PORTLAND—On Sunday, I took a stroll through Portland's Saturday Market, which is also open on Sunday's. It's a series of stalls under tents along the Williamette River and up through a city street. This is a city of craftspeople, and it's all on curious, intriguing, bizarre, and beguiling display at the market. The sound of live music drew me to a sunny area where a guy and girl were singing a catchy, soulful Americana tune. They had a big sign that said, clearly, "All Money Will Help Artists Create More Stuff," or something like that. It was catchy and I liked the music so I put some money in the guitar case.
But there was a problem: What were they called? Was this a one-off thing or had they been hoping to make a career or at least a flourishing side-gig of this musical talent they had? They used the sign to make a tongue-in-cheek little statement but what purpose did it serve?
I went and asked them if they called themselves something. They did. Most people, I wager, would not ask. So your best bet is clearly, boldly, and biggly saying who you are. Even when you're just a rag tag duo. Everyone's got to start somewhere.
A cousin told me that several years ago he was at a house party in Denver. The band, he said, was amazing. Really good. He even did a double take just to make sure it wasn't the atmosphere or the drink talking, but no, these guys were good and they got the whole party stomping, singing, and clapping.
He might never have known what that band was called, even though he and the rest of America would later hear them on the radio routinely. But even when they were a ragtag bunch of scrappers, the Lumineers passed around a jar with their name on it and gave out little flimsy temporary tattoes. My cousin said he never contemplated wearing said tattoo, but it didn't matter: The effect was had. He remembered the band's name. And soon so did all of the nation.