We started playing music from an early age and so we wasn't

The words of Ville Valo—“We started playing music from an early age and so we wasn’t really aware of that side of it, the weird thing is the more successful you get the more free booze and drugs you get, they should be given to the bands who don’t have the money.”—are both a confession and a parable, born from the twilight world of fame. Beneath their casual rhythm lies a profound reflection on the paradox of success, the strange economy of life where abundance is often granted to those who no longer need it, and deprivation falls upon those who do. It is a commentary not only on the music industry, but on the human condition—the way society rewards its brightest stars with the very temptations that threaten to extinguish their light.

Valo, the Finnish musician and frontman of the band HIM, speaks from a place of experience and irony. Having risen from humble beginnings in Helsinki’s underground scene, he knew the hunger of obscurity—the long nights spent in rehearsal rooms, the uncertainty of whether the next meal or rent payment would come. Yet he discovered, as many artists do, that fame does not solve hunger; it merely transforms it. When he says that “the more successful you get, the more free booze and drugs you get,” he exposes the cruel illusion of reward—that when one ascends the ladder of renown, the world begins to offer the very vices that undo the soul. The gifts of success, he warns, are often poison wrapped in luxury.

This paradox is as old as time itself. The ancient poets told of Odysseus, who, having survived storms and monsters, was nearly undone not by enemies but by comfort—the enchanted ease of the island of the Lotus-Eaters, where the weary traveler could forget all purpose in endless pleasure. Likewise, Valo’s words speak to the same temptation that haunts the successful: the danger of forgetting why one began the journey in the first place. For the young, struggling artist, every note, every song, is a prayer for survival. For the famous, the stage can become a shrine to indulgence. The wine flows freely, not as celebration, but as escape. And thus, the artist must battle not for recognition, but for remembrance—remembrance of who he was before the world began to give him everything.

There is also in Valo’s statement a kind of moral inversion that mirrors the world’s injustice: those who have least often give most, and those who have most often need nothing more. He remarks, almost humorously, that “they should be given to the bands who don’t have the money”—a jest that hides a truth as sharp as iron. In life, wealth and reward are rarely distributed according to need. The young band scraping for fuel to chase its dream receives hardship; the established star, already adorned, is offered excess. This pattern echoes through history, in art, politics, and even empire: the strong are fed, the weak are starved. Yet from this imbalance springs wisdom—the recognition that true richness lies not in what one is given, but in what one can resist.

Consider the tale of Alexander the Great, who, in the height of his conquest, was offered a goblet of water in the scorching desert. Seeing his army dying of thirst, he poured the water upon the ground, saying that he would not drink while his men suffered. He understood what Valo suggests: that abundance tests character far more than scarcity does. To endure deprivation requires courage, but to resist indulgence requires discipline. The measure of a person, or an artist, is not how they struggle when they have nothing, but how they remain grounded when they are surrounded by everything.

Valo’s words also carry the echo of disillusionment—the realization that success does not equal freedom. Many young dreamers believe that fame will bring peace, that the applause of the world will silence the chaos within. Yet the artist, once celebrated, finds himself more trapped than before: surrounded by flattery, temptation, and expectation, unable to breathe the pure air of authenticity. The “free booze and drugs” he speaks of are not merely literal—they are the symbols of corruption, the sweet intoxications that blur the sacred connection between the creator and his craft. True creation, like true living, demands clarity. To remain awake, one must reject the easy sleep of excess.

The lesson, then, is one that every generation must relearn: beware the gifts that come too easily. Whether in art, in wealth, or in life, prosperity can become a snare if it dulls the spirit. Remember always why you began your journey, and guard that spark of purpose as fiercely as fire against the wind. Seek not the empty rewards of success, but the enduring satisfaction of creation, meaning, and truth. If fortune offers you the wine of excess, sip it with awareness—or better yet, pass it on to those still striving, those who still hunger, those whose dreams have not yet been dulled by plenty.

For in the end, Ville Valo’s reflection is not a condemnation of pleasure, but a hymn to balance. It reminds us that the artist’s true wealth is not found in fame’s indulgences, but in the purity of his art, the honesty of his struggle, and the integrity of his heart. So let those who walk the path of ambition remember: success is not the final victory—it is the beginning of a new test. And only those who can hold fast to humility and self-awareness, even as the world lays its golden temptations at their feet, will emerge not only successful, but wise.