The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  Me, sewing a cape at midnight for the Skyrim video I did with Peter Hollens.

  Even though I have gotten better at delegating, there are still a few things I will always prefer to do myself. Number one on this list is editing. Sometimes I let other people take a first pass, but I usually insist on making the final cuts. I like to call it fine-tuning.

  One time I did a video to promote a speaker company. When I saw their final edit, I noticed a few problems. I asked permission to make some changes, and they politely declined. When I asked them to reconsider, they said I could come into their office and sit with their editor as long as I wanted and suggest changes for him to make. When I do collaborations now, it is in my initial contracts that I get the final edit if need be. I’m really not as controlling as it sounds! Let me explain.

  First of all, most editors don’t play the violin. I can’t tell you how many times I have received a first edit for one of my videos, only to find that half the violin shots are out of synch with the music. Even if they are able to match up the speed of my playing on video to the speed of the recording, the notes are often incorrect. A long note on the E string is not equal to a long note on the D string. Many people might not notice these details, but they are important to me as a musician. Second, most editors aren’t dancers. As a result, they frequently choose a better camera shot over a sharper dance move. Also, most editors naturally like to cut on the beat. As a dancer, I would rather see a movement finish and cut a second later. And lastly, I’ve found that some editors unknowingly waste the magic.

  I believe every good video contains a little magic between camera and performer. Sometimes I see a clip where my focus is elsewhere:

  Don’t trip on my dress.

  Oops, I missed a note.

  What is my next dance move?

  In these moments, I might be moving correctly and playing all the right notes, but I am not connecting with the camera. When editors use one of these clips over another, it feels wasteful. I want to fill every moment with a little magic. As the creator and performer of my own music, I know every beat and every note more intimately than anyone else. I know what the music is calling for. I want to do the final edits. And I love doing it!

  Other things I prefer to do myself include the initial storyboarding for music videos and tour content, costume design, and staging. I realize this makes me a bit of a diva when it comes to the way I like things done creatively. As a result, I often remind myself that just because someone does something differently doesn’t make it wrong . . . but I’m still going to change it. I can’t help it; I’m a monster! When I have costumes made, I usually make some adjustments of my own. If I don’t feel like myself after I get my makeup done, I’ll make a few final touches. And the directors I work with know by now I’ll be giving suggestions throughout the whole shoot. Luckily I’ve found wonderful people to work with who can appreciate my involvement and don’t see it as an insult to their own work.

  I currently get an average of six hours’ sleep every night, and it feels good. I also get fewer comments on my Instagram pictures about the bags under my eyes, so I appreciate that, too.

  A STYLIST’S LIFE

  FOR ME

  At first, working with a stylist was a nightmare. I dislike shopping. I’d much rather spend my time making money than spending it. I’m also incredibly indecisive when it comes to clothing, and I have horrible buyer’s remorse. That’s why I always imagined having someone else pick out my clothes would rock. It did not.

  For the first few years of my career, working with a stylist wasn’t financially an option. I did all the costuming myself with very elementary sewing skills. (I know this comes as a shock after seeing my kangaroo costume, but my skill level plateaued shortly after that.) When I started doing projects that required more intricate outfits (for video game or character-based videos), I found a local seamstress who was willing to make my costumes for free, so long as she could sell them on Etsy when I was finished. When I moved to LA I had to leave this arrangement behind, but I continued to design and piece together my own costumes as best I could. On my first tour, I could only afford to have a few costume pieces made professionally. The others were Lindsey Stirling originals, patched together entirely from fabric and safety pins. As my music grew in popularity, however, so did the number of press opportunities and industry events I was expected to attend. And I was expected to wear something different to each one; I couldn’t wear the same outfit on the Today show and Conan. From a publicity standpoint, each show wanted their own look and an exclusive photo for press releases. Expanding my wardrobe was more of a business decision than a personal one, but I felt like I was spending more time running around the mall than I was working on my craft. I like looking nice as much as the next girl, but I have never worried much about my clothes. When all the kids in high school were wearing Abercrombie & Fitch, I was sporting a baseball tee from the JCPenney clearance rack. (I originally spelled it Ambercrombie . . . see what I mean?) As a developing musician, the last thing I wanted to do was go shopping a few times a week in search of something appropriate to wear at an interview. Half the time, I didn’t even know what the appropriate attire should be! On top of press opportunities, I was constantly trying to design fresh new looks for music videos and live shows. A few days before my “Stars Align” video shoot I called my mom in a panic. It was my biggest production yet, and I still hadn’t figured out what my eight dancers and I were going to wear.

  “How can I create nine cool, affordable, danceable, tribal-like costumes that are modest in three days?” I asked her.

  A loincloth and an animal print bikini top would have been such an easy fix if modesty weren’t an issue. I lost two nights’ sleep agonizing over it, and when I found a solution I spent another sleepless night making all nine costumes. This was frustrating. Losing sleep over an amazing idea or new song was one thing, but losing sleep over clothes? What a waste.

  This went on for some time, before I decided to seek semiprofessional help. I wasn’t ready to commit to hiring a real stylist yet, so I contacted a fashion blogger I liked and asked if she would be interested in helping me find some new clothes for an upcoming photo shoot. We met up in New York the day before my shoot, and she took me shopping at several high-end secondhand stores—where people recycled their grandmother’s belongings and called them “vintage.” Marina was living in New York City, and I invited her to come along. Every time I tried something on, the stylist would rain compliments on me like the best of them.

  “Oh, that looks so cute on you! I love it! So classic grunge.”

  Marina, on the other hand, stood a few feet behind her shaking her head with a grimace. “Don’t listen,” she mouthed. I had to agree with Marina—I hated everything I tried on. In an attempt to be cooperative, I found a simple T-shirt I felt comfortable wearing.

  “This one looks okay. Should I get it?” I asked.

  Marina stuck her index finger through a gaping hole in the sleeve. “But it’s eighty dollars . . .”

  Point taken. I eventually bought a few things so the stylist wouldn’t feel like I wasted her time, but on the subway ride back to Marina’s apartment, I lamented. “I still don’t feel like I have anything I can wear tomorrow!”

  “We’ll fix this,” she said confidently.

  Back at her place, we rummaged through my bags and her closet until we put together several cute outfits. I should have hired her instead.

  My first experience working with a real stylist was also a bit of a fashion disaster. I imagine she thought the same thing about working with me. I’m a challenge for most stylists. My clothes must be modest in very specific ways. This means necklines can’t be too wide or low, sleeves and skirts must be the correct length, and no see-through material without a slip. If I am performing, it also needs to be something unique, easy to move in, nothing too hot, and complementary to my performance dance sneakers. If a skirt is too short, I can’t wear it; but if it is too long, I will trip. M
ore than a stylist, I needed a genie. On top of these stipulations, most stylists prefer to work with designers, and finding a designer ensemble that adheres to my checklist is a real chore.

  When my first stylist arrived, my heart dropped as I browsed gorgeous piece after piece that I knew I couldn’t wear. The next time I did a styled event, she returned with a small selection of modest dresses. Most were hideous. The few that were cute were all just a few inches shy of appropriate in one way or another. This happens all the time. Some dresses are so close! But when renting from a designer, only minor alterations are allowed. What’s that sound you’re hearing? It’s me, playing the world’s smallest violin for myself.

  Sometimes a stylist will bring a selection of clothes I can borrow, and other times I have to purchase them. Before my appearance on Good Morning America, the stylist pulled a selection of high-end clothes, none of which were for rent. Everything she brought was incredibly expensive and I kept looking at my options, thinking, But I could find something similar at Forever 21 for a fraction of the price.

  “But this is designer,” she said.

  “Oh, right.”

  I felt like I was indulging in a child’s game. I looked at her and thought, She just doesn’t get it, and she looked at me and thought, She just doesn’t get it. I ended up buying a pink skirt that made me look like a cupcake, because it was the cheapest item she had.

  After this experience, I gave up. Heck, I’d been dressing myself for over two decades. Then one day Adina showed up with a new stylist who wanted to try working with me. Jessica Margolis, what an angel. I was getting ready for the Today show, and she asked me, “Do you want to look cute, or wear designer names?”

  “Is Forever 21 a designer name?” I asked jokingly.

  The next day she brought a rack of clothes from American Apparel, Forever 21, and Topshop. Everything was affordable, and I felt like myself when we were done. That’s not to say I don’t ever wear designer clothing. I do, sometimes. But it’s not my top priority. Speaking of which, I wore a designer gown to the 2015 VMAs and earned a spread in the worst dressed list with Perez Hilton. I was offended, but a moment later I realized Perez Hilton thought I was worth talking about. He doesn’t put just anybody on the worst dressed list. Ugly frocks are a dime a dozen, but he chose to mention mine! It was strangely flattering. By the way, the last time I saw Perez he was wearing spandex cloud-print leggings and a denim vest. Out of mutual respect I put him on my own mental worst dressed list. Don’t worry, Perez, I got your back.

  I might not have much interest in high fashion, but I adore costuming. If costume design were a man, I would marry him. Having someone to help me bring my ideas to life is like living inside a Cadbury egg—a dream come true. My costume design process starts with me sending Jessica ideas in the form of sketches or random pictures I find on the Internet. From there, she collects different clothes and has a few mock outfits pieced together, and we play dress up. She knows I like flowing skirts, bustled skirts, nonrestrictive sleeves, and MORE SEQUINS! Most important, she gets me, helps me stay modest, makes me feel beautiful, and keeps me from worrying about my wardrobe so I can focus on the things that really matter—like Phelba’s wardrobe for her next video. Speaking of which, has anyone seen my gaucho pants?

  POST-TOUR

  BLUES

  Erich knows my schedule better than I do, and every night on tour he sends out a day sheet so we all know what our tomorrow holds. Here’s a pretty typical day in Chicago, Illinois.

  A tour is one giant breathing organism, made up of different people and jobs—each equally necessary to keep the beast alive. Since everyone involved works so closely for the same end goal, there is usually a collective tour emotion at any given moment.

  THE BEGINNING OF TOUR—EXCITEMENT!

  In the beginning there is always a general feeling of excitement. We’ve all made it through several grueling rehearsals, and things are finally starting to come together. The days leading up to the first performances are usually filled with technical difficulties and exhaustion, but ready or not, here we come! Troubleshooting is inevitable, but seeing the show finally come to life is exhilarating. Even if my in-ear monitors cut out and Gavi’s keyboard stands fall over during opening night.

  THE MIDDLE OF TOUR—COMFORTABLE

  Days feel longer on tour, and two weeks might as well be two months when you’re around the same people 24/7. By the middle of tour, everyone has found their routine and things get very comfortable, maybe a little too comfortable. This is the point when all the guys fart themselves into early-morning existence without apology. This is also the time when my body starts to ache and my muscles turn to Jell-O.

  THE END OF TOUR—EXHAUSTION

  This is when talk of bowel movements becomes acceptable. Don’t tell me about your food poisoning or how you slept in the bathtub until the last week of tour, because at that point, I’ve probably got food poisoning, too, and will want to tell someone about it. The excitement and adrenaline we get from performing never changes, but we all slow down a little between shows. My crew is especially tired at this point. They are the first ones up and unloading the equipment into the venue every morning, and the last ones loading the trucks at the end of the night.

  At the beginning of tour, days off are mini-vacations when we all go sightseeing and spend time together. At the end of tour, days off are literally days spent off our feet. Once, with the exception of using the bathroom and answering the door for room service, I didn’t leave my bed for an entire day. My body was tired, my brain was tired, and I didn’t have any clean clothes to wear even if I wanted to go out. That’s what the end of tour looks like.

  LAST WEEK OF TOUR—NOSTALGIA

  During the last week I get my second wind and I start to miss everything about tour before it’s even over. I don’t want it to end! I always treat my team to an end-of-tour dinner, where we reminisce about our favorite moments and I get sentimental (cue Vitamin C’s “Graduation” song).

  AFTER TOUR—END-OF-TOUR BLUES

  No matter how tired I may be at the end of tour, I always get a bad case of the end-of-tour blues. I think most people who’ve lived on the road can relate to the low of coming off.

  This transition has gotten a little easier over the last few years, but I always hate waking up the next day in my own surroundings. It’s home, but I always feel so displaced. Living without constant human interaction is weird. Sleeping on a stationary bed is weird. Eating alone is weird. Not having a day sheet telling me what to do and where to be is weird. One minute I’m performing for several thousand screaming fans, and the next I’m in the frozen foods section of the local mini-mart and nobody cares. My body also goes through adrenaline withdrawal, which causes a temporary, chemical-imbalance-induced depression. This adrenaline downer happens to a small degree after individual shows sometimes, so you can imagine how much worse it is when I stop performing cold turkey. By the end of tour, my body has gotten used to a chemical schedule. I perform and get an adrenaline rush, it goes through my system, and the next night I do it again. Then suddenly I’m not doing anything but sitting in meetings or interviews, and my body is like, “What the heck, man, where’s all my adrenaline? This is boring, I’m so depressed.” And I have to be like, “Chill out, body, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll get more adrenaline when it’s time!” The first time the sadness hit I didn’t understand why it was happening, but after spending six to nine weeks on a natural high, my body has to come down one way or another.

  Along with the physical adjustments, my mind usually encounters a small identity crisis as well. On tour, I have one clear purpose. When I get home I work just as much, but it’s not as focused. Most people know the job they will be doing next week, next month, next year. I know I will still be Lindsey Stirling the musician, but I can’t tell you what my days will look like until I get to them. Some days it’s my job to write music, record, plan music videos, or meet with producers and directors. Other days it’
s my job to perform at one-off concerts and private events, do phone interviews, in-person interviews, written interviews, answer e-mails, edit videos, keep up with social media, plan my next tour, and right now I’m working on this book (zing!). But what am I really doing? And why? Where am I going to be in two weeks, or two years? What’s my end goal? And tell me, what’s my purpose today? Stepping onstage and making several thousand people happy is a lot easier and less complicated than all of that.

  Even though touring/traveling takes up the majority of my time (seven to eight months of the year), I have to remind myself that tour life isn’t real life. It’s a world in which everything revolves around me, and as wonderful as that is, it’s far from normal. On the road, it is Erich’s job to make sure I’m happy and healthy, and he’s really good at it. The food I like appears as if by magic, my clothes come back washed and ironed, my days are organized and coordinated for me, I see my name plastered on billboards and marquees, and I’m surrounded by people who love, support, and entertain me endlessly. Going home is hard because I forget what real life feels like. Who are my friends? Where do I hang out on weekends? What do I know how to cook? After coming off tour, I went to the grocery store and couldn’t remember what meals I liked. I ended up calling my mom and asking her, “What do people make for dinner?”

  The end-of-tour blues are inescapable, but I’ve picked up a few tactics to help me adjust more quickly. First of all, I always have a full schedule waiting for me when I get home. Some people would tell me I should take a break and relax, but there is nothing worse than going from a whirlwind into a vacuum. I also meditate twice a day every day. It makes me feel more in control of my mind and body, even when my emotions are trying to go AWOL. And I eat acai bowls, lots of acai bowls. In the end, I always remember who I am, and my home life starts to feel comfortable again, just as I am packing for my next trip. My life is a pendulum, always swinging back and forth. But the back is just as good as the forth. Sometimes I need a little time to remind myself of that.