On 5 March 2012, after more than a decade of self-releasing CDRs in photocopied sleeves, my band Dry the River and I released our first bona-fide album on RCA Records. Like many kids, I spent much of my youth loitering in record shops, hunting down the rack space where my own CD would fit, noting which artists would fall alphabetically either side, or trying to picture my debut among the others on the chart wall. I'm not sure how much conviction I had in these aspirations at the time, but I'd probably have been surprised to see myself, 10 years later, awaiting release week with quiet alarm.
I've often heard musicians describe the trauma of recording and releasing an album. Thom Yorke, I think, once likened the experience to raising a child, and then abruptly ejecting them from the family home to brave the obstacles of the wider world. This sounds familiar to me - good music demands emotional, financial and physical investment from its author, and as a cumulative process it can be difficult to recognise the point where a recording can no longer be improved. After hours of writing, rehearsing, and adjusting, I often find it hard to accept that a song is definitively recorded, and must now weather the critical eyes and ears of the press and the public.
In the main, the critical response to the record has been fair, constructive and favourable - we had a big morale boost early on from a 5* review in the Telegraph, which buoyed us through some fairly snide remarks in teenaged hipster rags, and although I couldn't help but take some comments to heart I was able to regain my footing pretty quickly.
This was a surprise to me - I had been steeling myself for laser beams shooting from the giant Sauron eye of the music press, but that didn't happen. Throughout release week, in fact, it never felt as though the fragile fruits of our labour were being trampled under foot. I think it was more akin to a fond farewell. Like burning the viking longship of our achievements to date.
After running the gauntlet of critical response to the record, we spent the week playing acoustic shows and signing albums in independent record stores. In-stores are always uplifting because you get a very diverse audience, from skinny-jeaned, younger versions of yourselves to middle-aged vinyl fanatics, and people tend to have an informed opinion on every aspect of music and the industry.
What really caught me unawares, here, was the overwhelming response from the in-store attendees, and how much of an impact this had on my own perception of the record. More often than not, the people who came to talk to us or have something signed seemed to have thought at length about what they wanted to say, and this usually went far beyond, "Great record, well done."
Although I've always felt a lot of gratitude toward the people who come to our shows and buy our merch, I think the public response in release week brought home to me that the musician-listener relationship is entirely a two way exchange. Sure, there is a money-for-labour transaction taking place, but both parties are giving one another a chance, going out on a limb, and feeling rewarded as a result.
Oh dear - I ought to wrap this up before I grow white-boy dreads and start wearing a sandwich board saying "free hugs." Suffice to say, although releasing a debut album was nothing like 15-year-old, wallet-chained Pete imagined, it was, on balance, a rewarding, and illuminating experience.
P.S. Please buy our record.