The Performance Towel
"Do you need a performance towel?"
I looked up from adjusting my mic stand, trying to process what our venue contact for the evening had just asked me. A performance towel? For what, exactly?
I did everything I could to avoid looking as clueless as I felt. "Oh, no, thank you—I really appreciate you thinking of us, though." She nodded and moved on to ask the band.
I stood there for a second, still trying to figure out what a performance towel was even for. And then it hit me—oh. For wiping sweat during the performance. The kind of thing a real performing artist might need.
The thing is, I run cold. I've never needed a towel mid-performance. But that wasn't really the point.
This wasn't just another private event. The venue—a well-known performing arts center—treated us with quiet, professional care from the moment we arrived.
And now this question about the towel, right before our first set.
It wasn't a big moment. But it stuck with me. Because our contact wasn't asking out of politeness or as part of a checklist. She genuinely saw us—saw me—as the kind of artist who might need one. Someone whose craft is demanding enough, intense enough, to sweat through a set.
I didn't need the towel. But I needed that moment of recognition.
Here's the thing: that recognition confirmed something I'd only recently started to understand about myself.
Two years earlier, I'd attended the Midwest Arts Xpo (MAX) conference in Indianapolis for the first time. If you're not familiar with it, MAX brings together over 750 arts professionals—agents, booking managers, presenters from performing arts centers and theaters across the region. There are showcases, professional development sessions, and networking. It's where artists and venues connect, where booking tours are discussed, and where you learn the nuances of performing in these spaces.
I walked into that conference clueless, and something shifted.
For the first time, I saw my work could live in multiple contexts. The American Songbook I love, the way I interpret these standards with Court's In Session—this music belonged in listening rooms and performing arts centers too. Places where the audience comes specifically to hear the music, where connection is the whole point.
I left Indianapolis with this new awareness. But knowing something and claiming it are two different things.
For years, when talking to event planners, I'd say: "I have a service business and my service happens to be music."
I thought I was being smart. Professional. I was putting my business credentials front and center—look, I understand the corporate world, I'm reliable, I know how events work. And the music? Well, that just happened to be the service I provided.
It felt safe.
It was also incredibly limiting.
What I was really doing was apologizing for my art. Minimizing it. Making it smaller so it would fit into the box of "vendor" instead of "artist."
That language wasn't just describing what I did. It was shaping the story I told myself about who I was.
And once you see that kind of thing, you can't unsee it.
These days, I'm much more selective about what I say yes to. I don't use the word "gig" in my public communication anymore—language matters.
A gig is transactional. A performance is something much more.
The performance towel moment happened in the middle of this shift. Our contact saw someone who creates those artistic, human, emotional exchanges.
Meanwhile....I was still catching up to that identity. The gap between how others see us and how we see ourselves can be years wide.
So here's my question for you: What language are you using to describe your work, your passion, your art?
Are you minimizing it? Making it safe?
Putting the 'business' credentials before the work?
Listen to how you introduce yourself at networking events, how you describe what you do on your website, and how you talk about your work with potential clients or collaborators.
The words matter.
They're not just describing what you do—they're shaping the story you're telling yourself about who you are.
And that story? It determines everything.