003: On musicians that disappeared
How does it feel to disappear? Like, seriously, just disappear?
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(Listen along on Spotify as you read).
In the 1950s, an American singer and songwriter named Connie Converse tried to convince a record company to bet on her compositions. Her songs had elements of the urban folk music that would explode in a few years in the hands of her fellow countryman Bob Dylan. But, at that time, only Connie seemed to know that her music was the future. "Lovely, but not commercial," was the standard response she received.
One day, a cartoonist friend asked her to sing and play in his kitchen. He recorded the session. Another time, at home, Connie again performed her songs at the request of her brother, Phil, who also recorded them at home. Over the following years, Connie tried to find someone who believed in her work, while her addiction to alcohol and cigarettes only grew. In the ’60s, Connie quit a secretarial job, left her New York home and moved to Michigan. In 1974, she cut ties with family and friends - and disappeared. Like, literally. No one has ever heard from her again, nor where she went, how many years she lasted or even if she is still alive.
Discovered by music researchers, the cartoonist's kitchen record became an album in 2009, half a decade after it was recorded. Named How Sad, How Lovely, the album received positive reviews from the BBC and the Los Angeles Times; artists such as Angel Olsen and Big Thief included Connie in their list of influences. She has amassed more than 16 million plays so far only on Spotify. A biography (To Anyone Who Ever Asks: The Life, Music, and Mystery of Connie Converse) came out in May. And the long-awaited album her brother recorded at home was finally released just one week ago.
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In the same decade Connie disappeared, two Colombian sisters, Elia and Elizabeth, recorded an album, hit the radio and began appearing weekly on local television. The success didn't last long, but, in this case, to leave was their own decision: unhappy with the predatory machine of the music industry, they dropped their careers and restarted studying. Elia and Elizabeth became teachers and never recorded another album again, although they continued composing at home and singing and playing for their groups of friends.
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There are many differences between those two stories. Still, both are about an artist who leaves a career in the music industry at a moment no one was expecting. It makes one question what success is, what it means to succeed, and what makes a career successful. If there isn't only one way to live, why would there be only one way to be a musician?
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An artist as a bus driver, his professional career as a road. This bus driver - this artist - likes to travel with all the windows open because, while travelling, he wants to pay attention to the path, see the nuances of the route, listen to the sounds that come from who knows where, feel the different smells that point here and there. For this driver, the path matters more than the destination written on his bright sign - this information, he believes, is only helpful for those outside.
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It is no coincidence that two women star in both stories.
// THE 003 PLAYLIST
The topic of escape in music has interested me for a long time: artists who withdraw from the music market and those who sing about going away. So you’ll find Connie Converse (US) and Elia y Elizabeth (COL), of course, and Joanna Brouk (US), who stopped making music in 1985 to become a writer. Plus, some songwriters who have explored the subject of leaving, directly or indirectly, like Laura Marling (UK), Paul Simon (US), Mac DeMarco (CAN), Herbert Vianna (BRA) and The Acorn (CAN). To go away sometimes can be as simple as Courtney Barnett (AUS) sings (“Shall we leave? / Are you sure? / Let me grab my bag, we can sneak out through the side door”). Even instrumental music has something to say about the art of disappearing, as Mário Rui Silva (ANG) and the aforementioned Joanna Brouk show us.
Time to turn off your noisy fan and listen to Distante 003:
// ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eduardo Lemos is a music journalist, playlist curator for businesses and co-founder of the record label Pequeno Imprevisto. Having worked in many different roles across the industry in the last ten years, Eduardo had the opportunity to collaborate with artists such as Milton Nascimento, Paralamas, Da Lata, and many contemporary names from Latin America, Europe and the UK. He is the artistic director of the show Lua Rosa, in which Brazilian musicians perform their interpretations of Nick Drake's songs. As a music journalist, he has interviewed music legends such as Gilberto Gil, Arnaldo Baptista and Beto Guedes, and indie artists like Kings of Convenience, Tim Bernardes, Perotá Chingó, and many more. He writes monthly articles for the Brazilian Union of Composers (UBC) website and magazine. Eduardo is also the creator of the newsletter Distante, wherein he writes about music and immigration. He was born in Brazil and currently lives in London, UK.
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