started actually answering a question one of my best friends has been asking me, over and over, for a decade: Who are you? Last week, the morning after I got home from Italy, I heard ravens outside my bedroom window. I mentioned it to my wife as she kissed me goodbye for work. “They’re loud this morning.” A few minutes later I heard frantic scratching and chattering in the walls. My first thought? Rats! I jumped out of bed. Instead, two ravens were standing on the skylight above my hallway, tapping on the glass with their beaks. Hard. They tilted their heads back and forth as if to say, “You’re back.” I grabbed some fruit and met them outside as they cawed loudly and swooped down in a celebratory flight. Apparently, the morning crew was waiting on me. My buzzing audience was waiting. :::scene change::: “Who are you?” “I’m a musician.” “That’s not who you are.” “I’m a teacher.” “That’s not who you are either.” “I’m an entrepreneur.” “Nope.” I used to find that conversation exhausting. These days, I’d answer differently: I’m a steward, a kite, a siren, a bell, a wife, a builder. Knowing him, he’d probably say something cryptic like, “you are all of those things and none of those things.” (Stimming: “A wild-eyed mystic prophet, traffic island star, he raves of saving me.”) Either way, the lesson I’ve landed on is that I’m bigger than even I think I am when I remember that I am also no one. The praise and criticism of strangers has been replaced by my always-grateful audience of birds and bees. Now don’t get confused, I’m talking about burning out with live performance specifically. I’m making more art than I ever have. But if you don’t perform it on a stage, and you don’t promote it, isn’t it just vanity art? I happen to believe all art is vanity art. The promotion and performance isn’t lacking vanity; in fact, it often requires more. This might be my Nanette soliloquy—an admission that the thing I built an identity around is something I’m willing to let go of. So Siddhartha of me. Ha. The most committed singers I know are the birds outside my windows. They sing because that’s what birds do. Selfishly. Selflessly? Hmm. Their payment is a drink from the pond, a berry, a bug, a crust of bread if I’m feeling generous, and another sunrise. In return, I get their loyalty and their songs—dark caws and bright chirps in constant harmony. It doesn’t mean anything. And simultaneously, it is everything. (Ok Yoda, calm down.) So for now, I’ll still sing at Carnegie Hall. I’ll still sing at church. I’ll still sing in your backyard if you ask nicely. But I have nothing booked for weekend gigs. I’m busy singing at my pond with the birds. I plan on getting my fill of this for a while.

Homework
Revisit Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know,” circa 1996. Then spend some time with the woman she became after she stopped chasing the same version of success. Revisit Natalie Merchant’s “Carnival.” “Where a wild-eyed misfit prophet raves of saving me…” Then check out Paradise Is There: The New Tigerlily Recordings for a tasty revamp. Put on Joni Mitchell’s “For Free.” It’s one of my favorite songs to sing when nobody is listening. Finally, watch Nanette by Hannah Gadsby—a deeply self-reflective performance piece exploring the duality of performance and the cost of living as one. Bring tissues.

Francesca Valle is a singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, writer, producer, and entrepreneur. Originally from Los Angeles, she spent 12 years in San Diego and still stays closely connected to its arts community. She’s the founder of BugByte Studios and WiseJack Marketing, now based in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Costa Rica, with creative roots planted in the people and stories that have shaped her.