500,000: A Look Behind the Sheet

Several old sheets hang from the ceiling flanking a white projection screen. Black ballet flats are strewn across the floor. A person in a fur hat donning a striped red sweatshirt and low-rise ripped jeans carries a bass behind the divide. A single image projecting the number 500,000 in red and yellow buttons appears. The sounds of cymbals can be heard clanking from behind the sheet, followed by a loud synth ripping through the St Andrews Heritage museum. 

“Let’s f***king go!” 

“Guys, it’s 7:02. Who’s at the door?” 

They are still setting up as people file in, each obediently carrying their own pillow — the flyer having clearly stated that the event was BYOP (bring your own pillow). The room remains calm. One person wears a 1950s-style coat, another wears a WestHam jersey; it seems as if everyone is dressed for a different event. 

“I have no idea what to expect,” said Ava, an attendee. “It’s been in the works for so long.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been to two meetings, and I couldn’t make out what was going on,” agreed another attendee, Emelia. “You know Mort from Madagascar? I’m like that, I just followed them around.” 

The lights dim, and the room goes quiet as papers rustle from behind the divide. Nothing can be seen except for the slight reflection of light against a flute. The songs begin. Light and whimsical sounds fill the air — the kinds you’d expect to hear when a Disney Princess gets dressed by birds. 

Then it turns melancholic. Despite not being able to see anything, the audience is engaged. Some have their eyes closed, others stare ahead at the white wall in front of them. The flutes subside. Papers rustle. Slowly, the sound of static builds throughout the room. It pitches up as if it is honing in on a sound, and a video begins. 

Words appear on the screen: Do you know what’s in a face? Images of painted faces flash. Loud sounds ring out, followed by the sound of an electric guitar. It’s almost disturbing; the music sounds like an anxiety attack and feels like a pit in your stomach as it builds and builds and builds. Watchers curiously whisper to their friends and pull their phones out to take pictures. 

A thumping sound begins to build as images of masks alternate on the screen. The projector disconnects and flashes as a girl frantically tries to fix it. The audience doesn’t seem to realise it’s not a part of the performance. 

There was nothing before masks. 

The sound of wailing pierces the room as the synths get louder and louder. A girl sitting near the front looks around, concerned. It seems like she is thinking, What the f*** is this? Are you guys seeing this too?

500,000 is a music event organised by Isaac Chirnside. As they spoke about what the event meant to them, they always circled back to one idea: deconstructing binaries. The audience sat on the floor, and the band performed behind a screen, completely invisible to the audience. 

“The whole idea from the beginning was to collapse the distinction between what it meant to be an audience member and to be a performer,” Chirnside said. “For the audience, there's no looming artist, and for the artist, there's no looming audience.” 

Rowan Liddell, who created the projected video, explained that the audience and performer were mutually reinforcing categories. When the performer is removed, the binary between the audience and performer disappears. 

Chirnside spoke about how much calmer it felt to be hidden. “We had so many technical difficulties, but it was so calm. No one could see us fail around like idiots looking for a cable,” they said. “Not that we were doing that,” Chirnside quickly assured, “because it sounded great, right?”  

Flute player Toni Williamson agreed. “As a woman, I often feel quite self-conscious when performing. There’s a special thing about the patriarchy that makes you particularly self-conscious about your physical appearance as a woman. It was freeing to be behind a screen and not think, ‘Do I look weird?’”

Both Chirnside and Liddell spoke at length about how their experience with St Andrew’s social scene as Scottish students motivated them to create a space for themselves.

“When you’re playing in St Andrews, there’s a guarantee it's going to be a St Andrews audience. St Andrews events are always about networking, about the social aspect. We’re removing that in hopes something is going to happen internally.” Chirnside explained. “It’s becoming increasingly harder for anyone in this town to have a space or to make art because it’s all run by very rich Americans who can always go home. The community building doesn’t happen because for them; it’s all about the LinkedIn connections.”

“We have been, for a time, taking the piss out of everyone. Being from Scotland, it’s hard to be in St Andrews and not think it's a bit of a farce,” they said. “Because ultimately you’re in Fife, you know what I mean?” 

“As Scottish people, we are never going to win in this town,” Chirnside said. “The natural conclusion is to make your own space.” 

“It’s quite dissonant for a lot of Scottish people who come here to be exposed to this social scene and [the] requirements and habits that come with it, like £90 for a ticket to a fashion show. That feeling of being jarred is a lot of what went into 500,000 for me.” Chirnside reflected. “There is no performance in [other] Scottish communities. It is so jarring to come somewhere completely different.”  

The Scottish experience at St Andrews wasn’t the only motif that Chirnside hoped to communicate in their performance. “Rowan likes to joke that all of my art is about the decline of Scotland. It’s not, I do trans stuff too,” they said. Both Chirnside and Liddell spoke about how the division between the audience and the performers represented the gender binary, and how 500,000 was about creating a space where they could truly be themselves.  

“I am trans in a way someone would like. But if it ever gets ugly, which it can, then that's shunned. It’s tolerated in a very specific way,” Chirnside explained. “It’s tolerated in the same way being Scottish is, it’s one track, and if you’re falling off that track, you’re shunned. So to have and create this space means to combat that.” 

To Chirnside, 500,000 is about so much: “being trans, being Scottish, and taking the piss out of DONTWALK.” For Chirnside and Liddell, DONTWALK is part of a larger majority; one that uses art to create a binary between those who can afford to participate and those who cannot. “Those societies have hundreds of thousands of pounds,” Chirnside said. “I had to pick up a few extra shifts to afford this.” 

Performing behind the sheet meant Chirnside and Liddell couldn’t see anyone in the audience. To the majority, Liddell “hope[s] they learned nothing” — “I hope they had a great time, but I don’t want them to learn anything because it’s not for them, it’s for the people who are not welcome in their circles.” 

“This is how a binary works,” they explained. “A binary is established by the dominant group, and the minority [is] defined in opposition to them. We are trying to speak exclusively for the minority in the hope [that] the majority will end.”

Photo courtesy Iris Pritchard