7. Never Let You Down - Dan Sultan
If you were to go by the images people put out there, starting a business is a never ending parade of success, victories and achievement.
What they don’t show you is the utter grind of the process at times, the crushing disappointment, worries and the stress that gnaws away at your mind at all hours of the day.
They very rarely discuss the shame of failure, other than to wrap it in the contrast of life’s boundless victories — use it as the ‘first chapter’ in their shiny life of success.
This is a different take on failure.
* * *
Never Let You Down by Dan Sultan is the soundtrack to a significant period of failure in my life — and it still burns the part of my spine where shame registers.
He is a singer/songwriter based in Melbourne who writes devastatingly sweet ballads and — less frequently now, it seems — rock tunes that hit all the right notes.
He’s an artist familiar with difficulty and struggle, with the voice most men mistakenly think they have when they belt out a tune at karaoke.
He’s released a few albums, but 2009’s Get Out While You Can is still my favourite.
It’s got the guitar-plucking majesty of Sorrowbound, the Melbourne-checking family tale Old Fitzroy and the sheer fun of Cadillac and a Mustang.
But the slow beat of Never Let You Down punches me in the gut every single time.
I was introduced to this album back in late 2010. I’d started my business 18 months earlier and times were tough.
My estimates had proven to be hopelessly optimistic, while my costs were running away from me.
Simply put —we were going backwards, quickly.
It eventually came to a decision point — keep going with the business or fold it and retreat back to the workforce.
It was a forlorn mix of hopelessness and stubbornness that convinced me to keep going with the business.
What else was I going to do? I’d half-heartedly looked for work, to absolutely no avail.
18 months working for myself had already made me unemployable — partly because there are few things recruiters dislike more than a break in the resume, and partly because I’d disliked taking direction from people I didn’t respect before I’d worked for myself.
So it was with a grim acceptance of this reality that I decided to keep ploughing on.
But the financial reality of this situation meant that I had to, in short order:
Move back home
Set up an office at my girlfriend’s house
Accept help from family to find some extra work
Give up any hope of achieving our goals — personal and financial — for at least the next two years
Now, I need to make it exceedingly clear — I’m tremendously lucky and fortunate that each of these options was available to me. If just one of them hadn’t been open, our life right now would be very different.
I was able to fall back on to a network of support and encouragement that many, many people don’t have.
So I’m incredibly grateful — to this day, and forever — for these opportunities.
But you can be grateful while also savaging your own pride and confidence.
I still remember the lowest point during this period.
I’d finished packing my clothes and received a call back from a warehousing night job I’d interviewed for.
The job seemed simple enough — shifting doors through the production process on a night shift — which is why when I found out I’d been rejected, I was gutted.
That’s a tough conversation to have with your partner, sitting on the floor of an empty closet explaining that you’d been rejected for a job you needed.
* * *
Moving back home, taking those giant leaps backwards, accepting help and assistance — all of these conspired to shred my confidence and faith in my ability to succeed.
And if there’s one thing you desperately need in business, it’s faith in your own abilities.
Loathe as I am to admit it, there’s also the powerful force of peer comparison to help you twist the knife in your own gut.
Seeing your friends succeed in their lives, enjoying the opportunities that you thought you might experience, moving forwards while you stumble backwards, can truly undermine how you feel about your place in the world.
Doing so from the comfort of your childhood bedroom — well, that’s humbling.
I was far from the rock bottom you hear about — I had my health, my family, my friends and most importantly my TGNW.
But it was a difficult time, and that feeling of immense failure is a powerful one.
One that I still remember.
This song is, to me, about that experience of failure and the power we give comparisons in life.
I paid the cost for my way of living
And I have lost what I held so dear
My dear, the years have been unkind
Only for you has time stand still
I presume it’s about somebody who’s been more battered by life than I’ve ever been — that first line speaks to me of addiction — but that idea of time sabotaging your life while leaving others untainted is a powerful one.
It was very easy for me to project my own life into those first few lines.
I’d paid the cost for my choices, for the arrogance of my decisions.
The years had certainly been unkind — it’s startling what 18 months of stress will do to your hair, skin and waistline.
But it’s the third stanza that really hit me, and made me think of a close friend of mine during these times:
When you ask me how I’m doin’ these days
I find it easier to lie
Than to tell you about what I feel inside
But I wasn’t lying when I said
That I would never let you down
How powerful is that shame in the second line?
That it’s easier to lie to somebody asking about you than to tell the (embarrassing) truth?
That was me with a friend of mine.
* * *
We hadn’t seen each other very much — life had meant we were in different countries, communicating but separated.
We’d come up through school and spent the years there and since helping and looking out for each other.
I’m glad to say, their life had accelerated over the years.
It was, from my vantage point, a wonderful life filled with adventures, excitement and experiences.
Whereas I’d recently been rejected for a job at a door factory.
It wasn’t a matter of jealousy, but more a matter of embarrassment at the current state of my life that gave this song it’s power.
Is it any wonder that a song about the shame of failure, the sting of comparison resonated so strongly with me at this stage?
After all, imagine, for a moment, the idea of meeting a close friend after years apart.
Imagine their life filled with “dancin’ and laughin’”, whilst yours is simply not.
How would you imagine that experience going? Is it a positive experience for you?
Is it one you anticipate, hopefully, or one that — at least some part of you — dreads?
An experience that you’re already embarrassed of?
This is the scenario I feel (not imagine, because this is a much more visceral sensation) when I hear this song.
The Dissonant Reunion sensation, if we’re looking to tag it as something.
But when I see you coming down the street these days
Think it might be better if I hide
But I know you’re gonna find me when you try
When you ask where I’ve been, well you know I’m gonna lie
It was, of course, entirely imagined.
That’s the wonderful thing about real friends — there’s no need to lie, even it if is easier.
Real friends are there to help, support, encourage, joke and tease you.
It’s the meaningless, nothing, pointless friends that snipe at you and pick apart your decisions so they feel better.
Real friends make the absolute world of difference. There’s no need to hide, because they are going to try and find you.
They’re why I don’t take this line as a romantic one, but rather as a wistful one, using a wonderful memory as an anchor to hold fast through a storm.
But I remember you, dancin’ and laughin’
And that alone helped to get me through
