After a couple of years of occasionally picking up my snakeskin axe and frustratingly putting it back down when I couldn’t nail a certain chord change, I did the only thing I knew – I gave up entirely. Giving up is one of the easiest things to do, and it’s something I’ve ashamedly done many times with different things over the years – violin, crochet, wrestling training, karate, personal training, healthy eating, about five different YouTube channels . . . the list is endless – but on this occasion, as far as music went, I well and truly wrote myself off. I still practised singing, pretending to be in a band when the bedroom lights were out, but by the age of fourteen, as my guitar began to gather dust and Busted announced they were splitting up, I left my dreams in the corner, throwing myself into academic subjects instead. The thing is, surrounded by my peers at school who knew exactly what they wanted to do for a living, I was completely lost. Being a singer was the only real ‘dream’ I’d ever had, the only career I could imagine doing that made me smile at the prospect. Without that dream, all I could do was drift, not knowing what else I’d be any good at: Perhaps I should become an English teacher, or a secretary like my mum. Not that I’ll be doing either, if I keep skipping homework . . .
It wasn’t until I’d turned sixteen, after a spur-of-the-moment decision to buy an acoustic guitar with my saved-up pocket money, that my love for playing music truly came back. This time around, I was older and knew myself a little better, equipped with more acoustic-based music influences, and I began to write full-length songs for the first time. I shared my creations with no one; after coming this far, I was terrified of negative feedback, scared of having anything knock my confidence and send my new guitar into its dusty grave alongside its predecessor. Slowly, with practice, I got better at playing; I got the hang of singing and strumming at the same time, and of writing lyrics that fitted into my personal life.
Now fully immersed in the world of pop-punk bands such as Paramore, blink-182 and Green Day, I finished school and attended college to study A levels in academic subjects. I still wasn’t convinced that I could eventually sell out shows with what little music I’d created, and made the decision to turn down a course in music production, instead opting to study maths, ICT, English language and politics (could you imagine me debating in a politics class? I was every bit as annoying as you’d think). Within the first couple of weeks, I’d befriended a guy in my politics class whose love for bands such as Nine Inch Nails and Rage Against The Machine rubbed off on me. However, it was only when he introduced me to a band called Placebo that I realised I had to truly give music another go. I had to give myself as much of a chance as I could to share a stage with Placebo one day, just as I’d once dreamed of doing with Busted.
In 2010, after discovering my new desire to be in a band, another college friend suggested a website where existing bands were advertising for members. One night when I was eighteen, after I came home from studying, I logged on, typed in my location, and up came an advert: Southend-based band looking for male vocalist to make pop-punk music like Four Year Strong, Paramore, The Wonder Years. 16–22 age range. Email here for more details . . .
I stared long and hard at the ad. It’d been on the site for weeks – had the band already found someone and just not removed their post? Besides, they’re looking for a male vocalist, I thought to myself. I’d look like a fool applying. Although, they did say they wanted to make music like Paramore . . . and I do love Paramore . . .
. . . Ah, screw it. Just apply. They can only say no, right?
Heart thumping in my chest, I wrote to the email address in the ad. I don’t have any real band experience, I wrote, already tasting the rejection before I could even hit send. And I know I’m female, but I’d love to send over some vocals if you’d consider me.
Before long, I had an email back: Hey Emma. Sure thing, send over a sample of you singing something. Do you know ‘Wasting Time’ by Four Year Strong? Send over a take of you singing that.
Crap. I didn’t know that song. I quickly typed in the band’s name on Spotify and up came the song he’d requested. Oh man, this is heavier than Paramore. And the guy’s got a strong, screamy voice, I thought to myself. You’re going to sound awful attempting this.
Although – I’d come this far, right? I grabbed my cheap USB microphone, plugged in some headphones and (nervously) sang over the track. Attaching the demo, I sent my reply to the guitarist: Okay, here you go. It’s not really my style, but I gave it a shot. If you want, I could probably sing a Paramore song instead – might be better!
After what felt like an eternity (yet was only a few, short minutes) I received a reply: This is cool! Wanna come and have a jam this weekend?
My heart soared. I was in a band! That Saturday morning, I phoned in sick at my then-job at a fast food restaurant and went to Southend for my first ever band practice. The band, who we’ll refer to as BBD, made me feel as though, for the first time in my life, my bedroom pipe dreams could become a reality. Just a week after joining, we played our first gig: a three-song set in the middle of a shopping centre for a local Battle of the Bands competition. Okay, so we didn’t win the competition (mostly because I was nervous as heck, apparently not a good singer when performing in front of a crowd and couldn’t remember any of the lyrics!), nor did we win the next Battle of the Bands a few months later, either – but the gigs we played to the ten, sometimes fifteen people at local venues were a dream. Up on stage, singing into a microphone as I stood at the monitors in front of me – I felt at home. I felt as though I had truly found my purpose.
Then something bad happened. Don’t date your band members. I’ll summarise – I started dating the bassist; the guitarist (the one I sent the demo track to) was none too happy. BBD pretty much went downhill from there, and ended over a few short Facebook messages, just a few short months after I’d joined. The bassist and I stayed together for about three months after the band broke up, but our relationship fizzled out. However, the arguments we had that led to us breaking up left me reeling, and I decided I needed to vent in the only way I knew how – I wrote a song.
On 1 September 2011, after ambushing my bassist-turnedboyfriend-turned-ex at a tattoo parlour, where he was getting his first tattoo, I returned home, smug at ‘getting revenge’ on a guy who had broken my heart. I sat down at my desk, wrote a song called ‘Glory Days (I Hate You More)’, switched on my crappy handheld camera and recorded myself performing it. Okay, now I just need to upload it so he’ll see it, I thought to myself (I’m really painting myself as a bad ex here, aren’t I? I swear I’ve matured), as I created a channel. I went with the name TheseSilentSeas and uploaded the video. It was the first song I’d written outside of a band that I was truly proud of. My bassist-turned-boyfriend-turnedex wrote a song in retaliation (which, let’s be real, dude, sucked) and that was that. I was now TheseSilentSeas, solo musician. By this point, I had left college and had been working in the department store café for a year, using what little free time I had to write more music, spurred on by my 120 views on ‘Glory Days’. It was through a mutual friend that I met the guy who would produce my first solo EP, Human Behaviour, who then invited me to join the band that he played drums for – and now you’re up to date. Joined the new band, got kicked out, got mad, went solo under my real name, started the channel emmablackery, started messing around with comedy videos, and the rest, as they say, is history.
In mid-2013, a year after starting the emmablackery channel and cementing myself as a YouTube personality, I went back into the studio, recording and self-releasing my second EP Distance. Within the first week, the music video for the lead single ‘Go The Distance’ had reached hundreds of thousands of views, the EP was number one on the iTunes Rock Chart, and big record labels were coming from out of nowhere asking for meetings. I began performing acoustic shows at YouTube events, joining my fellow ‘YouTube musicians’ on tour, and released my third solo EP, Perfect, in late 2014. After a performance at Summer in the City later that year, w
here I sang tracks from my EP and shaved my head for charity in front of thousands of people, I signed with management for the first time, releasing my fourth EP Sucks To Be You in early 2016. Just before the EP’s release, I received a bit of inside gossip – Busted, my favourite band as a kid, the band that inspired me to pick up a guitar in the first place, were re-forming and going on a nationwide arena tour . . . and they were inviting me to be the support act to open for each and every show.
At twelve years old, I picked up my first guitar, looking up at the walls of Busted posters in my bedroom, dreaming of an alternative universe where I would befriend them and play a show with them to crowds of thousands.
At twenty-four, I did just that, at Wembley Arena.
All right, that was a long story, well done on sticking with me. Go and have a drink, or something. I didn’t achieve my dream the way that I’d imagined as a kid, I suppose – you know, signing with an agent from a young age, sending demos to each and every record label, having every little thing about my image changed – I got here my way. I did the grafting – I taught myself guitar, having never been taught by anyone else. I sought out local bands to play with. I played those gigs in grotty bars to fewer than ten people. I wrote and recorded those demo songs, I released those EPs, and I made those hundreds of videos, both music and comedy. I played those events and went on those tours. From the second I decided I wanted to take being a musician seriously, I worked my arse off to get what I wanted. You see, there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to get to where you want – just your way. Luck is for losers. Work for what you want, and never give up on that dream in the back of your mind. Perhaps the dream you have for yourself right now won’t work out – but if you at least try, there’s a chance you’ll succeed. If you don’t try at all, there’s zero chance you’ll succeed. So why not give it your all?
Whose Life Is It, Anyway?
In 2002, at the age of ten, I borrowed my dad’s big, bulky camcorder from the ’90s and set it up on a tripod in my bedroom. What can I say? I was destined to be a vlogger. I pressed record, ran over to my CD player, and played the track ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Whitney Houston. A classic, might I add, if sung well, and not in a bar on karaoke night when drunk. I have since made that mistake.
After belting out the lyrics over the top of the track, I pressed stop on the camcorder and ran downstairs to grab my dad.
‘Daddy! Come and look! I sang “I Will Always Love You”!’ I said excitedly, running over to the man resting on the sofa, tugging on his arm.
‘I heard, darling,’ he replied. ‘I think the whole street heard you. You have the voice of an angel . . . ’
I beamed.
‘. . . an angel chewing on broken glass.’
As his joke sank in, I laughed along with him, trying to hide my tears. Listen, my dad was very supportive overall – I am in no way trying to suggest otherwise. There was a time when I sang ‘Tragedy’ on holiday in Gran Canaria and my dad recorded the entire thing and proceeded to play it proudly on his computer every night for the next year. But this joke . . . it hurt. All right, it was a joke, but to me, it felt as though there was a layer of truth hiding underneath – did he really think I sounded bad? Did I sound bad? Did he just want me to shut up for the night?
Needless to say, there were times growing up when it seemed as though my parents were trying desperately to keep me humble – I certainly wasn’t a child prodigy like you see on TV shows, but there were times when my mum would be too tired from working in London all day to really pay attention to my passion, and the little jokes here and there from my dad stung more than I let on. With a little help from our good friend hindsight, I can see now that really, though it may have been hurtful being made to believe in myself way more than anyone else did – it was the best thing my parents could have done. Could you imagine if they’d told me every single day that I was the best singer in the world, when looking back, I so clearly wasn’t? Would I have taken rejection from future Battle of the Bands auditions so kindly? What kind of person would I have become?
Sadly, my growing self-doubt over my singing ability affected me long into my teens. Instead of belting out my favourite songs, I began to mumble them instead, only truly practising when I was home alone. Our family had very little money to spare, as I mentioned previously, but my lack of confidence was another reason I never asked my parents if I could go to theatre school, or to get singing lessons – they didn’t seem to think I could make a living from my singing voice, so why should I even try?
At sixteen, when it came to choosing courses to study at college, I scanned over the prospectus to consider my options. Amongst courses in French, mathematics, English language, all of which I excelled at in school – another type of course stood out. Music production – a course that would last two years and consisted purely of analysing popular songs, working out why they were considered good, and learning how to replicate that sound in the studio. To someone who had started to write their own songs on acoustic guitar just a couple of years before, this course seemed like a dream – I could learn how to record my own music, and then I could send demo CDs out to labels, get signed and become the next big thing!
I had a real opportunity to chase my dream – so naturally, I chose to take mathematics, English language, politics and ICT instead. Academic subjects were safer, and would get me a fairly decent job or place at a university – even though I had zero desire to work in an office or go to university. Being on a stage performing was still the only career I could envision for myself. In the same way that my friends wanted to go into law, or business, I wanted to sing – anything else wouldn’t have compared. Still, I stuck with what I knew I would be good at by taking subjects that would be looked at favourably on a CV. My parents have always said to me that this is my life, and that I can choose to do whatever I want with it – but still I didn’t even mention the music production course to them. I felt that even though they had both always insisted that I was entitled to make my own destiny, they would still secretly think that I was throwing my life away, wasting my education on something I’d never use. Perhaps they wouldn’t have done, but I wasn’t going to risk disappointing them – I’d done well in school, and I knew I’d do well in college, too.
Only, I didn’t do so well. I mean, I did okay in the subject I liked, which was English language – but still, you can spell ACDC with my results (which is actually quite cool, if you ask me). I just couldn’t apply myself, constantly distracted in class by friends, skipping homework and coursework deadlines to perform with my first band – because my heart wasn’t in anything else. I knew by the start of my second year in college that I didn’t want to go through another step of education, and thus made the decision to take a gap year and figure out what I could do, if music wasn’t going to be my future. I quit my part-time job as a fast food worker at the end of college and went into my department store waitressing job, where I stayed for another two years.
So there I was – twenty years old and two years in, serving old people coffee without a single smile, pushed down by every manager in the building, with no idea what to do with my life. I toyed with the idea of training to be a speech therapist simply because I felt I’d be good at it, but even then, I had no idea how to apply to study for it. I was a waitress, on minimum wage, the rare gig with my second band my only escape. What if I’d just told my parents I was going to study music production? was a thought I had more than once during that time. Would I have wanted to go to university then? Would I be producing my own music? Would I be working in a recording studio?
And so herein lies my point – just as my dad has always said to me, despite my foolish decision many years ago to not listen – your life is yours, and yours alone. At the end of the day, I believe I was destined to take this path to where I am now – I have to believe that – but I spent years regretting my decision not to follow a career path I would’ve actually been happy in, instead doing what I believed would be ‘
best’ for me. I spent many hours of my life thinking, What if? in actual tears, fearing I’d thrown my life away. Do not be me. Your life is still going to be yours long after (forgive me) your parents are gone, and then you’ll be left with the career that they wanted for you. Sure, you might be earning enough, but will you be happy once you have no one left to please? When it comes to your future, give it your all, and answer only to yourself. Any alternative will lead to unhappiness, and success isn’t measured in riches.
In your family’s defence, and in my own family’s, too, your parents only want you to succeed. Whether they want you to take academic subjects, or go into the family business, or try to force you into piano lessons which you think suck, they only want what they believe is best for you, because they care about you. It can be hard to see that when you’re fighting them for what you love, and can lead to feelings of resentment, but you have a very special word in your vocabulary – no. Believe me, your parents won’t like hearing it, especially if it’s just that one word, but with the knowledge that you have the power to control what courses you take, what job you go into, what hobbies you have, you can reason with them as best you can.
Feel Good 101_The Outsiders' Guide to a Happier Life Page 3
