The Wall You Don’t See Coming
There comes a point in every musician’s life when you realize something quietly painful - you can only do so much. You write, you play, you pour your soul into your songs - and still, what you meet is a wall. Not of applause or even indifference, but something colder. A wall built of skepticism. And often, jealousy.
The Campfire Truth
I’ve lived long enough to see the pattern repeat. Back in my youth, I crossed paths with many musicians, some of them on the brink of stardom. There was one - a guitarist from Copenhagen - who had it all in the 80s: the speed, the looks, the hair, the attitude. Rumors swirled that he was headed for big things in the U.S. One summer night, at a beach party near Copenhagen, he turned up - maybe expecting some admiration, maybe hoping to steal the spotlight.
But the beach fire has its own laws. It's a world of drifters and troubadours, of worn-out acoustics and three-chord songs that make people sing together. That night, the guitar went around the circle, each person taking a turn. I had Swedish friends with me, and as anyone who knows Swedish culture understands - nearly all of them can strum a tune. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about feeling. Playing what makes others lean in, not just what makes jaws drop.
When it was the “superstar’s” turn, he didn’t have a song. He had tricks - 5000-note runs at breakneck speed. But the campfire didn't care. No one was impressed. The girls asked him, politely, to pass the guitar to the next guy. That was me.
So I played Brown Eyed Girl, Hotel California and my own Gabriella. I didn't plan to outshine anyone - it’s just that I knew how to connect. That’s what music is: connection. Not performance.
Showbiz and Shadows
I’ve seen many prima donnas like him. All ego, no soul. Especially in Copenhagen - it was like everyone thought they were an undiscovered star. All talk. "I know this guy," "I played with that guy." Nobody listened. Nobody had time unless it was about them. And when someone like me drew the attention of others - especially the girls - the claws came out. The gossip, the attempts to tear me down, to rewrite me into some kind of failure.
Yes, I was wild. Unapologetically so. I lived on instinct, without boundaries, and that was enough for them to try and label me - a bum, a waster, an addict. But I never lied to anyone. I didn’t lure anyone in with promises I couldn’t keep. All I had to give was love - real, honest, music-infused love. And that’s what I gave.
Still the Same
It’s strange, thinking about those people now. We're older. Supposedly grown. And yet when I run into them, even 30 years later, the same patterns emerge. They still don’t have time for me - but they have all the time in the world for those they think might raise their profile. I could release a hundred songs (and I have), remaster my past, pour my soul into every note - and still, it's like I don't exist.
Why?
It’s not about the music. I’ve come to realize that. It never was. It’s about what people expect a musician to be. And when you don’t play the fame game, when you choose truth over trend, you become invisible. Or worse, a threat.
Fire in the Mirror
I went to a festival the other day - one I used to play back in my younger days. But something felt off. Either the crowd had changed… or they hadn’t changed at all. Maybe I’m the one who stayed the same. Because I look in the mirror and I see the years, yes - but inside, I’m still that 25-year-old dreamer. That fire still burns.
And yet… so few listen. So few care. Sometimes, not even a comment, a like, or a share. And the people who once claimed to know me? They're silent. Ghosts with phones in their hands.
Everywhere you look, artists collect prizes for this and that - But I could point to several others that deserved that better - But, that’s how the game is played - It’s rigged and you’ll never be the one winning it - But, have this in mind: You’re a winner, you don’t need no fake prize.
What Artists Do
But I keep writing. I keep releasing. Because that’s what artists do. We don’t stop just because no one’s clapping. We sing to the stars, even when the night answers with silence.
So here I am. Still making music. Still standing. Still dreaming. And if the world won’t listen - then so be it. At least I know the songs are true. And somewhere, someday, someone will hear them and feel something. That’s all I ever wanted.
And if you're a musician reading this, tired of the silence - know this: you're not alone. The fire may burn quietly now, but it's still fire. Don’t let them take that from you.
- Lars Willsen