In this blog post, I’ll take an in-depth look at the mindset and considerations amateur band performers need to adopt to achieve genuine connection with their audience on stage.
I am not a professional. Nevertheless, the university band in which I serve as the vocalist exists for the purpose of performing. Of course, a small university club is not merely a group dedicated solely to performing. However, the image the club presents to the outside world is revealed through its performances, and I am undeniably a performer standing before an audience. The term “performer” encompasses not only the moment of playing music on stage but also the love and passion for the entire process—from planning and preparing the performance to actually carrying it out.
Becoming a performer. This is not about having direct conversations with others, submitting articles somewhere, writing short diary entries on social media, or holding candles on the street; it is about communicating with others in a unique way. It means becoming someone who conveys my voice through music and creates a “performance”—that is the true meaning of becoming a performer. Becoming a performer is, in essence, fostering “communication” with the audience.
Looking back now, I remember bursting into tears after my first performance—a moment that had initially filled me with nothing but embarrassment—as the tension finally melted away. Forming a band with like-minded freshmen without a single upperclassman to guide us, and preparing for our performances, was by no means easy. Maintaining the club by recruiting new members was also a constant struggle. Barely managing to keep the club afloat—one that felt like it would crumble at the slightest wobble—I constantly wrestled with the club’s identity as a “band.” The question, “What is this band that makes me so obsessed with it?” lingered in my mind every day. After a year of intense reflection, I reached the conclusion that “a band is a club that performs, and a performance is a promise to the audience.”
A promise to the audience. This promise holds a meaning that goes far beyond the mere fact that we are performing somewhere at a certain time. It is hard to find any consideration for the audience in a performance where the performers fool around on stage or crack jokes that no one understands, merely showing off their singing or instrumental skills. A performance where the performers stand on stage without a message to convey or a willingness to communicate with the audience is nothing more than a simple “talent show.” If the audience feels alienated during a performance filled with incomprehensible foreign songs and insincere love ballads, it cannot be called a true performance.
The audience isn’t there just to listen to my songs and clap. They are the final piece of the performance, and when the audience is excluded, the performance has failed. If I want to share exciting and joyful songs with the audience, I must think deeply about how to bring them joy. If I want to share my struggles through music, I must find a way to comfort one another. If I simply want to share good songs, I must strive to find them. However, all of this deliberation ultimately begins with the question: “What kind of voice will I convey to them?”
That said, the process of crafting my voice is no easy task. Due to my own limited skills, I cannot bring myself to perform songs I’ve written or composed on stage. But at the very least, even as an amateur, it is possible to select songs that performers can empathize with and enjoy together during the process of choosing the setlist. A friend who once stood on stage told me that a performer must have that “vibrancy.” If even I, the one conveying the music on stage, feel no emotion or vibrancy, that music will be nothing more than passing noise to the audience.
Of course, a performance should not simply be a venue for performers to impose their emotions and voices on the audience. All communication must be two-way, and this holds true for performances as well. However, it is not easy for performers on stage to directly hear the voices of the audience below. That is why performances require a special means of communication. The atmosphere and audience response become the channels for that communication. The audience’s reaction to the music conveyed by the performer is relayed back to the stage through the venue’s “atmosphere,” and we engage in a dialogue mediated by the music and its emotions.
The performer must take responsibility for communication during the performance. From the moment I decide to stand on stage, I become a performer who has made a promise to the audience through the “performance.” And that promise continues until the performance ends and the last audience member leaves the venue. A performance that consists merely of “Wow, this song is great” without any thought about what kind of stage to create may earn applause, but it cannot elicit a genuine response. A performance without communication with the audience is a performance without an audience, and such a performance is not complete. Thinking more deeply and feeling more deeply while crafting a performance is the most basic courtesy owed to the audience who took the time to come and watch.
A month ago, I gave my final performance under the name “Hyeonyeok.” Since it was my last show before retirement, I prepared with all my might, but just before stepping on stage, my nerves were at their peak. To make matters worse, I couldn’t stop coughing, and my throat was in terrible shape. While the guitar and bass were being tuned, I could feel my heart pounding. As I prepared for the show, countless worries, conflicts, and efforts shared with the club flashed before my eyes. The long hours poured into that brief moment of connection—less than 30 minutes—only heightened my tension. But as I put my lips to the microphone to the beat of the drums and my tightly closed lips parted, the trembling caused by nervousness transformed into a thrill of ecstasy, blending with the music that filled the entire venue. The tremors I felt on stage were conveyed to the audience through the music. As an actor performing the music, I sang, and the audience, swaying in response to the music, sent shivers back to the stage. Perhaps the words, “I prepared this because I wanted to share a story that we could all relate to,” were unnecessary.
After the performance, the audience’s reaction—“It felt like I was hearing my own story”—proved that my efforts to create a performance centered on communication were not in vain. The thrill that had made my heart race was transmitted through the microphone, and I am certain the audience felt it too.
Someone might ask me, “Does a small college band really need to worry about such deep issues while performing?” I would answer, “Yes.” Whether professional or amateur, I am not someone who simply shows off my skills alone. I am a performer. A performer is someone who creates a performance. A performance is a space filled with songs I empathize with, songs I want to share, stories many people can relate to, and stories I want to share together. And within a performance, there exists “me,” “the audience,” and “us.” The performer conveys music from the stage, and the audience responds with enthusiasm from below. That very space is a venue for communication, and if even one person among the many of “us” can lie in bed late at night and recall the performance, then my communication has succeeded.
