‘I escaped the disruption of my childhood for a world that accepted damaged people’: How music saved me

I never intended to be in a band. I didn’t grow up having music lessons or enjoying rousing sing-songs around the piano, I didn’t get taken to concerts or even listen to anything but background music with my family. As a kid, films, books, drawing and gymnastics vied equally for my attention. It wasn’t until I reached adolescence when I needed more than childish distractions and fantasy to provide solace and escape, that I really got sucked in. 

Music gave me hope and distraction: rhythm and noise that could change or enhance my mood; lyrics that provided reassurance that someone out there understood me or that there were other, better ways to feel. The players – real people, not just fictional characters – embodied possibilities: alluring, confident women I dreamed of becoming; sensitive, artistic men I might one day love and be loved by; exciting and interesting performers who could end up becoming my friends. And, if their backstories were sad or tough, they offered hope that I, too, might escape whatever crap I was stuck in and one day be lauded and adored.

When I started going to gigs, I’d immerse myself in the crowd, roiling among the sweaty bodies and thrown around to the songs. Though the mosh pit would often become violent, I felt numb to the blows and would be surprised by the bruises that would emerge the following day, covering my arms in a polka-dot of purple (this, too, feels like an apt metaphor). It was the ultimate high to be subsumed, a part of something bigger and enveloping. And if it was this wonderful to be the listener – the audience – imagine how amazing it might be to be the instigator. To have the gift and the power of creating that magic yourself.

The miracle of music, of all creativity, is making something from nothing. Stringing notes together, adding depth with lyrics, breathing life into a song by playing it with a band, finessing it through the recording process, then sharing it with an audience, spreading all that emotion and connection and joy – all born from a bedroom, a guitar and a voice. Happiness from sadness, a ticket out of loneliness and loserdom, escaping a bad place to beat a path to somewhere better.

And it was bands in particular that I connected with. I never craved the life of a solo artist, celebrated but alone. I wanted the camaraderie of a gang. A family. Imagine being with your mates, having a laugh, playing wonderful music to crowds of people who are all communing to celebrate together in one great big party. Never lonely, always together and looking out for one another; uniquely appreciated and being loved for what you do.

I mean, I know that’s all bollocks – I know that now – but at the time it felt like a dream that could be realised.

So I wasn’t driven to form Lush by an inborn talent I wanted to showcase. I fell into music, grabbed onto it like a lifeline. 

Meeting Emma [my bandmate], being part of the gig scene, joining a band – it was more luck, opportunity and need that made me follow that path, rather than a lifelong ambition. 

I was escaping the craziness and disruption of my childhood surroundings, beckoned towards a world that accepted damaged people, even celebrated them. I didn’t much care for the trappings of success – global fame and immense wealth weren’t on the agenda. And I’ve never had much truck with hero worship and the cult of the solitary genius. It was my lack of faith in any inborn talent, the punk-rock ethic that anyone can have a go, that inspired me to jump into the fray. 

I just wanted to be a part of something, in the middle of it, willing to try to hope for the best. Throw myself into the sparkling sea and, fingers crossed, this time I’ll swim.

Extracted from How Music Saved Me From Success by Miki Berenyi (Nine Eight Books).