Two weeks ago, I had a chance to see one of my favorite bands, Phoenix, live in person for the first time. Seeing the show taught me a valuable lesson about making mistakes, and how unforgiving we can be to ourselves over things that are inconsequential to others.

Their live performance was a moment I’d eagerly been looking forward to since I bought the tickets to a music festival in Paris, where I’m living for the summer.

Phoenix is a French band, but they sing in English. Between their invigorating guitar riffs and smooth storytelling, I knew that seeing them live was going to be a moment I’d never forget.

One song in particular, called 1901, propelled them to rock stardom. The song became popular in commercials and on radio stations from Paris to Brooklyn. They became so successful that they were invited to play on Conan, David Letterman, SNL, and MTV. In 2013 they headlined Coachella, and now they sit comfortably among the most relevant European bands, in the same strata as Daft Punk.

There’s one part of the song 1901 in particular that sticks out to anyone who listens. It’s an energetic, infectious guitar solo that starts the song on a high note. The solo itself will transport you to the early 2010s, a time when every song was drenched in reverb and software synthesizers sitting on top of desperate and vague lyrics about love.

I was excited to see the band because I felt like once I finally witnessed this solo live in person, my relationship with the band would reach the next level. I would be levitating, as something that I’d imagined millions of times would finally happen in front of my eyes.

As the show reached the end, everyone knew that they were going to play their hit single. It’s just what bands do at the end of a concert. They never play their most popular song first. They make you wait, and finally, they give in as the crowd erupts. The tension was palpable.

The familiar drum beat started to play, and everyone cheered as they prepared for the guitarist, Laurent Brancowitz to let it rip.

Except, he didn’t let it rip. He began to strum his guitar, and it was a sorry attempt at playing something he’d played probably thousands of times. He missed all of the notes and was playing off-key. Maybe he forgot to tune his guitar, maybe he blanked. Was he having a panic attack? Whatever it was, the famous guitar solo was simply unrecognizable.

I noticed it, as did everyone else in the crowd. Soon enough, the part of the song was over, and the rest of the band played on. Thomas Mars kept singing in his signature, nasally French accent. Thomas Hedlund continued to keep rhythm on the drums in his erratic, eccentric style, and soon enough, Laurent was playing his guitar again, on key.

The crazy thing to me is this; everyone kept dancing and having a great time, even while he was struggling mightily in front of thousands of people. After an awkward 10 seconds, everyone moved on and enjoyed the rest of the night. It didn’t make a news headline, and I’m sure that everyone forgot once they were on their way home, nursing their beer-drunk haze.

At that moment I realized that no one notices a screw-up more than the person who commits said screw-up. This is something I wish I’d learned earlier in life in order to maybe save myself hours of worry and self-induced panic attacks. There are times when I’ve gotten off stage as a comedian or ended a work call and said to myself, “Surely, everyone thinks I’m an idiot” after I stuttered on a few words, or forgot a punch line.

I consider myself a perfectionist. I’ve done a lot of comedy shows, and nearly every one of them is recorded on my phone. Not so that I can show them to my kids in 15 years, but because I like to listen to them immediately when I get off stage in order to know why the crowd didn’t laugh at some jokes. Realistically, it might have had nothing to do with me. Maybe the energy in the room was just off.

At this point in my life, I’m trying to learn that I don’t need to be so hard on myself. It’s not good to question everything I do creatively, professionally, and relationally. It’s not good for anyone.

This is something you’ve probably heard a thousand times, but I think it’s true; we are our own harshest critics. Even as I write these words, you might not believe them, but I know it’s true; no one will be meaner to you than yourself.

And the reason we’re so mean to ourselves is because we’re sure that everyone else thinks we’re an idiot. We erroneously tell ourselves that we’re in this job by a fluke, so we’d better tread lightly. We criticize ourselves for small things that really don’t matter to those around us. They’re not going to be stuck with your conscience at the end of the day, so they're less vested in the criticism.

I don’t know Laurent Brancowitz, the guitarist well enough to know how he reacted later to his error. Maybe he went home to his apartment in Paris that night and really let loose. “SACRE DIEU!!!” he screamed at himself in the mirror, practically pulling his hair out, gritting his teeth, eyes bloodshot.

OR… Maybe he went backstage with the rest of the gang and brushed it off. Maybe he laid his guitar in its case, looked around and rubbed the back of his neck, “Mon Dieu, that was quite awkward… forget it...” and kept it moving as they prepared for the rest of the tour that summer.

As luck would have it, I saw the band again the following weekend at a festival a few hours south of Paris. To learn to deal with my inner monologue, I traveled alone to a city called Dijon, where I would experience some more great music.

Phoenix was also headlining. Surprisingly, their right to headline hadn’t been revoked after Laurent’s massive screw-up.

Similarly to the last show, the drum beat started playing, and everyone knew they were going to play their biggest hit, 1901.

This time, Laurent picked up his guitar and absolutely killed the solo. He didn’t know that I had seen the last show. He didn’t even know I existed.

And the best part is that the crowd had no idea what had happened one week earlier, and they kept dancing late into the French night.

Laurent's Guitar Solo