A SOFTER KIND OF LOUD

Live music events are not always designed with neurodivergent awareness in mind. In a way, this makes sense. For music to compel a live audience, it needs to transcend the general ambiance of its venue. It’s hard to do that softly, and many find loudness to be part of the appeal. It’s not just the music either – the louder and more raucous a performance, the more the audience is encouraged to respond in kind. This can be a lot of fun in the right setting. Unfortunately, for many neurodivergent people, it can be difficult to handle.  

Being neurodivergent myself, I’ve had a number of these experiences. I remember an event my parents attended at a golf clubhouse when I was a child. The other children and I were sent outside to play while the parents socialized in a small, narrow hall where one of them was playing guitar. As the guitar grew louder, so did the conversation, and when I went inside to ask my parents a question, I was met with a sensory assault. It sounded like someone was dialling an old radio – spurts of music interspersed with screeching feedback – with the volume turned up to a hundred. Somehow, it felt like the sound was inside my skull. I don’t remember what I asked my parents or what they said back. I just remember the level of anxiety that I’ve rarely experienced since.  

This wasn’t the first or only time I was overwhelmed by music and its audience. There were several musical performances held at my school in rooms built without acoustics in mind. Literally every time, I was the one kid there covering his ears, unable to manage the sensory overload. I could play my stereo at full volume, but something about the combination of live music and small venues simply wasn’t compatible with me. Things did get better as I got older, but not entirely. As an adult, I’ve attended concerts and music festivals, and when the venue is large or outdoors, so that sound can travel, I often enjoy myself. Even now, though, small, unconventional venues can wreak havoc on my sensory system.  

This history provides the context for my trepidation in attending the Marmalade Cat Cafe on Pandosy last Friday. I’m genuinely thankful for the opportunity that the Kelowna Arts Council has given me to write for them, and as I immerse myself in the local arts scene, I’ve made attending their events at the Marmalade Cat (5-7 PM on Friday nights) a priority. But I must admit that as I walked up to the door, I was a bit nervous. As a cafe, it has a comfortable, cozy atmosphere – but the thought of hearing live music in such a space brought up bad memories.  

I felt a bit awkward as I entered, ordering a drink as I surveyed the room for a place to sit. Once I found a spot, I could settle in and focus on the performances – and I had a great time. The space allowed microphones and instruments to be set up in the back third of the room without feeling crowded or difficult to navigate. I’ve got a major aversion to being in rooms with too many people and not enough space, but I never once felt uncomfortable with the cafe’s layout.  

Of course, the biggest concern for me was the music itself and the level of noise contained within the room. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the acoustics didn’t cause me to feel overwhelmed, and I was able to appreciate the performances even when the musicians raised the volume on their instruments or sang loudly. The sound felt contained rather than invasive, and rather than staying on guard, I was able to settle into the experience. My mind and body weren’t holding tension or bracing for the next sensory swell, making for a relaxed but engaging evening.  

Another concern was the patrons in the cafe. Musical performances inspire energy in their audiences and often encourage participation. For someone who has difficulty with noise, this can create an oppressive atmosphere that dominates the room and invades the mind along with the ears, particularly in small spaces.  

It’s for this reason that “Sweet Caroline” has been my personal nightmare, and when I heard the opening notes of it last week, I quickly developed a nervous twitch. Luckily, once again, I was pleasantly surprised. Audience members sang and chanted along with the performers, but remained respectful of the space they were in. There was a shared awareness of the ruckus that could be unleashed if their energy went unchecked. It was the opposite of the overbearing noise I’d experienced in similar settings before (the absence of alcohol at this event versus others I've attended probably helped...).  

This was the first KAC event that I’ve attended, and I’m glad I did. The space was well organized, the music was enjoyable, and the sensory experience was comfortably mild. There were enough people to give the event a lively atmosphere, but not so many that it ever felt claustrophobic. I’m looking forward to attending more events in the future and would recommend the Marmalade Cat’s Friday night performances to anyone seeking live music that leaves room to breathe. 

Written by Brent Stempfle

OILFIELDS AND ART SHOWS

My hometown sat on the oil patch. Flat land that stretched out into the horizon. I could look out and see for miles, and yet, it felt like there was nowhere to go.

Everyone knew their place. The men worked on the rigs, and the women kept things running. One day, we would all do the same. Turning a wrench for rural Alberta’s pot of gold. And once we had it, we’d all be driving fast cars and lifted trucks. For many, that was perfectly fine. 

Not me. I daydreamed constantly about different places, different experiences. I couldn’t stop thinking about things that interested me, rather than working at things that didn’t. Other kids called me “weird.” When I struggled in school, my mother asked my teachers if something about me might be different than the others:

“He’s just lazy. It’s probably because he’s an only child and you’ve spoiled him.”

But she was right. Something was different. While others played hockey, I researched it, learning about players long retired. I obsessed over logos and uniforms, drawing them out in my head the way I thought they should look. While the others hunted and fished, I watched TV, read internet articles and opined to myself on what I saw. I would talk to myself as though I was talking to an audience about what I had seen, trying to make my words sound professional like in the articles I had read.

I was a creative in need of an outlet, but I didn’t know it. And it didn’t matter: our town was built on oil. We didn’t need the arts, we needed workers. Exasperated teachers attempted in vain to introduce us to new ideas, but everything we saw around us told us that the arts were for “weird city people,” not for us.

And I believed that.

By the time I reached my late twenties, I had been employed in labour jobs for years. Every attempt I made to leave for the city resulted in me being overwhelmed by the faster pace of life and constant interaction with strangers. My brain rebelled against trying anything new. I learned to act just like everyone else, even though it was never authentic. I stayed out late and drank with my friends, not knowing what else to do.

I looked for help and sought out counselling. My therapist worked with me to get sober and strive for a better life for myself. I enrolled in Red Deer College (now Red Deer Polytechnic) for Communications and learned to love writing. I got so good at it that whenever our class would do group projects, I would have several people approach me to join their group. When I finished my two-year diploma, I accepted an internship here in Kelowna.

Unfortunately, due to COVID, my internship fell through, and my first years here were difficult. I couldn’t find work with my diploma.

Although I struggled, I made the most of what Kelowna had to offer. I spent more time outdoors, I played sports, and lost weight. My continuing therapy helped me discover and accept myself as a neurodivergent adult. I stopped trying to fix the way my brain works and started learning to use it. I have returned to school to turn my Communications diploma into a full degree. I met new and interesting people like my girlfriend, who has exposed me to new activities that I never would have had, like hiking and paddleboarding. For the first time, I began to accept new experiences, and when she suggested we check out an art gallery, I was intrigued.

The gallery was wonderful. The colours, the creativity and the skill displayed reached me in ways that art never had before. I had found a place in the world where creativity wasn’t looked down upon, but rather celebrated and embraced, and I had learned to appreciate it myself. 

In September, I visited Vancouver for the first time. I had a great week, visiting the Vancouver Art Gallery and UBC Museums, among other sights. But one thing that struck me were the billboards advertising schools and extracurricular groups for children in the arts.

I wished I had grown up in a place where the arts were celebrated. Where my early desires to express myself had been encouraged. Where my neurological differences would have been addressed rather than held up as marks against me.

Fortunately, I’ve got lots of positives. In the last year, I have been to multiple art shows, galleries and museums. I have taken in local concerts, comedy shows and even Cirque du Soleil. My apartment, once barren of any decoration, is now adorned with the works of local artist Sarah Gagnon. My world, once shaded in the cold grey of industry has been opened to the colourful glow of the arts.

The Kelowna Arts Council has graciously offered me my first writing gig with this weekly blog, and I’m extremely thankful for my first opportunity to share my own art with the world. I hope to use it to give back to the city that gave me my vision, and I’ll be covering all sorts of things here, like local artists, events and shows. I’ll also be posting content highlighting the effects of the arts on neurodivergent people like me. While I’m saddened that I’ve missed out on a lot in my life, I count myself lucky that I get to experience it all for the first time. I’ve got tons of things to see, and I hope you’ll join me!

Written by Brent Stempfle