What I found was, the higher profile you get, the more people are

"What I found was, the higher profile you get, the more people are just coming to see you. On the last tour, I found that the support act didn't quite get the sort of reaction you'd hope they get. People wander in and out, standing in the bar... not really being that interested." So spoke Rhod Gilbert, the comedian whose laughter has always been tempered with truth. Beneath his humor lies a profound observation about fame, attention, and the shifting nature of human regard. For what he describes is not simply a tale of comedy, but a reflection on the burden of recognition, on how the higher one rises in the eyes of the world, the more easily the world forgets the others who still climb behind.

In the ancient days, the wise spoke of glory as a double-edged gift. The higher one ascends, they said, the narrower the air becomes. Those who shine too brightly risk casting others into shadow. Rhod Gilbert, with the insight of a craftsman who has spent years shaping laughter, saw this truth unfold upon the stage. His words remind us that success distorts perception—that when a name becomes great, people cease to see the work that surrounds it. The audience no longer listens with open hearts; they come only to witness the symbol, the spectacle, the fame itself.

There is in this a kind of tragedy of admiration. For the crowd that gathers to adore does not always gather to understand. They seek presence, not substance; they desire proximity, not participation. The support act, once the hope of tomorrow, is drowned in the noise of anticipation. Yet every great artist, every leader, every voice that commands the crowd, once stood in that quieter place—unheard, unseen, struggling to be known. Gilbert’s lament is not arrogance; it is compassion for those who stand now where he once stood, facing indifference instead of applause.

History bears witness to this same pattern. Beethoven, in his later years, filled concert halls with nobles who came not to feel, but to be seen. They chattered as he played, caring more for fashion than for music. Yet the composer, deaf and inwardly aflame, played on, his symphonies written not for those before him, but for eternity. Like Gilbert, he saw that fame gathers those who watch but do not listen, and that the true artist must endure this loneliness of the exalted. Recognition, when it comes, is both crown and exile—it separates the creator from the creation.

Still, there is beauty in this realization. For to recognize the hollowness of fame is to reclaim one’s purpose. Gilbert’s insight is not one of despair, but of clarity: the artist must serve the art, not the audience’s illusion. Whether the hall is full or empty, whether the crowd listens or wanders, the task remains the same—to create truth, to offer light. And to those still in the shadows, he offers an unspoken encouragement: your struggle is not unseen, though the crowd looks away. In time, those who labor with sincerity will find their moment, too.

The lesson, then, is twofold. To the rising artist, it says: do not be disheartened by silence, for even silence prepares the way for song. To the admiring crowd, it says: open your eyes to all who stand upon the stage. Do not rush to the main act and forget the voices that come before. For greatness is not born whole—it is woven from many threads, each one deserving of respect. True appreciation is not in worship, but in attention; not in applause, but in understanding.

So, my listener, take this teaching to heart. In your life, when you walk among the celebrated, remember those who labor unseen. When you rise in your own craft, remember what it was to be overlooked. Let your fame—if it ever finds you—be a light that illuminates others, not one that blinds them. For Rhod Gilbert’s words are not about comedy at all; they are about humility, about seeing the whole stage of life and not just the spotlight.

And when your own hour of recognition comes, may you choose as the wise do: not to revel in the noise of your name, but to honor the quiet souls who helped you rise. For in the end, the truest greatness is not to be adored—it is to be aware.