Staying in Tune

Old Song Stuff (or "'Auld Lang Song")

2012-01-01T16:24:00.000-05:00

This Christmas, my son gave me a wonderful homemade gift: a bottle of "Stuff Be Gone".

He put a hand-drawn label on a spray bottle, filled it with green-tinted water and warned me not to spray anything I genuinely love.

He knows me really well. He knows that "stuff" has always been a challenge for me. (I've written several songs about it, too.) Sometimes I'm afraid to let go of what I don't love--even if it causes actual problems for me. Gradually I am getting better at making choices, letting go, appreciating more and accumulating less.

As songwriters, sometimes we notice an accumulation of "song stuff": lyric fragments, half-finished songs, musical motifs and titles. Meanwhile, we might wonder why we haven't been able to finish many songs. We might feel simultaneously overwhelmed and empty...and troubled by feelings of guilt because we haven't "done anything" with our song stuff.

If this rings true for you, this is a great time to start anew.

Rip an ancient notebook into tiny shreds. Throw away CDs or cassette tapes (yes, some of us still have those lying around!) with unfinished musical work on them. Better yet, have an old fashioned bonfire fueled by unfinished songs.

After you've burned those old almost-lyrics, sit in front of a blank white sheet of paper for several minutes. Don't write anything.

Just appreciate the peace--and the promise--of that blank page.

Happy New Year!

Songwriting is painful

2011-11-21T14:26:00.002-05:00

One of the great misconceptions of artistic creativity is that it should be an effortless, gentle and fun process.

In my experience, birth is accompanied by a fair bit of pain.

Imagine the birth of a song like the beginning of labour. You know the song is coming...you can sense its shape and energy and movement. You know it already, and yet you don't. You haven't seen what it looks like in the light of the world.

In the final stages of labour (and at the beginning too, if memory serves) feelings of anxiety and even panic may come. Can I do this? Am I up to it? How much more pain and time and stretching must occur before the birth takes place?

I find that at both the early stages of a song's existence, and right at the end, I often feel deeply unsettled and jumpy. Sometimes it's hard to eat or sleep.

Not coincidentally, those are the same feelings that can arise when one is falling in love, working out a conflict, interviewing for a job, organizing a group project, or preparing to walk onstage. Something anticipated is coming, and it's exciting and scary, and it requires my full presence and commitment in order to come out okay.

For all the joy and excitement of bringing new life into the world, it's hard work. It's often slow and painful and inevitably messy. That's exactly as it should be.

If you feel uncomfortable when you're writing a song, it's a good sign.

Suspending Judgment

2011-10-28T12:33:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I wrote a new song, during (and in response to) a day when I felt tired and slightly depressed. By the time the first-draft stage was complete (the essential structure and melody in place, the chorus and most of the verses written, fine-tuning to come) it was the end of the day and I was tired.

Last night, when I went out to play, I told a songwriter friend about my new song. I added casually "but I think it might be crappy".

My friend told me to shape up. He reminded me how damaging it can be to say negative things about myself or my work, especially at the fragile early stage. He said it's not for me to judge, and that for my own sake and the well-being of those around me, I needed to stay open and positive.

The truth was, at that moment I had no idea whether the song was "good" or not. And yet, I felt compelled to to make a pronouncement. I have a tendency to judge. Is it "good" or "bad"..."right" or "wrong"..."this" kind of song or "that" one?

My friend reminded me that judging isn't always necessary.

Yesterday afternoon, I felt tired and over-saturated. My state-of-mind coloured my perception of my work.

This morning, I played the song again...and loved it.

Follow that song!

2011-10-12T09:32:00.001-04:00

Recently I've come to the irritating recognition that my best songs are "better" than me.

They tend to affirm a higher calling or value (faith, love, forgiveness, generosity, hope...) that I want to live up to, but can't all the time.

A good song, though, lives up to a higher calling quite nicely. It expresses its main idea consistently and clearly, and doesn't mess up. Songs say something like "I believe in you" and leave out the real-life verse that goes, "even though I didn't act like that yesterday morning at breakfast".

Both parts of life's song are true...both the "good" and admirable part and the "ugh, I don't want anybody to know that" part.

Sometimes a little of that embarrassing stuff finds its way into a song and gives it depth and authenticity. Other times, the ungraceful, messy and unfinished parts are for our ears only. (And I think that's a good thing. The whole extended play version.)

When a song lives up to our highest callings, reflecting our deepest values in a clear and resonant way, we must continue to sing it--both for others and in our hearts--especially at the times when we lose confidence in ourselves. When we forget what we know.

In those confusing times, we can let our best songs lead us. They know the way.

"Liking" vs Loving

2011-09-10T14:11:00.000-04:00

Recently I heard a friend express dismay that he hadn't attracted enough "likes" for his band on Facebook. He felt that he wasn't making enough progress with his music, despite the fact that he'd been working hard. He sounded angry.

I have to confess, I hadn't "liked" the band myself, even though I do genuinely like him as a person. I notice that that phrase "like him as a person" sounds like romantic rejection--which offers a clue as to what's going on here. "She's just not that into your song" closely resembles "she's just not that into you". They both hurt.

But which matters more? Hundreds of "likes"--which may be superficial or (worse) insincere--or a few genuine "loves"?

In life, we actually only need a few people who genuinely love, understand and support us. Chances are those few people will love, understand and support our creative lives too.

Sure, there will be variations along the way. Nobody can connect with every song. And listeners will be influenced by the musician's skill (which can change)--and by the listener's beliefs about artistic expression, financial security and their own creative work.

And yet, there's often a correlation between the people who truly "get" us and the people who "get" our songs. When love is present, a deeper support for the whole person (including his or her songs) is felt and expressed. It's not a question of being "liked" but about being loved--and about loving.

When we love others, we offer our songs to them--but more importantly, we offer our whole, authentic selves. When we are at our best, we offer our whole and authentic selves through our songs and through everything else we do.

As we give of our wholeness, we may find that popularity becomes less important to us, but that serving an actual community (of any size) becomes more crucial. The more we love, the more superficial "likes" seem irrelevant.

We may find, then, that our songs deepen and mature...to the benefit of all.

Songs and Survival

2011-08-09T22:06:00.001-04:00

The other day, at an open mic, a friend asked a question:

Would you be alive without music?

Some of us answered "no", some said "maybe"...but we all understood the point. For many of us, music (or songwriting, or whatever creative activity lights us up) is a sustaining necessity.

It keeps us alive: connected to life, connected to others.

This is easy to forget sometimes, especially if we confuse "keeps us alive" with "earns us a living". They're not the same thing.

When we affirm that music (Creativity) provides essential nourishment, we can enjoy it like food. We can play (eat) everyday...savour every note...let it quench our thirst.

Music is surely not the only food we need. And yet, it might be our favourite food. Our comfort food.

So let us bless this food, that keeps us alive... the songs that sustain us on the journey.

Practice Anytime

2011-05-19T22:30:00.001-04:00

Songwriting as a spiritual practice can take place anytime. We don't have to have our instrument with us, nor do we have to be sitting down in a quiet place with pen and paper.

In fact, when you're in the middle of "something else", your songwriting practice may be precisely the centering tool you need.

Some ways to do this:

- Notice your present experience so that it sounds like a lyric. "One more day"..."if I only understood"..."peaceful street at night"--whatever arises. As you notice that aspects of your life could be part of new songs (and you might write them!), you may also start to see a larger "song of life" surrounding all of your life experience.

- Notice the song going through your head. It will very likely contain a clue as to how to handle your current situation.

- Imagine elements of your life as part of a song. For instance, how is your family like a chord? (Which one?) How is your relationship like a melody (what kind?) What tempo is your life moving at (and would you like to change it?)

If these reflections turn into new songs...great! If they don't, that's fine too.

Either way, you'll start to see your life in songwriting language...and use your life story in creative ways that make for meaningful songs.

A love song to life

2011-05-14T21:34:00.003-04:00

Make every song a love song.

It need not be about a romantic relationship. But it needs to be built on loving connection.

Your song needs to be intimately connected to something (or someone) you care about--something to which you belong.

Your song must be in love with itself. Each line needs to love the one next to it. Each chord must love the note it underscores.

The rhythm and style of your song must be devoted to your song's subject--must support it and care for it.

Your song must love its hearer. It must be written in such a way as to honour and bless its audience.

You need to love your song, and your song needs to love you. Write the song that will care for you when you are sick, be present to you when you are lonely, delight you every day of your life.

Write the song you can commit to, that will commit itself to you.

Write the song that you love singing, that proclaims your love for the guitar, that speaks to your love of language. Write the song that testifies to the rhythm of life.

If your song is not a love song, it will not find its way into anyone's heart. But if it is, it will live with you forever.

Even if your song is about loss, or longing, if it is written with love and reverence, it will reveal the underlying beauty of the world.

Make every song a love song to life.

Write the Song You Need

2011-05-02T22:03:00.001-04:00

I remember talking to another songwriter who said, "I don't want to write songs that will only be played in my bedroom!"

I know what she meant. She wanted to write songs that were high-quality enough, other people would benefit from them, too. We all want to do that.

But we have to meet our own needs first. (It's like donning your own mask first when the aircraft suddenly depressurizes.)

Taking this approach can have big benefits down the road.

This morning, as I started a new job, I had a few minutes to spare. What to do? Pray? Meditate? Fuss with my hair?

Suddenly I knew that the best thing I could do was to play one particular song. It was the song I needed when I wrote it...and I needed it now. I'm sure that in the years to come, I'll need it again. (As it happens, it's also one of my most "commercially successful" songs...which is to say it's made some money and has been appreciated by many people.)

The point is: you matter.

When you open yourself up to the song you need (as opposed to the song you want or the song you think will impress others) the Creative Power is invited in.

Your own needs get met...and sometimes your song meets the needs of others, too.

Even if it doesn't, you will be strengthened by your song, so that you can serve the world in ways you may never have imagined.

Making Life Sacred with Song

2011-04-16T22:30:00.004-04:00

When you take any part of life—a relationship, a life experience, an emotion—and frame it in a song, you treat it as a sacred thing.

By framing your experience in chords and melody, by writing about it in words gracefully arranged in rhyming patterns, you connect that experience to the divine process of creation.

Whatever it is—something pleasurable such as falling in love, or an unexpected challenge such as losing a job—writing a song about it will allow you to be present to that experience in a way that allows for harmony and integration.

Whether your song turns out to be "popular" doesn't matter.

Simply by paying enough attention to your experience to respond to it authentically in song--by taking the time to try to write the song well--you will be paying attention to yourself in a new way: through a process that invites growth and transformation.

William Blake wrote “Everything that lives is holy”. The experiences of your life are holy.

When we see them as sacred, and use them to inspire our songs, we bring out a beauty in our lives we may never have seen before.

Why Music Works

2011-03-27T15:51:00.002-04:00

This morning I was talking with some friends about why music works. I haven't studied a lot of musical theory, so my thoughts on the subject are intuitive and not based on a formal understanding. But here are a few ideas:

1) Music brings together differing voices (tones, sounds) that complement or harmonize with each other. We need to do that in life, too, and it's difficult. Music shows us it's possible.

2) Music places moments in sequence in a way that is meaningful and interesting. Our lives, also, are moments in sequence and we want them to be meaningful. Music demonstrates that they can be.

3) Music incorporates surprise. In a song, we're delighted by the new and previously unforeseen thing that arises after other things have led up to it. In life, we need to handle surprises all the time. Music shows us how we can handle surprises gracefully.

4) Music is ordered. It's organized and patterned. As the the poet Wendell Berry* and others have pointed out, order offers the possibility of rest. Music makes a convincing case for order, inspiring us to heal chaos.

5) Music is balanced. Music shows us how to balance the lows and highs, the lights and the darks, the points of tension and of release. We all have both in our personalities and our life stories. Music shows us the importance of both sides of the spectrum, while revealing the potential for equilibrium.

6) Music calls and responds. There's an ongoing conversation taking place between every song ever written and every previous one, every note that calls to the next, and every singer and every listener. Music calls us to respond, and we do. Music teaches us how.

7) Music brings people together. Across a room, across time, across cultures. When our senses are collectively captivated by a song, we feel held within something larger than ourselves. Music surrounds groups of people--not unlike houses, schools and churches--and, in doing so, music helps create community.

8) Music reminds us of our natural, physical rhythms. Our heartbeats, footfalls and breathing...the regular patterns of night and day, tides, turning seasons, life and death. Music helps us connect with the elemental facts of human life.

9) Music moves in a circle. It takes us somewhere but also leads us back to the starting point. Though it wanders far from home (say, the starting chord) music tends to come back home in some way. Much of life is like that. Music helps us remember.

10) Music is a gift. Like the beauty of nature (of which music is a part), human beings did not "make" music, even though, with skill, we can cultivate it for our personal and collective well-being. In its pure form, music can never be limited or sold. Music lives wherever there is life.

*The poem "Healing" in What Are People For?

You Are Not The Song

2011-03-10T08:50:00.000-05:00

When somebody says, "Good song!" do you unconsciously take that to mean "Good person"?

It's something we songwriters do sometimes. Without realizing it, we start identifying so strongly with our songs, that when we don't receive the affirmation we seek for them, we see it as a rejection of ourselves.

Writing a song is about framing your values, fears, hopes, loves and dreams in a three-minute microcosm. Like life, our songs include light and darkness, highs and lows, moving passages and boring ones. They're full of tension and resolution. And eventually every song ends.

When well-rendered, songs are such lovely mirrors of the whole of Creation, we might mistake them for more than they are.

But they are only pieces of the Whole.

A song--or even a group of songs, an album, a body of work--is only a small, imperfect representation of everything we are.

When we see that, we can start to offer our songs more freely...without so much weighty expectation.

Re-orienting ourselves to see our songs in proper perspective can seem, in a way, anti-climactic. After all, it's thrilling to write a "good song" (which is to say, a well-rendered and faithful rendering of the beauty of All of Life).

But it is the All of Life that truly matters.

Private Playlist

2011-03-04T09:49:00.000-05:00

I'm one of those people who always has a song playing in my head. Sometimes it's one of mine, sometimes it's somebody else's.

But either way, it tells me something about what's really going on with me...often something I'm not telling myself, or anybody else, any other way.

Songs show up in the mind without being invited. They're guests at the door...so, let them in.

What's going through your head right now? What does it tell you about what you need or where you're going? The songs on your "private playlist" offer clues to what your life is really about.

If you have a gig tonight, you might play a song from that playlist, not because it's your "best" song or "most popular song"--but because it's a song that comes from an authentic place. (No one else needs to know what the song "means" or symbolizes for you. The important thing is that you're giving voice to something deep within yourself.)

If you're not playing out somewhere, you can do this at home. While at work, jot down the song playing in your head...and play it later as a meditation. Or quickly, without thinking too hard, make a quick "set list" of songs you would play for yourself, right now.

Not because anybody else is listening. But because you are.

One Gift of Songwriting

2011-01-31T08:38:00.000-05:00

Right in the middle of the process, all seems lost.

I have a chorus, but no verse. Or everything is done except for a few troublesome lines.

I know that everything might stop here. The song may go no further.

It is this point in the creative process which may be its greatest gift. I'm neither lost in the infatuated euphoria of my song's beginnings, nor happily satisfied with my catchy finished product.

I'm in the "neither here nor there", which can be a place of openness and wonder. What will happen next? What will rise up to fill the gap?

Something will. And before long, another song will be finished...neatly framed and solid.

I like to focus on that finished, definable thing.

But I am learning that the greater gift is the Mystery.

Fragments

2011-01-24T10:10:00.000-05:00

People are always making things up and leaving them lying around.

Some of our made-up things get "finished": framed in neat packages that allow us to hand them off to others. Other artistic ideas are flung off in sparkling fragments, like oddly-shaped bits of sea-glass waiting to be found.

Here's one I found today, buried in a neglected corner of my 'documents' folder:

I’d like to live alone

To do the things I like

___ unknown

Eat breakfast food at night

I’d like to live alone

To be all by myself

A solitary gnome

A cheerful woodland elf

Actually, today I'm very happy living with others. And yet I like this unfinished little poem.

I don't believe that anything else needs to be "done" with it. It doesn't need to be developed or turned into a larger work. In time (perhaps soon) the file will be deleted.

In the meantime, perhaps for only a short time and while I am completely alone, I can pick up a fragment and appreciate it.

Is every song a topical song?

2011-01-13T09:49:00.017-05:00

Every song is written in a specific time and place, by a particular person.

As soon as the song is finished, the writer has grown and changed. (Remember the concept of wabi-sabi: nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, and nothing lasts!)

Ideally, we want to pay close enough attention to whatever's going on in our lives to we reflect on it accurately and with real depth of feeling. We can take that approach to any topic: whether it's feeding our two year-old or responding to coverage of a major international event.

The details will be different, but the task is still the same: to create something that honestly reflects one moving human experience, in a way that others find meaningful.

---

Last year I wrote the song "Prayer for Port au Prince" in response to the Jan. 12 2010 earthquake in Haiti. In it, I tried to make reference to the current events and historical facts, while wrestling with personal issues having to do with charity, religion and response to global suffering.

Here's video from a concert performance, with proceeds directed to Medicins sans Frontieres.

Songwriting as a Spiritual Practice: Rehearsal

2010-12-03T10:12:00.000-05:00

As songwriters in today's culture, we're accustomed to thinking of our practice time in goal-oriented terms. We may focus only on the songs we think are likely to earn us the most recognition...only our "newest" or "best" songs...or only the songs we plan to play in an upcoming performance.

When we align our songwriting only with aspirations for acclaim, we overlook the rich possibilities it offers for spiritual deepening. Seen as a form of spiritual practice, our "practice" time can be a richly illuminating experience and one that informs every aspect of our lives.

To re-frame your rehearsal time as spiritual practice, it can be helpful to piggyback it onto an existing practice routine. Plan to play and sing for a set period of time (say, 15 minutes) immediately following your yoga, meditation, prayer or walking practice.

In doing so, you may find that you are more "present" and receptive to your instrument, your breathing, your mind and your voice. You may find yourself more attuned to unexpected inspiration: perhaps a song you haven't played for awhile that suddenly occurs to you.

This morning, I found myself playing a very old song. I didn't know why I was playing it! To my surprise, a lyric in the last verse shed new light on a current situation.

Because my rehearsal time was oriented as spiritual practice, my mind was calm, receptive and non-judging. I was able to allow my inner wisdom to bubble up. I played the song well too--despite it not being in my regular repertoire.

When practice time becomes part of our spiritual practice, it can become a joyful and freeing experience, opening up new possibilities for our lives as songwriters.

Facebook Scrabble Song for Alex

2010-11-29T20:53:00.001-05:00

Back in September, 2008, I wrote a song inspired by "Scrabulous", the online word game that was threatened with extinction over copyright issues. The matter was resolved (the game is now called "Lexulous") and "The Facebook Scrabble Song" seemed destined for the scrap heap of topical songs that are no longer topical.

Then my talented songwriting friend Alex Hickey mentioned in my class for songwriters that she and her mom play scrabble on Facebook.

I said, "I have a song about that!" (It's one of those golden moments all songwriters hope for.)

Now Alex has announced that she's moving home to Nova Scotia. I think her mother may live there. If so, I hope they get to play lots of Scrabble in person--and Lexulous online, too.

P.S. I've written a couple of other songs that comment on our relationship with the Internet. "Twitter in my Heart" is one and "Embrace Me" is another. On the whole, I tend to favour face-to-face experiences over online ones...but here we are on the Internet! Paradox is beautiful.

Piles of Leaves

2010-11-19T18:55:00.000-05:00

This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds
- Buddha

Nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, and nothing lasts
- Japanese concept of wabi-sabi

I started this post on a beautiful fall day in Toronto, about a week ago. On that Friday, it was warm enough that weathercasters were using the phrase "unseasonably warm temperatures" a lot. Our happy enjoyment of the warm breeze had a shadow side to it: the thought that maybe climate change was responsible...that darker days are coming and that the beauty may not last. Meanwhile...

Over coffee, a friend confided that she does love the messed-up guy who can't be fully present for her...

A woman leaves her job in the midst of a conflict she is unable to resolve...

An artist recognizes that her career may never bear fruit the way she had hoped...

A caregiver comes to terms with her elderly friend's decline and acknowledges her own limitations.

Meanwhile leaves fall from the trees today: graceful golden pages against a blue sky, numerous and silent, falling without fanfare. No one loss more particularly sad than another, and piling up in crunchy ways that are strangely satisfying in their abundance. The losses add up to something both sad and reassuring, and we can't avoid walking through them.

Over coffee, my friend remarks that so many stories do not end neatly...perhaps are never really finished.

Another leaf gracefully falls through blue sky.

My song, "Pile of Leaves"

Election Sign

2010-11-17T18:26:00.001-05:00

It's been a few weeks since the Toronto municipal election when Rob Ford was elected mayor.

It's still a little bit of a shock to realize that he won: a man so evidently out of his depth, whose ideas reveal such lack of insight, sophistication and compassion. My teenage children were especially shocked and dismayed by the outcome. But we told them the sun would rise the next day...and it did. I remember my dad saying something like that to me when George W. Bush won...twice.

'How could this happen?' we wondered. It's an imperfect world.

The election signs are down now and we'll have to live with Ford for awhile. But at least we live in a democracy. At least we can talk openly about what we feel needs to change in our communities. At least we can still agree to disagree.

If the guy at the top ends up making a lot of mistakes, maybe it will mobilize the rest of us to keep talking to each other, keep working together, keep standing up for our beliefs.

Keep changing what we can, from our own little patch of green.

Writing with Presence

2010-10-22T13:55:00.000-04:00

When we are open to Wisdom speaking through our songs, we start hearing Wisdom’s voice.

It’s like working with dreams. When you start noticing them, writing them down in a notebook perhaps, they become clearer and easier to remember—almost as if, when they know they’re going to be treated well, they show up. It’s the same with God, the Higher Power or Great Creator. When you invite Divine Presence to participate in your songwriting, suddenly you find you have a pretty effective co-writer.

Give it a try. Next time you’re writing a song, pause from time to time (maybe when your brain feels a little stuck) and invite in Divine Presence. This invitation can take the form of simply breathing in light or listening to silence. Or it can take the form of prayer to God or to the Ancestors (perhaps songwriters you admire or wise elders in any form). Above all, it’s an allowing, an invitation and a willingness to be participated with: to be shaped and moved by something more powerful than yourself.

From this receptive stance, you may find that lyrics mysteriously drop into place or strong ideas occur to you “out of the blue”. Coincidences may happen that serve your song. For example, when I was writing a song about my father who recently died, a close friend of his emailed me to reflect on something Dad used to say: a phrase that was exactly the line I needed for the verse I was working on.

It doesn’t matter whether you call it Divine Presence, God, the Unconscious, Inner Wisdom or the Great Songwriter in the Sky. That which joins everything together intelligently is just waiting to apply Its talents to your song. All we have to do is provide the invitation.

Choosing

2010-10-20T21:25:00.000-04:00

Writing any song requires choice. Every choice defines and limits us, which makes it a significant thing.

A thousand choices face us as we begin to write. What is our subject? What is the form? The main idea? The melody? The chord progression? And these are only the broad strokes: beneath these come the more subtle choices of notes and words, and beyond that, instantaneous choices we make as we sing and play.

How many of our songwriting choices are truly conscious ones? What do they say about us: about who we are and what we believe?

Try this. When you first wake up in the morning or just before you go to sleep, write a simple song as quickly as possible. Don't worry about whether or not it will be performed for others. Just put it out there, to yourself and the Universe, without judgment and without agonizing over any choices at all. Write at least two or three verses, then stop and look at it.

What does it say? Does it reveal something about your life that you hadn't seen before?

By working this way, we allow our Song to choose what it wants to say, instead of letting our Ego do the talking all the time. Interestingly, the Song might be able to make choices freely (to improvise) more easily than we can, as it nimbly hops from one truth-full moment to another.

Protest Songs (One Songwriter's Response to the Toronto G20)

2010-07-16T13:35:00.004-04:00

Any event that triggers strong emotion is excellent material for songwriting.

When our heart is touched deeply by an event, either in our own relationships or the wider world, we can come to understand that experience more deeply through any form of artistic creativity.

Exploring a serious topical subject in a song can do several positive things.

Writing a song can help us tune into the emotional heart of the subject (which varies from person to person)...thus clarifying our own values and beliefs. This is a healthy thing to do, especially when the subject can seem overwhelming. (These two songs were inspired by events that took place at the recent G20 Summit in Toronto. For additional background on what happened and its implications, watch this video and read this op-ed piece written by a Conservative MPP.)

Writing a song can give us a sense of agency and self-determination, allowing us to "change the things we can" (in the words of the Serenity Prayer) when there are so many things we can't.

Finally, writing a song can allow us to share our deepest feelings with others in a way that promotes healing and community...and can educate others about subjects that might not be well-covered in traditional media. If a song influences even a few people, it can be a force of change.

(While I was writing this entry, I received an email update from David Rovics, who is a tireless writer of modern protest songs, chronicling many stories of human concern. Also, Greg Quill wrote an insightful column in the Toronto Star recently about the state of protest songs today.)

This Sufi wisdom sits above my desk: "You are sharing in the totality of [cosmic] pain. You are called upon to meet it in joy instead of self-pity. The secret is to offer your heart as a vehicle to transform cosmic suffering into joy."

Seen in this light, "topical" songs or even "protest" songs might more accurately be seen as "healing" songs: songs that arise as a result of pain, confusion, violence or fear...but that attempt to move people (starting with the songwriter) to greater peace, understanding, reconciliation or purpose.

The process of songwriting allows us to start with dissonance and create harmony...to experience tension but to move toward resolution.

Songs can teach us that such transformation is possible.

Song Listening

2010-06-05T08:47:00.003-04:00

One way to think about songwriting is to turn it around and make it "song-listening".

We're often concerned about the technical parts of songwriting...the putting together of elements, the craftsmanship involved. But if we haven't listened well to begin with--to hear what our hearts are really saying--we might be writing the wrong song.

I've been re-reading a book called "A Path With Heart: A Guide Through the Perils and Promises of Spiritual Life" by Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield. In it, he quotes Joseph Campbell's observation that we can be "climbing the ladder only to realize it was against the wrong wall".

There are so many ladders to climb! And every song represents a pretty tall one. Which song do I embark on today? Where will it lead? To a place of greater self-awareness and peace of mind...or to a place of insecurity and competition?

Can I listen well enough to hear my true song?

What goes around comes around

2010-05-04T09:35:00.002-04:00

On Sunday at our songwriting class, we talked about calling upon spiritual sources of support as we are writing. We mentioned prayer, meditation, connecting with nature, invoking the spirits of ancestors, seeing the work as already existing (much like the sculptor uncovering the figure inside the stone).

It was suggested that when we hit an impasse, the uncomfortable feeling of confusion or perplexedness might be reframed as Mystery (something we can curiously explore rather than be anxious about) and that by collaborating with a Higher Power we might take some of the pressure off ourselves.

Earlier in the class, I shared a song-beginning that had started out well but hit a snag. The song was based on last week's lesson, having to do with patterns in life and in music. It was called "What Goes Around Comes Around"...but it hadn't come around to being finished.

Yesterday, a day later, a strange and wonderful thing happened. As planned, a beautiful upright piano arrived at our home, a gift to our keyboard-playing children from a generous friend who is downsizing. It had been her childhood piano. She simply gave it away.

I was away at an appointment when the piano arrived. When I got back, Dave told me about the amazing thing that happened next. "Hank" arrived at the door. We hadn't seen him for years; he used to live in the basement apartment of the falling-down house across the street, which was subsequently bought, renovated and sold. A long time ago, Hank told me he had once played guitar...so I gave him an old 12-string I used to play that had been in storage for awhile. (I told him he could keep it, and it was free.)

Last night, he came to the door to thank me again. He said he'd become very attached to it, and wondered if he could pay something for it. (No.)

That all would have been miracle enough, but then as I was falling asleep last night, I remembered my unfinished song--the one I'd "asked" for spiritual assistance to complete, in the class.

"What goes around comes around".

Applause

2010-04-29T14:24:00.004-04:00

In a songwriting class I'm teaching, we're experimenting with applause.

Every other week, we refrain from clapping after people play their songs around the circle. On the weeks in between, we applaud as usual.

I am curious to see how this changes both our playing and our listening.

So far, one student has told me that, when she knows there won't be an opportunity to politely show appreciation after a song (whether she likes it or not) she listens better and is more present.

Other songwriter/performers seem uncomfortable with the idea (as I myself have been at times) thinking that applause is a necessary expression of respect and appreciation. Without it, what's an audience to do? Why would a performer perform?

Our next class is an "applause" week.

Knowing that we can't always take applause for granted, I wonder whether we'll enjoy giving and receiving it more.

An opening act stays open

2010-03-10T10:31:00.011-05:00

This Saturday night, I will be opening for James Keelaghan in a concert for the Greenbank Folk Music Society in the small town of Greenbank, Ontario. (Avid readers will notice that, by coincidence, I recently mentioned James Keelaghan in this blog. Funny how the universe works!)

In their bios, many singer-songwriters include impressive lists of artists they've opened for. My list is pretty short: not because I've moved rapidly into headliner status, but because my artistic life hasn't been a straight line up any kind of ladder. So...let's see...I opened for Jesse Winchester at Hugh's Room once. I opened for Cheryl Wheeler once (but with a few other artists, and as the result of a songwriting workshop the same day). Once, thanks to a supportive sound man at a huge county fair, I played a solo set on a stage made out of a flatbed truck before Prairie Oyster came on...but I don't think that counts as "opening".

And this Saturday I'm opening for James Keelaghan! Yay!

Truly, I am very excited about this. I've always admired his songwriting and singing. He covers a song I love (that I sometimes sing too) called Mirabeau Bridge by Sam Larkin. When I say "it's an honour" to open for Keelaghan, I mean it. And in order to truly honour myself, the headliner and the audience, it helps to keep a few things in mind.

For me, the key to making the most of an opening spot is, first, to NOT see it as a stepping-stone to anywhere else. (Stay with me now...) I think this is easier if you notice that instead of "getting somewhere" more prestigious or special through music, you've gotten to exactly where you are now, and you're okay with that. In other words, this is not a stepping-stone...it's the whole stone! It's solid and perfect just as it is.

Another essential awareness is that, as the opener, you're not "lesser than" the more-famous headliner. You're you. He's him. That's it.

The "opener/headliner" story is an example of the kind of dualistic thinking that can really trip us up. Similar dichotomies are "on the way up/on the way down", "famous/obscure", "professional/amateur" and of course "success/failure".

We're so busy labelling ourselves and each other, we miss the realness of the situation and the fact that we're on common ground. On Saturday night James Keelaghan will be singing some beautiful songs he wrote, for an audience of 70 or so people in a church, as will I. For that matter, so will thousands of other musicians around the world. When you look at it, even the dividing line between performer and audience is a false one. We're all breathing the same air and hearing the same melodies...it's just that one of us happens to be playing them at this moment.

As the opening act, it's easy to fall into the trap of thinking "I'm not quite there yet" or I'm not as valuable as the headliner. Certainly, the entertainment industry itself (and the difference in our fees) seems to support that illusion. But if we're really tuned in to the moment, those judgments fall away, allowing us to remain truly open: responding in the moment to the music and the audience, offering our gifts in a spirit of enthusiasm and kindness, and supporting the headliner without feelings of jealousy or inferiority.

As the opening act, we have a wonderful opportunity to remain truly open...to the beauty of our creative lives, wherever they have led us.

For a Singer-Songwriter on the Verge of Quitting

2010-03-02T21:30:00.006-05:00

Recently I was asked to tell a fellow singer-songwriter not to quit. This request came from one of the artist's fans...someone who was quite mystified as to why this musician would consider taking his music out of the public eye. Although the artist and I have never met, I understood why he might feel discouraged. Even though I'm not as passionate a fan as the man who asked for my help, I recognize the value of this artist's work and hope he will continue. Here's the advice I gave him, which is pretty much the same advice I give myself.

• Perform locally as much as possible. Create gigs if you have to, even in unusual venues such as community centres, bookstores, friend's homes, wherever. Publicize these gigs through local media (community papers, community radio etc.) and inexpensive mailing lists, blogging etc. Connect your songs to a real-life community.

• Travel to play outside your local market as your schedule, inclination and budget allows.

• Become the best songwriter you can. (Which is to say, write a LOT of songs, over a LONG time.) But do so because you love to write songs and because it helps you make sense of your life and become a better person--not because you want to become better-known.

• Serve, serve, serve, serve, serve. Sing at church...community soup kitchens...schools. Become known as the songwriter who sings about... [whatever you know about and love].

• Record affordably, while showcasing your work appropriately. Develop an ability to see the work itself (the songs) outside the expensive frame.

• Listen to your own recordings and play your songs for your own enrichment and enjoyment.

• Keep your day job. It can provide a reliable source of income and validation.

• Keep your website...and any other online presence that is easy and cheap to maintain (ie MySpace, Facebook). Maintain a balance between online and offline life.

• If you want to, do one big concert once a year or so, by renting a venue, setting a ticket price and inviting people. Have somebody take great pictures. Write it up online and/or have someone interview you for the local paper etc. & spread the word about that.

• Connect your music to your spiritual life. Develop a spiritual practice, ie. meditation, yoga, prayer. See your personal musical expression as part of something much larger than yourself.

• Work out of a sense of love, joy, gratitude and generosity. But when you're angry and afraid, explore that too. Do your best to reflect what it is to be human (which is, all too often, to experience failure).

• Never compare yourself to others and resist the temptation to feel as if you’re in competition with other artists.

• Recognize that there are more artists creating today than there are money-making opportunities to support all of them (…a result of the “perfect storm” of inexpensive recording technology, the Internet, and popular movements toward creativity and purposeful living a la The Artist’s Way).

• Recognize that there is no system for success in the arts (particularly music) and that the ladders we sometimes seem to climb are largely illusory (ie. you may win a song contest, but find that your life and career stay virtually the same).

• Appreciate your fans, wherever you find them. Hear them when they tell you that you have changed their life. Do not measure the worth of your art by the size of your audience, but rather by the quality of connection you create with the people you serve.

Casualties: A Reflection on "Crazy Heart"

2010-01-18T10:01:00.006-05:00

Last night I went to see "Crazy Heart", the new movie in which Jeff Bridges plays a 57-year old formerly successful country singer, whose alcoholism is progressing while he's falling in love and watching his younger protege Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell) achieve stardom.

A charismatic performer with a handful of hit songs, Bad Blake manages to pull himself together (more or less) onstage, backed by pick-up bands in bowling alleys and tiny clubs. But between gigs he's bored, drunk and bitter, enlivened by his new love (Maggie Gyllenhaal) and her little boy, but not much else.

Disillusioned by the fact that he's not headlining for big crowds in huge stadiums, he's oblivious to the enduring admiration of the fans who gather in the rooms he's actually playing...and blind as well to the awe-inspiring beauty of the American Southwest that accompanies him on his solo drives from town to town.

While most of the singer-songwriters I know never have played huge stadiums, many of us share some of Bad's self-defeating characteristics. Whether or not we abuse alcohol or drugs, we're prone to self-pity and apt to wish we were somewhere else. We often compare ourselves to others, even if the other singers we're comparing ourselves to are only marginally more successful than we are. Many wind up in financial trouble, relationship trouble, or both.

In Bad's case, his early career success is enough to provide him with at least some financial options (opening for Tommy Sweet at the stadium, writing songs for him to record). But artists who have never achieved any level of commercial success--and there are many more of them these days--are at risk of the same kind of depression and addiction problems as Bad Blake, but with less likelihood of a happy ending. Reflecting on that, I wrote this lyric last year:

There I go, corkscrew down
Another go-round in a same-song town
There I go, whining again
Stuck in the mud of the might-have-beens
I’m making a mess of my melodies
Investing in my insecurities
Like all of the wasted and wannabes
Don’t count me among those casualties

Bad Blake I am not: no hits, no stadiums in my past or future, and no alcohol or drug problem...and yet I know how he feels. So, what do I do about that? Here are a few things that help:

- Practicing gratitude: for life, for love, for my existing audience, for music, for the beauty of each day
- Caring for the people I love, including myself
- Eating well, exercising
- Meditating and deepening my spirituality
- Living by the Serenity Prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

These mental and spiritual health habits (which Bad Blake starts to use at the end of the film) also help me see that I'm not "bad" at all (as neither is he) if I do not achieve whatever success I had hoped for in music.

To quote one of the fine songs written by the late Stephen Bruton for the film: "I used to be somebody, now I'm somebody else". The challenge facing many of us is not figuring out how to achieve fame and fortune--but how to live well, even if we don't. To simply live well as a loving, responsible human being--neither larger-than-life nor smaller.

T.H.I.N.K.

2010-01-17T14:51:00.002-05:00

I heard a helpful bit of wisdom today that's been around awhile but was new to me. "THINK before you speak" is attributed to the English clergyman Alan Redpath (1907 - 1989).

His idea was simple. Before you speak, ask yourself if what you're about to say is:

T = True
H = Helpful
I = Inspiring
N = Necessary, and
K = Kind

The advice is well-timed for me, because just yesterday, I caught myself saying a few things that, well, I should have "THINKed" about first. It's helpful for me to have this acronym in my life right now.

It can also be a good yardstick to use while sizing up new songs, new blog posts, Facebook comments...you name it.

At a time when there's more communication than ever, THINKing can help prevent harmful misunderstandings and unnecessary conflict.

These Friends, My Songs

2010-01-06T10:06:00.004-05:00

Before most gigs, I write up a set list. Even though I inevitably rearrange the order of songs when I’m onstage, adding some and subtracting others, I find that the timely creation of a set list centers and calms me, giving me a sense of competence and purpose and soothing my pre-show nerves.

As I type up the lists of familiar song-titles, it occurs to me that I have come to think of these songs as friends, of a sort. Each song name carries with it a set of associations: experiences we have shared, places we have been.

Like human friends, each song has its own unique characteristics: things I love about it and traits that sometimes pose a challenge. As the years go by and I spend more time with each song in turn (each performance not unlike a shared cup of coffee) I get to know it better, and my appreciation and understanding of it deepens—unless, of course, we ultimately decide that we just don’t get along and we part ways.

These friends, my songs, hang around in groups. Certain ones stick together on set lists from year to year, complementing each other in particular ways. Sometimes one seems to introduce me to another, or to a whole new bunch. Other songs are loners. I might never write another one like it, and as a result it holds a special place in my life.

As a child, I liked to write lists: my favourite books, records, foods…lists of names for future children and pets…and lists of friends. I identified “best” friends, and as I look at my set lists now, certain ones do stand out as favourites. On the other hand, as an adult I now recognize that each friend plays a special and unique role in my life, so ranking them seem unnecessary. Anne helps me understand marriage and family. Rachel always makes me laugh. When I need peace and comfort, I turn to Mary.

I feel especially close to the songs I’ve known during the decade or so I’ve been singing professionally. Other songs existed before that, but they’re like childhood friends and I’m in touch with only a few of them now. Once in awhile, a forgotten song turns up unexpectedly. A page of lyric falls out of a file folder, like a grade school buddy saying hello on Facebook.

But new friends, they’re the most exciting. The heady rush of discovering a new song feels just like the jump-start of any new relationship. With a new song, you get the kind of excitement you’d get with a new love affair, but without all the messy complications. Plus, songs cannot get jealous of each other. In the set list of life, there’s always room for more.

As I try to balance the many responsibilities of my life, I often feel that I’m not attending adequately to all my human friends. I feel that way about songs at times too—that I'm neglecting them. I’m aware that my semi-regular performing schedule allows some of us to get together only a few times a year.

When I feel this way, the best antidote is a long, private music session in which I play all the songs I know…inviting in as many as I can think of. Reacquainting myself with each of them, I feel reconnected to myself—the stories, settings and observations that make life so rich.

So I gather these friends around me as often as I can, knowing that they won’t always be with me or (more accurately) me with them. They entertain me, give me courage, reflect my deepest feelings, lift me up when I’m down. I am grateful that at times they do the same things for other people. But even when I am the only person they keep company, these friends, my songs, serve me well.

Baffled Songwriters in Cyberspace

2010-01-05T10:08:00.001-05:00

This article was first published on Roots Music Canada on January 3rd.

The word was “rhapsody”.

I was looking for a rhyme for it. Ever since I was twelve years old, I’ve puzzled over lyric lines, looking for the right word to fit into the right space.

When I get stuck, or I’m feeling lazy, sometimes I pick up a rhyming dictionary. I have a pocket-sized hardback Webster’s that I like. But on this particular day, it wasn’t on my desk.

So, in a move that reflects the Internet’s increasing influence, I idly typed “What rhymes with ‘rhapsody’?” into Google. To my horror, I discovered a website with hundreds of rhyming questions, posted by modern-day poets and songwriters hoping to be rescued by social networking.

We are entering a new age. Writers used to take long walks, fill blank notebooks, and mentally scroll through the alphabet letter by letter, searching for the best word to complete a verse. Today, aspiring poets and songwriters type in questions such as “What rhymes with trampled?”

Before I go on, I should tell you that according to the website I consulted , a good rhyme for “rhapsody” is “crap city” . Unfortunately that didn’t work very well in my song. But it didn’t matter, because, thus distracted, I suddenly found myself much more interested in the would-be verses of the online community than in my own ballad.

As I scanned the list of questions, I found myself feeling a deepening kinship with my fellow poets worldwide. "What rhymes with frankincense?" wrote one. (I typed in "common sense", trying to be helpful.) “What rhymes with urbanization?” wrote another. (Hmm…"colonization", "state of the nation", "rate of inflation”?)

Some writers seemed genuinely confused, such as the one who asked, "What is a word that rhymes with both big and wall?". Others were simply asking too much, such as the one who inquired, "What rhymes with the element ytterbium?”

Now, I admit, some words are very difficult to rhyme, and as a serious songwriter, I know how hard it can be to make them work. I honestly wish the best for the guy writing a song about rodeos, and I sympathize with the poet who's committed to 'audiovisual'. But sometimes you have to change course, let a beloved word go, try another idea. For the sake of the song, move on!

I think of the great lyricists of days gone by, people like Ira Gershwin and Cole Porter . Of course they got stuck on words, of course they struggled to find rhymes! They didn’t type them into the Internet, hoping to be bailed out. I doubt that Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan do today, either.

To be fair, it’s clear that many of these anonymous, online rhyme-seekers are children. In fact, they’re probably the same age I was when I started writing poetry and songs. As I look over their questions, I can’t help but think that our wired society is failing them. Wouldn’t it be best if the boy who typed “What is a magical person that rhymes with lizard?” came up with the answer on his own? Is there a sadder commentary on the current state of storytelling than the question “What rhymes with tuffet?”

One of my favourite baffled cyber-poets was the person writing about bonfire night. Over the course of an evening, he or she posted two specific questions: “What is a word that rhymes with rocket and is related to bonfire night?" followed, several hours later, by the equally vexing "What rhymes with colours that has to do with bonfire night”? (Mmm… crullers , anyone?)

O bonfire night writer, ye of little faith! If you are moved to write about that bonfire, you can stoke the sputtering embers of your imagination to come up with crackling words on your own! Instead of consulting Answers.com, invoke the spirits of every poet who’s ever moved you, whether it’s Joni Mitchell or Bob Marley , William Shakespeare or Fiona Apple . They would tell you: there are as many ways to write about bonfires as there are people in the world, but only you can write your poem. It is your own answers you are looking for, and they cannot be found on the Internet.

Finally, to the girl or boy who wrote “What golf words rhyme with Grandpa?” I would say: run away from the computer, pick up paper and pen and write down every “golf word” you know (ball, swing, hole, club, tee…) and every “Grandpa word” you know (tall, strong, old, loves…me!). Connect them up in a way that you like, and see what a wonderful poem you will have made.

Take your time, when you need a rhyme. Your brain is still the greatest search engine of all. It can help you find a rhyme for “rhapsody”…or maybe something even better (“rhapsody” reminding me too much of a Burton Cummings song anyway) as it finally did for me.

Message to the Future: Hidden Wisdom in Your Songs

2009-12-10T14:22:00.009-05:00

James Keelaghan has a song called “Message to the Future” that lists a number of ways people write time-capsule messages to themselves, including by becoming parents. I believe that as artists, we send out messages to our future selves all the time.

In the same way that dreams send out coded messages from our unconscious to our conscious minds, our songs carry particular signals meant for us and us alone, in addition to any other audiences they reach.

With a little practice, you can learn to discover layers of meaning in your songs that you didn’t even know were there, and that can guide you in your life’s journey. In other words, a song might become a psychic “hit” for you—even if it never earns a penny!

Here’s where to look for those hidden messages:

Words that have more than one meaning

A song of mine is called “I Would Recognize You Anywhere”. When I wrote it, I meant the word “recognize” to mean “to identify someone by sight”, specifically a family member. However, one fan of the song “misunderstood” the word to mean “to affirm, honour or validate”— an alternate meaning I had never even considered. Since then, I have come to understand that the theme of “recognition-as-validation” is central to my life story and family history. As a result, my understanding of the song has become deeper and more nuanced, as have my performances of it.

Recurring symbols

The first time I ever used a house key as a symbol in my writing, I was about six years old. As an adolescent, I had trouble over lost keys…then, in my marriage, a house key became the central image in a story told and re-told to describe recurring conflict. As a musician, I even have a chronic insecurity about not knowing what “key” I’m in! It’s not surprising that one of my personal favourite original songs is called “Keys”. Meditating on that symbol and how it’s manifested itself in my life leads me to new insights. Playing the song is part of that meditation.

Songs you rarely play

Look carefully at any song that embarrasses you or that you never felt was “good enough” to play in public, any song that reveals something about you that you’d rather others not know, any song you rarely (or never) play in public that is alive for you privately. These songs may hold clues to areas of growth or understanding you may be avoiding. When you embrace these songs (whether or not you decide to play them in public) you also embrace parts of yourself that have been disowned.

A song from your long-ago past

If you have been writing songs for some time, you may discover that a song written a long time ago was a symbolic representation of circumstances you didn’t fully understand at the time. Propelled by our unconscious, the songs we write send us messages that our conscious minds cannot—and sometimes it takes years to decode them!

Recently, when I realized that a painful adult situation is a mirror of an unhealed aspect of my childhood, I suddenly remembered a song I had written as a teenager. Without consciously knowing what I was doing, I had described in poetic language the predicament I was in then and that I now find myself in as an adult. Even though I had been a precocious writer as a child, I didn’t have the maturity to consciously understand my situation—but my unconscious mind wrote a song that now sheds light on my life story and helps guide my growth.

If you find yourself in a time of personal challenge or discernment, look to the spiritual and subconscious dimensions of your songs as additional sources of wisdom.

Subscribers & Community

2009-11-24T14:21:00.004-05:00

The other day I decided to "unsubscribe" from a music industry-related newsletter. To my surprise, its owner wrote to me immediately, dismayed that I wanted to exit.

I ended up staying on, partly for the information and partly because I had learned that my presence was important to the writer.

In our exchange, he expressed his belief that we are part of a community. I like that idea...and at the same time, I often wonder if true community is possible online.

How well do we know each other, if we only know each other by online profiles and emails? How likely are we to truly support each other when the going gets tough?

Which is more supportive: letting someone unsubscribe without fanfare, or following up...and if so, how?

I've always had a "no questions asked" policy, but after this experience I reconnected with someone who had recently left my list...someone I consider to be part of my genuine, real-life community, even though we've never met. I was very glad I did.

In order to build true community, people on both sides of the equation have to stay very conscious of the needs of others...the need for privacy, need for connection, need for readership...and see how we might best meet those needs.

Creating community is time-consuming and it's hard work...which is the exact opposite of what we often expect online connection to be.

8 Ways to Keep Your Music Alive

2009-11-05T11:02:00.015-05:00

Bob Baker writes about email marketing and branding for musicians. His article 7 Ways to Destroy Your Music Career is very witty and insightful…but it also struck me as a tad cynical and possibly dismissive of artists who may be genuinely struggling. Bob's tongue-in-cheek humour speaks to serious issues that affect many of today's independent musicians. I wondered if it would be worthwhile to re-frame his points in a positive way, maybe looking a little deeper at what's really going on in some musicians' "failing careers".

1) Bob writes, tongue-in-cheek: Give Away Your Personal Power

The first step to destroying your music career is to realize that your destiny is in the hands of other people and circumstances beyond your control. Fully embrace the fact that you need to be in the right place at the right time to get your "lucky break" and be "discovered." Industry people and music critics must deem you worthy of success for you to have value as a musician.

1) Translation: Reclaim Your Personal Power

If you feel angry, sad or anxious that you haven’t been recognized by the “powers that be” (whether you see them as industry people, music critics, influential musicians in your community or others), acknowledge your disappointment, but then reclaim your power by doing your best work for the people who appreciate it--whomever and wherever they are. Return to the people who do value you and your work, even if they are few in number and in places that are not part of the recognized music scene.

2. Turn Marketing, Promotion and Sales Into a Huge Burden

…Start referring to marketing as a "necessary evil" quick. Realize that you don't have what it takes to "sell yourself" and reach more fans. In fact, there's probably a biological reason you hate promotion: you were born without the critical marketing gene that all those "gift of gab" people have. Therefore, you are destined to live a lifetime of hardship as you struggle with having to engage in the ugly chore of self-promotion.

2) Maintain a Gentle and Steady Pace with Marketing

It may be true that you find marketing yourself uncomfortable. You may be an introvert, or you may have internalized judgmental messages that “promoting yourself” is self-centered or narcissistic. Get those messages out into the open, realize that they are false, and affirm that what you have to offer is valuable. Strive to communicate well and consistently with the people who want to hear your news, even if this requires you to stretch beyond your comfort zone at times. Reframe the activity as “communication” and “invitation” (or other words that are helpful to you) instead of “marketing” or “promotion”, if those have negative associations for you.

3) Be Fearful of Being Perceived as a Greedy, Capitalist Pig

It would be best not to even make people aware that you have things for sale. Just wait till they come to you. If they're interested, they'll ask. And if you want to score extra points, when they do ask, tell them you left all your CDs and T-shirts at home.

3) Affirm the Value of Your Work

If you have difficulty seeing your work as a commodity, notice your own buying patterns and how happily you spend money on music, books and art that you love. If spoken affirmations work for you, use them to reinforce your belief in the products you have created. Listen to your own work (either the recordings or the songs) and notice how much you love them and how much they have been worth to you. Take pride in these beautiful things you have made.

4) Use a Lack of Time, Money and Connections as Your Biggest Excuse

Have convenient scapegoats based on scarcity. Tell anyone who asks (as well as a lot of people who don't ask or care) how lousy your career is because of all the lack in your life. Frequently use phrases such as "There aren't enough hours in the day," "If I had that kind of money, I'd be a rock star too," and "It's not what you know, it's who you know."

4) Do What You Can With What You Have

Despite the particular challenges you face, make a decision to do your best. Circumstances do vary. Some artists do have more time or money or connections than others. Do not compare yourself to anyone. Instead, ask yourself if you are doing the best you can, today, with what you have. When (not “if”) you feel frustrated by difficult circumstances, use them to deepen your understanding of all human struggle—which in turn will deepen your artistic work.

5) Market Yourself to the Faceless Masses Using Traditional Big Media

Realize that it takes big bucks spent on radio promotion, retail placement, billboards, and paid display ads in national magazines to succeed. This mass media mindset is your ticket to success ... at hitting the fast track to failure.

5) Choose the Vehicle That's Right for You

If you have made the mistake of spending large amounts of money on traditional marketing vehicles that didn’t pay off, chalk it up to experience and don’t do it again. Question your faith in these vehicles. Notice how you, as a consumer, have been influenced by them. Gently acknowledge that, because you have been raised in a commercial consumer culture, you wanted major media attention (or for that matter, alternative media attention) for your work. Forgive your work, and yourself, if it didn't come your way. Protect your financial resources for your own ongoing stability and well-being.

Bonus tip: Never answer your email from fans, and rarely -- if ever -- log into your Facebook, MySpace or Twitter accounts. Better yet, don't even start these accounts.

In the absence of major marketing vehicles, communicate as well as you can with your fans, in the time that is available to you. If your fans are too numerous for you to maintain personal contact with (personally I think the limit is about 100), accept that fact and give yourself permission to stay kindly detached. Use social networking tools consciously and judiciously. Protect your "real life" time, especially time in nature, and be mindful of the addictive quality of electronic communication. Log off when necessary and for as long as necessary. Hans Selye (the Canadian stress researcher, now deceased) wrote: “The great art is to express one’s vitality through the particular channels and at the particular speed Nature foresaw for us.” Protect yourself against stress.

6) Promote Yourself Sporadically and Only When It's Urgent

If you have a mailing list (and with sucky email delivery and open rates these days, why bother?), be sure the fans on your list don't hear from you very often.

6) Keep in Touch

Maintain consistent and kind communication with the people on your list. Keep them informed about events and new music that’s likely to interest them. If your “open rates” are low, add more value to your mailings with relevant links and recommendations, inspirational quotes and other appropriate value-adds.

7) Know That Everyone Owes You Something Simply Because You Exist

Simply know that everyone will care as much about you and your music as you do. Understand that complete strangers will indeed listen to every note of your 70-minute concept album and read every word of your 10-page bio. Be sure to send long, in-depth emails and leave lengthy, rambling voice mail messages for the imbeciles who don't recognize your greatness. Also, be sure to insult anyone who doesn't get back to you within 10 minutes.

7) Respect Your Audience

You know what? I don’t believe that any artist--no matter how incompetent--is actually as ego-driven or self-centred as Bob suggests here. The joy of creative activity often blinds people to the fact that their work is inaccessible or unappealing to others; the impulse to share The 70-Minute Opus is, at heart, a generous and vital and deeply human act—and without that sharing, artists would never grow.

Remember the internalized negative judgments ("self-promoters are narcissists") mentioned in Point #2, that impede many artist's ability to promote themselves? They're implicit in Bob's last point. But I agree with what he's saying about respect, so I’d reframe his advice this way: Notice when your audience is engaged and enlivened vs. when they’re tuning out. Do what it takes to engage and enliven them. Make a conscious decision to treat the people listening to you with love and respect at all times, including when you send out emails, perform and seek gigs.

Bob's article contains two contradictory but true messages: 1) Go boldly forward and promote your work and 2) Few people may truly care about it.

Independent musicians today receive both of these heavily weighted messages, all the time. No wonder we're having trouble!

8). Embrace Paradox

The way I see it, in order to stay engaged and excited about any kind of public creative endeavor, we need to do two things at the same time: affirm the value of the creative work we do and offer it to people who can use it, and keep our work in perspective--a broader perspective today than ever before. Our songs are both very big (worth creating, worth sharing, worth selling, worth celebrating) and infinitesimally small ("your 70-song opus is one of millions in my inbox").

We have to embrace the "meaningful/not meaningful" paradox in order to keep our music alive, any way we can.

Thanks for reading.

The 100 Mile Artist Revisited

2009-10-14T16:43:00.003-04:00

It's been over a year since I started tossing around this idea, and it's starting to catch on. I've also heard people talk about "Slow Music" (a la "Slow Food")...not to be confused with the tempo!

However you name it, the concept seeks to find new definitions for artistic & musical success by looking to the environmental movement for guidance instead of the commercial entertainment industry. I thought this might be a good time to re-post the "how-to" list. It is a work-in-progress.

"The great art is to express one's vitality through the particular channels and at the particular speed that Nature foresaw for us." - Hans Selye

How to be a 100-mile artist:

Primarily perform in your own hometown or geographic region.

Draw your inspiration primarily from that place, from your life and the lives of people you know.

Support local initiatives with your songs by performing at community events, sometimes on a volunteer basis.

Write excellent songs about people and initiatives in your community.

Apply a high level of craftsmanship to every song and performance, so that your songs are as meaningful and appealing as those of well-known artists.

Share your songs with others.

Become a more conscious and selective consumer of mass-produced cultural products.

Support other local artists by buying their products and attending their shows.

Reject messages such as “you have to be famous to matter” and “only mass distributed products are worthwhile”.

Reframe your assessment of your musical success, based on community-minded goals rather than commercially-minded ones: For example, “How can I bring people together?: is a better question than “How many people can I get to come out?”

Find complementary ways of earning income so that you can live sustainably and continue to grow and mature as an artist who enriches the lives of others.

The 10-Minute Restart

2009-07-28T16:03:00.005-04:00

Sometimes a song gets stalled. Maybe you have a good title line or a hook, and you're excited about it for awhile, but suddenly...nothing.

Your enthusiasm vanishes, the song can't find a comfortable groove, the ideas are flat and muddled. Ick.

When this happens to me, I have to reboot.

That means I put the original idea aside, for at least a whole day. Instead of working diligently on it, I completely drop it.

Then, a day or so later, I devote ten minutes of creative "prime time" (for me, that's first thing in the morning, around 9 a.m.) to the song.

And here's the really important part.

I don't go back my original idea. I start completely fresh, with new chords and melody and rhythm. In fact, I try to make it as musically different from my original idea as I can. (Often I recycle lyric ideas, but usually just the title line.)

Usually in that "10 minute restart", a new song emerges that is much better than the first.

Try it next time you're stuck.

Picky, picky, picky

2009-07-26T17:21:00.010-04:00

I wrote a song over the weekend and it's almost finished.

But I'm still fiddling with one line. It's an important line, right at the end of the song--and ideally it will sum up the point of the whole piece.

No wonder I'm being so picky.

I think it's worth going to this extra effort, to make sure the song is exactly right. Whenever I settle for something that's "close enough", I never shake off that unsatisfied feeling.

The truth is, I really care about what I say to my audience. I don't want to say something I don't mean (or something that doesn't make sense) so I work hard to be as precise as I can.

Sometimes it's really maddening process, because the precise words aren't quite conversational or don't fit the rhyme.

Sometimes I have to rewrite an entire verse to get it right.

I've read that Leonard Cohen has pages of unused verses for many of his songs. Needless to say, even his discarded lyrics are probably better than anything I've ever written.

His perfectionism may be extreme...but having high standards is a good thing. As the old saying goes, "Shoot for the moon and you might land in the stars."

When I feel a niggling feeling of dissatisfaction, sometimes I do shrug it off...but sometimes I ask myself, "What would Leonard do?"

And then I take another look at that verse.

The Jukebox in Your Head

2009-07-22T15:33:00.006-04:00

Want to try an experiment?

Take a moment to notice if a song is going through your head.

(I have a theory that songwriters have a perpetual jukebox in their brain, all the time. But maybe everybody does! Is this true? Let me know!)

So...pause...and check which song is playing now. It might be one of your own, or it might be somebody else's.

Your brain is constantly on "shuffle". But I don't think it's random.

You see, the song that was playing in my head just now was Cyndi Lauper's "True Colours". Coincidentally (not!), it offers specific insight on how I need to approach a current challenge.

Earlier in the day, another "random" song in my head related directly to another task. I was mailing promo packages...and the song was one of mine called "Safe Arrival".

[Hmmm...I just realized something. Now those songs might be playing in your head...or at least Cyndi's because you're more likely to know it. If I re-programmed your jukebox just now, wait a little while until it naturally resets.]

Now, take a moment to notice the song playing in your head...and see if it's what you need to hear.

Maybe your songs know the way

2009-07-14T14:05:00.007-04:00

I just read another on-target blog by Derek Sivers, the indie music guru and founder of CD Baby. Today his thought-provoking article is called "Listen to my music and let me know what I should do."

It reminded me of something a friend told me years ago (no doubt when I was puzzling over what I should do).

She said: "All you have to do is listen to your songs."

To clarify: I don't think she meant that anybody else should listen to my songs to figure out their personal direction. She just meant that I should.

She was reminding me to look within to find direction, to trust my inner voice.

If you're a songwriter, chances are your inner voice will step out from time to time, onto a stage or onto a CD. (It can hide in those places too...and false selves do love the limelight. Maybe the inner voice is in a notebook, or a dream.)

When we tune into our inner wisdom, we'll be able to create work that's authentic and meaningful more often...and if we maintain our connection to that true voice within, we'll be able to more easily recognize an authentic path and follow it.

We'll be able to figure out what we're called to do next...

Without asking Derek Sivers.

Dave Carroll: A Songwriter Not Without Options

2009-07-09T09:29:00.007-04:00

Here's a David vs. Goliath story that will get you cheering for the little guy and humming a catchy tune.

After Dave Carroll's $3,500 Taylor Guitar was mangled by United Airlines baggage handlers, at first he tried to solve the problem through the official channels. After getting nowhere for the better part of a year, he realized that "As a songwriter and traveling musician, I was not without options". (Here's the whole story.)

I love that. "As a songwriter...I was not without options."

Realizing that he had power--and a lot of it, actually--he exercised his option to write the song "United Breaks Guitars" and produce it as a video. (He says it's the first of a trilogy! As I've always said, anger is a great tool for writing songs!)

The song has now gone viral, his band Sons of Maxwell has attracted press coverage all over the world...and we can only hope that Dave gets a brand new guitar from United out of it, plus an apology, in addition to the well-deserved career boost he's getting now.

Meanwhile, may his lemons-into-lemonade story be a lesson to us all:

As songwriters, we are not without options!

Songs as Seeds

2009-07-08T14:41:00.005-04:00

Right now, a number of my friends are job-hunting. At the same time, I've been seeking good homes for my songs. We've all been surveying the landscape, bravely seeking out new opportunities.

Meanwhile, I've been gardening.

If I think of songs as seeds, I notice that the more I share them (releasing them freely into the world without expectation) the more chance they have to take root and do some good.

Of course, sometimes they fall in places that can't nourish them, just as many perfectly good seeds land on concrete every summer day.

But at other times, and often when I least expect it, a song-seed will find its way to fertile ground and immediately bear fruit! Just the other day, for instance, I came upon a perfect new place to play, a ten-minute walk from my home. A welcome patch of green.

I'm a big fan of local gardens, but it's also amazing how far the gusty wind of the internet can carry a song. Write something original and truthful and beautiful, and you're likely to get an unexpected thank-you from thousands of miles away.

Who knows where these seeds will grow?

The small "i" on the iPod

2009-07-03T12:21:00.005-04:00

Yesterday a friend wrote to tell me that her 9 year-old is busily loading up her iPod with some of her favourite music: Disney, Michael Jackson, Lynn Harrison!

I'm truly honoured.

(I wonder which songs will come up on "shuffle". Will Disney's "High School Musical" miraculously follow my "First Day of School"?)

I'm so glad that my music brings joy to this delightful girl--and I'm grateful it does so without all the entertainment-business machinery that surrounds my playlist companions.

After all, that machinery created "Michael Jackson", the brand, but it helped destroy Michael Jackson, the human being.

This is a good time to notice the benefits of being a lesser-known artist and to celebrate the wonders of small-scale production. It's wonderful that, in our time, we can create music that is easily reproduced and enjoyed on iPods everywhere. Imagine!

Produced on relatively small budgets, it may be "imperfect" by some standards...but it can also be meaningful, beautiful and whole. In the end, what else matters?

Alongside Michael Jackson's, our songs can live on, independent of us. Meanwhile, if we're lucky, we can create balanced lives that make sense of our various occupations. We can keep our egos in check and our expectations reasonable.

Hopefully we can accept ourselves as we are, and appreciate the miraculous days that we have.

Here's to the small "i"s on iPods everywhere...surviving just fine beside the big names.

The Toronto We Know

2009-06-17T13:02:00.004-04:00

A few months ago I started reading about a song contest being hosted by the City of Toronto. In honour of the city's 175th anniversary, a call went out for new songs that honour this place we call home.

Now that's a difficult challenge, I thought.

The word "Toronto" is hard to rhyme with, for one thing. And every song starts with a story... What kind of story could I tell about Toronto, in a song?

On a walk home from a friend's house in Cabbagetown, I started thinking about how other people in Canada sometimes say disparaging things about Toronto...how from time to time I've heard Toronto portrayed as a less-than-friendly, closed sort of place, and one that's somewhat large and frightening.

But that's not the Toronto I know.

I know a friendly city of diverse people who are open and generous and kind. ("It's not such a big and scary place, with so many different smiling faces.")

I know a city made up of smaller neighbourhoods ("growing strong, doing good") where people help each other out, every day, in large and small ways.

In such warm and caring neighbourhoods, difficult times can be overcome. ("Some see storms ahead, but we see the rainbow.")

The Toronto I know is also a place where people work together, and so it's fitting that in order to complete and produce this song, I needed to call on David Leask , a gifted songwriter and singer who hails originally from Edinburgh, Scotland.

By working together, we made a stronger song...one that has landed in the Top 10 of the City of Toronto's 175th Anniversary Song Contest. (Starting June 18th you can vote for it here .)

We hope you enjoy "The Toronto We Know" !

To Gig or Not to Gig, That is the Question

2009-04-07T14:16:00.003-04:00

If you’re a songwriter, you’re likely a songwriter for life.

That will be true whether or not you make songwriting your public occupation.

In fact, many people find that songwriting occupies a “professional” place in their lives at some times and an “amateur” place at others. Although it seems natural to want to label our songwriting lives in neatly-defined boxes of “hobby vs. career”, or “private vs. public”, it’s often not necessary to do that, and those boxes can be a distraction from the more important goal of creating a life that’s manageable and sane.

Life circumstances have a funny way of changing. If you love writing songs, that fact will not deter you from writing: in fact, it’s likely to provide you with more inspiration. The challenge it creates for you is one of priorities. When do you perform and record? How often? For whom? Why?

To help explore these questions, I present a short debate between two sides of the “to gig or not to gig” question.

Argument #1: Get Out and Play

It’s very important for every songwriter to get out and play in front of people as often as possible. When you play your songs for others, they start serving a greater good…greater, that is, than the good they’ve already served by influencing you and how your own life will unfold.

Playing your songs in public is a way to validate their effectiveness. When people listen intently and applaud enthusiastically, you know you’ve connected with them. A song is sent out into the world, and when it connects with an audience it has fulfilled its promise, or started to. The interchange of experience and emotion that comes when songs are played for others is an essential part of the songwriting process; without it, songs are like diary entries: valuable and maybe even extremely well-written, but destined to remain private, even secret, acts of creativity.

So get out and play your songs wherever you can: in “official” venues like cafes, bars and clubs, and “unofficial” ones like homes, community halls, shopping malls, street corners and anyplace you can set up and play.

Not only will you find listeners, but you’ll have an opportunity to practice your songs…and when somebody is listening, you’re likely to practice with more discipline and energy than you might at home by yourself. With more practice, your songs will become better known, not only by the community at large, but by you. Their messages will become more clear to you with repeated playings, and you’ll emphasize the right parts—and deliver the song more effectively to every audience. You’ll also memorize the words and the chords, and your playing and singing will improve.

So, make sure you play your songs in front of as many people as possible, as often as possible.

Argument #2: Stay In and Deepen

It’s not very important that you get out and gig all the time.

Other people will tell you that you should: in fact, that you must if you want to “get anywhere” in music or “get your songs into the world”.

They say that if nobody ever hears your songs but you, they won’t do a whole lot of good…and if you rarely play for others, it’s harder to stay in practice when it comes to playing and singing. If you don’t play out very often, you might actually forget the songs you’ve written, which would be a terrible thing, because your songs are commodities and the key thing is to get them moving in the marketplace and in the flow of contemporary ideas and culture. It’s very important to gig as often as possible.

Except that in the big picture, it’s not important at all.

A song that is heard only by its writer is still a song, and its beauty, truth and meaning is not diminished by the fact that it has not found a wider audience.

If more gigs, bigger gigs, and better gigs are not forthcoming for the songwriter, it’s essential that he not start feeling inadequate and sad…a state-of-being which kills creativity.

It’s very easy to start measuring our worth by the number of performances on our websites, whether or not we actually need those gigs to earn a living.

Instead of judging ourselves by external standards, we can start to ask ourselves if we’re living our lives in a healthy and responsible way, and whether our songwriting is helping us to do that.

Despite our limited human perceptions, and the messages of our culture, life is actually not a competition!

It's an opportunity for growth, an invitation to act in more conscious and compassionate ways…to come to understand ourselves and our world, and to get better at caring for each other.

That stuff, the real stuff of living, has less to do with “getting your songs out there” and more to do with “getting your songs in here”—into a deeper and more meaningful place.

Are your songs trying to tell you something?

2009-03-12T15:16:00.006-04:00

Over the past week, I've been dealing with the recurrance of lower back problems. They haven't bothered me for several years, but at one point in my life they caused me a lot of pain and limited my activities.

This recent back strain (which seems to be less serious and is healing well) came about completely unexpectedly, with no warning.

Or had it?

I always have a few songs on the go, but most of them will never be finished nor played in public. These drafts tend to be forgotten and eventually discarded.

In the days leading up to my recent back problem, I had been steadily working on a new song called "Get Back to Me". A mildly interesting coincidence...which seems more interesting when I realize that the previous song I'd been working on was called "Gotta Cut Back on That" and another recent song from a few months ago was called "Right Back Where We Started".

Judging from that pattern, it's not surprising that my back issues would recur...that they would, in effect, "Get Back to Me".

Would I be dealing with vision problems if I'd been writing songs called "See You Later" or "Something I Can't See"? Skin ailments for "On the Surface"? Now that I think about it, why hadn't I been writing songs using vision metaphors...or songs relating to breathing, taste, hearing or speech?

Is it possible that my choice of lyrics programmed my illness? Perhaps...but I have another theory.

I think it's more likely that my intuition was speaking to me through my songs-in-progress, to try to get my attention.

I believe my intuition was trying to signal me that my back needed attending to...because that inner wisdom, something I access through songwriting, was more tuned in to my body than my conscious mind was.

With that in mind, I might see my half-written songs a bit differently. I might start watching them for coded messages...viewing them as signposts.

This way of seeing songwriting practice has more in common with dream analysis than it does with approaching songs as products to be marketed or as accomplishments. If we recognize the importance of personal growth and healing, it's a perspective that could be significantly more valuable than any commercially-minded approach, especially over the course of a lifetime of creative work.

If artistic expression has the power to allow inner wisdom to speak to the conscious mind and to the body, we may be able to steer a healthier course for ourselves by simply paying better attention to these "notes" we write ourselves.

Consult Your Inner Manager

2009-03-05T08:56:00.011-05:00

As an independent artist, sometimes I wish I had a manager.

I imagine her as a kind, wise, competent and courageous person, who always has my best interests at heart. She'd be a whiz at the administrative tasks I hate, and she'd intuitively know which projects and decisions are most important right now.

Most of all, she'd believe in me and the value of my work, even when nothing particularly successful seems to be going on. My manager would be patient, hopeful and matter-of-fact. She'd definitely have a good sense of humour.

From time-to-time, I ask people to help out with various tasks...and I truly appreciate their assistance. Still, nobody has emerged yet as that perfect take-care-of-everything sort of person.

Fortunately, I already have an Inner Manager.

Lately I've been checking in with her more often. I find that she's highly reliable and always on-task...which is even more apparent when I've been worried and distracted. My Inner Manager is humming along, calm and smiling, unperturbed by my anxious thoughts.

My Inner Manager knows which gigs are most appropriate for me. She confidently lines those up, while gracefully turning others down.

My Inner Manager is unconcerned with competitions, ranking or status.

My Inner Manager celebrates achievements, large and small, and shrugs off setbacks.

My Inner Manager believes in the value of regular practice.

My Inner Manager knows which songs are most important that I sing, and when I should sing them, and why.

My Inner Manager is always listening.

When I listen to her, I find that I'm calmer about my music activities, and they seem to take on a more meaningful and cohesive shape.

Not every artist is fortunate enough to have an agent, but each of us has an Inner Manager.

She's always there, ready for our call.

Karl Paulnack's Speech to Boston Conservatory

2009-03-02T12:26:00.005-05:00

I'm posting this speech in its entirety because it's one of the strongest affirmations of the value of music I've ever read! These are words to live by, and they couldn't come at a better time.

Welcome address to freshman class at Boston Conservatory given by Karl Paulnack, pianist and director of music division at Boston Conservatory:

"One of my parents' deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not properly value me as a musician, that I wouldn't be appreciated. I had very good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be more appreciated than I would be as a musician. I still remember my mother's remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school-she said, "You're WASTING your SAT scores." On some level, I think, my parents were not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And they LOVED music, they listened to classical music all the time. They just weren't really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the "arts and entertainment" section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with entertainment, in fact it's the opposite of entertainment. Let me talk a little bit about music, and how it works.

The first people to understand how music really works were the ancient Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you; the Greeks said that music and astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.

One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940, sent across Germany in a cattle car and imprisoned in a concentration camp.

He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose. There were three other musicians in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist, and Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.

Given what we have since learned about life in the concentration camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture-why would anyone bother with music? And yet-from the camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn't just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."

On September 12, 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. That morning I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, that same day, was singing. People sang. People sang around fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome". Lots of people sang America the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.

From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not part of "arts and entertainment" as the newspaper section would have us believe. It's not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can't with our minds.

Some of you may know Samuel Barber's heartwrenchingly beautiful piece Adagio for Strings. If you don't know it by that name, then some of you may know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie Platoon, a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn't know you had. Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what's really going on inside us the way a good therapist does.

I bet that you have never been to a wedding where there was absolutely no music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some really bad music, but I bet you there was some music. And something very predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of emotions, and then there's some musical moment where the action of the wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if the music is lame, even if the quality isn't good, predictably 30 or 40 percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so that we can express what we feel even when we can't talk about it. Can you imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music stripped out, it wouldn't happen that way. The Greeks: Music is the understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.

I'll give you one more example, the story of the most important concert of my life. I must tell you I have played a little less than a thousand concerts in my life so far. I have played in places that I thought were important. I like playing in Carnegie Hall; I enjoyed playing in Paris; it made me very happy to please the critics in St. Petersburg. I have played for people I thought were important; music critics of major newspapers, foreign heads of state. The most important concert of my entire life took place in a nursing home in Fargo, ND, about 4 years ago.

I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began, as we often do, with Aaron Copland's Sonata, which was written during World War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland's, a young pilot who was shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out and play the music without explanation.

Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was clearly a soldier-even in his 70's, it was clear from his buzz-cut hair, square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn't the first time I've heard crying in a concert and we went on with the concert and finished the piece.

When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again, but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.

What he told us was this: "During World War II, I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat situation where one of my team's planes was hit. I watched my friend bail out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute chords so as to separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn't understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did it find those feelings and those memories in me?

Remember the Greeks: music is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. This concert in Fargo was the most important work I have ever done. For me to play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow, with Aaron Copland, and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.

What follows is part of the talk I will give to this year's freshman class when I welcome them a few days from now. The responsibility I will charge your sons and daughters with is this:

"If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing appendectomies, you'd take your work very seriously because you would imagine that some night at two AM someone is going to waltz into your emergency room and you're going to have to save their life. Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on how well you do your craft.

You're not here to become an entertainer, and you don't have to sell yourself. The truth is you don't have anything to sell; being a musician isn't about dispensing a product, like selling used Chevies. I'm not an entertainer; I'm a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue worker. You're here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.

Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music; I expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of equality, of fairness, I don't expect it will come from a government, a military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that's what we do. As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the
ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives."

On the Value of the Original Song

2008-12-10T09:42:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I received this link to a beautiful film based on the song
"Stand by Me".

The filmmakers took on-the-street performances of this inspiring classic from all over the world and combined them to make one larger performance, creating a visual metaphor for how popular music connects people of every race and circumstance.

Meanwhile, at an open mic I attend semi-regularly, the number of original songs has declined. Twenty years ago, many people sang their own material, but now they're more likely to sing standards by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Jimmy Webb and James Taylor. Speaking of James Taylor, he recently put out an album of covers.

In a troubled world that needs to bring people together, excellent songs loved by all are immensely valuable. Songs that are, um, not so excellent, aren't so important. Value Village bins are overflowing with independent recordings of original songs...songs that are often immensely valuable to the person who wrote them, but not worth much to others.

That is, not unless they contain the same stuff as "Stand by Me".

What stuff is that? What's in that song that makes it so valuable?

By now, its near-universal brand recognition adds to its value, for sure. But from the beginning, it contained some essential ingredients: a universal theme, an uplifting melody, a simple and clear message of truth, beauty and reassurance.

Like gold, that stuff holds its value in any economic climate. It's always in high demand. Old songs may contain them. New songs can too.

And when they do, they offer something else that's especially valuable today: empowerment.

We empower ourselves and our communities when we respond creatively to the world as it unfolds...when we bring to light new joy, new insight, new strength...and when we do it in real time.

It can happen in a song, in a blog, in a film, in a speech.

It's the creative response that brought "Stand by Me" to us in the first place.

Happy writing!

Song as Teacher

2008-12-06T22:50:00.006-05:00

Over the last few days, I've been taking inventory. Looking at my song catalogue, counting CDs...assessing next steps.

It's quiet around the house right now, and yet my mind is busy with anxious thoughts. Should I book more gigs...or fewer? Intensify my music endeavors...or quit them? Did I do the right thing, making all those recordings? Maybe if I write a few more, better songs...send them to a few more, more influential people?

The house is tidy, but the mind is cluttered with maybes, ifs and whens.

Tomorrow morning though, I'll be singing a song in a church. It's not a religious song, but it's a spiritual one. It's called "Room to Love".

Quiet days, they seem to fill up in so many ways...
With all my worries and my power plays...
When I just need room to love.

Did I actually write that...that I just need "room to love"? Really, me, the one so apt to worry?

It seems that when I write songs--good ones, anyway--I understand what I completely miss at other times. There's something about the form of the song--the fact that it needs to express something truthful and valuable--that leads me to understandings I would not have arrived at otherwise.

In this case, the thing I keep missing is the need to preserve space in my life and in my mind...space away from the anxious worries that seem never to be solved.

Of the many million things we wish for, we only need a precious few.

I'm singing that at church tomorrow because the sermon is about finding meaning in non-material things: a good message for a pared-down holiday season in a time of economic distress.

But what do I "wish for"? In addition to material things, perhaps I also wish for a sense of "where this music career is going", a promise of recognition or a lasting feeling of accomplishment. A confirmation that my efforts are not for nothing, that the songs and recordings are in some way valuable.

Those may be the things I wish for. They may not be the things I need.

The things I need, in fact, are the things I already have. A loving family. Supportive friends. Good health. Food and shelter. Creative work and the joy it brings. Strength and willingness to help others. The song knows what I need, even if sometimes I don't.

When a song is the soul speaking to itself, it can teach the lessons the writer needs to hear.

All too often, I get distracted by the commercial dimension of songwriting. Is the song making me any money? Gaining me any recognition?

I might want the song to do that. But I don't need it to.

I need it to teach me. And it does.

Nowhere is the New Somewhere

2008-11-19T11:20:00.003-05:00

“Teach us to care and not to care.
Teach us to sit still.”
- From “Ash Wednesday”, T.S. Eliot

For a couple of years, I worked semi-regularly on the Toronto subway system as a busker. I played my songs with my guitar case open, while people streamed by. Sometimes they offered a few coins or words of encouragement, but for the most part it was a non-paying gig. It was also a “fish-out-of-water” experience: I was deliberately placing myself in a situation where my music would most likely be ignored, to see if I could make peace with that experience.

It was my belief then, as it is now, that most individual singer-songwriters (if not most artists of any kind) will do their work outside the commercial marketplace and will, as a result, need to find a different way to assess the value of their work. We will need to “make peace with” in two ways: become reconciled to any level of success or lack of it we achieve, while creating peace in the world at the same time.

One of the most powerful elements of the subway experience, for me, was the sensation of standing still, when the rest of the world was moving fast, headed somewhere. I, by contrast, was going nowhere, both literally and figuratively. In fact, I appeared to many observers to occupy the lowest rung of going nowhere, because to them I looked like a beggar. The truth is that in Toronto, subway musicians are selected through a formal audition process and receive official licenses; the vast majority of performers have other sources of income and are not busking for financial survival. But I could tell that many passers-by didn’t know that, because even though I was well-dressed, attractive and professional, I often received looks of pity—and sometimes even donations of food! It sometimes seemed that the open guitar case, with its connotations of desperation or hopelessness, made more of an impression than the music itself.

Because of that public perception, busking became an opportunity to practice letting go of status and importance…to play with the idea that I was both important and unimportant at the same time, that I was both visible and invisible, and that my songs were both very loud (thanks to the natural amplification of the tiled corridors) and virtually unheard. I was experimenting with—in fact, challenging—my own perceptions of status and value in society, improvising ways to adjust to a situation where I was not valued as highly as I wanted to be, while playing my instrument. (When I felt comfortable and relaxed while busking, I could also say that I was feeling playful and having fun, but I have to admit, those times were rare.)

In the past, when I saw my songs as vehicles to “get me somewhere” or to attract attention, I was unable to play with—to dance with—the fact of my songs’ unimportance. I wanted “official” performance settings, prestigious stages, stamps of approval from influential people in the entertainment industry. I saw songwriting and performance as a transaction: I write the song and sing it for you; you applaud and pay me! If the applause and payment weren’t forthcoming, perhaps I just had to write a little differently or sing a little better. Or connect more regularly with more fans, or get played on a different radio show, or fix up my MySpace page, or…the list went on.

When I was busking, I saw it as a transaction at first, too. I expected there to be a clear relationship between the song I sang and the amount of money dropped into the case. For much of the time, I was engaged in a continual adjustment of myself to attract more of those elusive coins. Every once in awhile, though, the sheer joy of playing (as a child plays) would lift me out of my constant state of evaluation and expectation, to simply be in the moment and offer up my song. Sometimes that effervescence would attract someone’s attention and gratitude and sometimes it wouldn’t; the point, though, was that the lighter and less-attached offering was truly bigger and more valuable than the reward offered by the economic currency of that moment. The heart-expanding experience of allowing a song to fill an empty space without expectation of reward made the reward itself virtually insignificant.

If you are an artist, you don’t have to work as a busker to understand the feeling of “going nowhere” in our society’s eyes. As artists, we often find ourselves in situations that seem low-status in an economically-driven world. Some of these situations are very well-described, in works of art that reflect their own creators’ quest for meaning and desire to be valued. For example, we can all picture the musician playing to the near-empty bar in Billy Joel’s classic song “Piano Man”—the artist so fine, everyone wonders why he isn’t famous.

But there are other places, too, less stereotyped and familiar, where artists experience this “going nowhere”. Formal rejections and un-won contests can trigger feelings of immobility and isolation, as can countless other more personal experiences. It’s easy to feel you’re going nowhere when you’re singing at a family gathering and a relative turns away and starts checking his email. Or when you volunteer at a local library and one person shows up for your performance…by mistake! Or even when you offer to sing for a seriously ill friend, and she cannot accept your gift because she is too uncomfortable and sensitive to sound to listen.

These are “going nowhere” situations. No matter how “good” we get at what we do—how proficient we become at our craft, how skilled we become at networking—we will keep finding ourselves in that state of uncomfortable nowhere. It’s not only the artist’s life, it’s the human one. We tend not to get to where we think we’re going…to where we think we want to go. We tend to end up somewhere else. Inevitably, despite all of our efforts, we end up exactly where we are: inside our own skin. Until we really inhabit that place, the ordinariness that has nothing to do with glamour or praise or fame or money, we will neither be fulfilled as songwriters nor will we write meaningful songs.

Meditation practice can help us learn to be at peace in the “nowhere”—in the persistent lack of whatever “somewhere” we seek. When we sit still, focusing on our breathing, we learn to remain in lack of movement, in stillness. The world passes by, thoughts come and go (as do people and events) and we sit, in acceptance, taking up a limited but distinct space within the world. In one guided meditation I learned recently, the teacher invited us to imagine ourselves surrounded by a bell shape, and to fill that space with our breath. For me, the metaphor of a bell was especially powerful, because I could envision a song within that did not extend beyond borders, one that was perfectly balanced and full and resonant yet still.

If we learn let go of the constant quest to “get somewhere” with our music, we can relax into our present experience and let feelings of disappointment and failure fall away. When that happens, we might notice that the overlay of constant striving, the continual evaluation of where we are on some kind of imaginary map, distracts us from simply observing and experiencing the life that we have: a life that would, if we let it, inspire songs rich in meaning and depth.

Performance as Leadership

2008-11-13T00:44:00.006-05:00

Lots of people are talking about leadership these days. Maybe it's all because of Barack Obama...or maybe it's that the world's problems are so significant we know we need leaders right now.

Let's be honest. Little-known singer-songwriters are seldom thought of as leaders.

But it seems to me that if we want to get better at what we do -- to truly offer something of value -- we'd better get better at leadership.

That doesn't mean we have to turn into singing politicians. But it does mean we have to accept the leadership responsibility that's conferred on us the minute we step on stage.

I notice that a lot of aspiring performers seem to have no idea they're leaders. In fact, some of them seem to make the audience their leader: depending on applause or a certain level of quiet in the room, or worrying about what people might think of them. (I used to do that a lot.) Some performers close their eyes while they're singing, appearing to sing only for themselves.

Maybe we think that because we're not financially successful or famous, we're not entitled to be leaders? And yet, the minute we step on a stage, even if it's at a humble open mic, that's exactly what we become. We're all lit up, people are watching and listening. They're hoping that we will lead.

So...what do leaders do?

First, they make a respectful connection with the audience, in a sense inviting them to go on a shared journey. Next, they communicate stuff that matters to people. In other words, the songs may arise out of personal experience (there's a place for personal anecdotes even in presidential speeches) but they need to address universal human needs.

Songwriters who are effective leaders provide messages of empowerment ( "you can make it", "change is possible" ), inspiration ("be uplifted with me", "join me on this journey" ), reassurance ( "you are not alone" and ultra-leader Bob Marley's "everything's gonna be alright" ), identification ( "I've been where you are" )...the list goes on. Every element of a song can be put to the leadership test. Does it (the lyric, melody, chord structure) challenge? Or wake up? Or motivate?

The leadership does not have to be limited to the song itself. Between songs, leader-songwriters offer truthful insight about themselves and their life experience. "My teenage nephew is going through a hard time. This song is hopeful and I'm thinking of him right now". (The messages might be "don't lose hope" or "care for each other" . The song doesn't have to be about the specific circumstances and it could even be a cover tune.) Or "I wrote this at a time in my life when my priorities weren't really straight. I dunno if they're any straighter now, but I still like the song!" (Message: "I'm still striving to become a better person." )

A good performer takes the audience by the hand, says "I'll take you where you want to go" and leads them there...or as close as she can get. That requires both confidence and humility.

The confidence comes, I think, from going to that "place we want to go" ourselves. From finding beauty, energy, truth, inspiration through the songs and then offering that back to others in a spirit of community.

The humility comes from knowing that no song can take people where they want to go forever and that our songs may fall short of offering everything we hoped they would.

Still, with confidence and humility, we can lead. ( "Yes we can!" )

If we do, our songs will get better, people will listen, and we will know our songs have a place in the world.

Life is a Song: Overcommitted

2008-11-08T14:58:00.005-05:00

I started to write a song yesterday called "Overcommitted". I didn't get very far, because I was pulled into several other directions. As it turned out, the song wasn't the only personal priority that went un-met that day. Ultimately I went to bed early, feeling frustrated that couldn't keep anything on-course.

If yesterday were a song, it would have been unfocused and under-confident, lurching along in stops and starts. An idea started in one lyric line would be abandoned in the next. It would be riddled with non-rhymes. It would be neither singable, nor memorable! No wonder I went to bed early.

I know how to keep my songs from being overcommitted, from trying to do many things at once and trying to be all things to all people. So how can I apply that knowledge to my life?

In a song, it's important to:

1) Commit to one idea at a time. The song about trying to connect with my daughter is not the same song as the one expressing optimism because of the changing political landscape. Each song is about one clear idea, the simpler and more specific the better. Life lesson: Tackle one project at a time. Multi-tasking leads to unfocused, anxious activity.

2) Go deeper. To write a good song, I need to really care about the subject: to dig into it deeply, get to know it, mine the emotional depth of it. If I'm not going deep, the song doesn't go anywhere. In life, this idea is expressed by the Outward Bound slogan, "If you can't get out of it, get into it". The only way out of a situation is "in" and "through". Surface attempts don't work, and neither does avoidance. If I find myself in the midst of any problem (even the problem of overcommitment itself), I need to fully commit to understanding it in order to sort it out. (That's why I'm writing this blog, I guess, and could now finish the song!)

3) Commit to Harmony. One of the most important elements of a successful song, in my view, is harmony. The chords have to complement the melody, and the melody itself has to be pleasing. I find that when I listen to music, I'm attracted to harmony, and that's what I want to offer in my own songs. By the same token, harmony matters in life . If activities are jarring and dissonant, I have to choose which ones truly create harmony.

Singular Focus in a Multiple Input World

2008-11-01T11:36:00.003-04:00

Why are so many people driven to create these days?

I wonder if it's because it's a natural way to focus on one thing at a time, and to engage deeply in it.

This type of activity may be especially important for introverts, who often experience sensory overload. The focused attention required to reproduce a landscape accurately in a painting, or to express a complex idea in the limited rhyming verses of a song, provides a kind of respite from a world that seems to lack focus.

Just the act of "ordering" itself, as was recently pointed out in an article called "Writing Through Adversity", written by Paula Guran and shared in Writers.com, can be therapeutic, either serving as a proxy for a disordered world or, perhaps, creating a blueprint for ordering the life we find ourselves in.

Art can offer a narrative, a cohesive story. When our lives don't seem to have that purpose and story and meaning, we create new ones, either as substitutes for the real thing or to teach ourselves how it's done.

I notice in my own life, I've used songwriting and performance as a way of enforced life simplification. When I'm singing on a stage, I can't do anything else. When I have to write a song on a deadline, I have to stay fully focused on it. Everything else falls away, which is good, because there's so much of that "everything else", I can't keep up with it anyway!

I'm happy to be writing songs, and I think they serve a purpose in the world. But I also suspect that if I lived in a slowed-down, simpler culture, I could live more comfortably without needing to escape into creative activity quite so often. As I write this, I feel it's a kind of heresy: isn't it good to be prolific? Yes, it's life-affirming and healing.

But maybe I can more often recognize the activity as a form of meditation, which is valuable in and of itself, without requiring a whole lot of other activities surrounding it which end up being clutter.

As in every song I write, the question remains: what is essential, and what can be let go?

In Tune and In Community

2008-10-29T11:23:00.010-04:00

Is it possible for me to stay "in tune" at a busy music conference attended by hundreds of people?

Last weekend I checked in on that question again, after side-stepping it for the past few years by simply not attending. I couldn't help thinking of Ray Davies' comment that all performers are introverts as I joined with so many others gathering in the halls, having animated spontaneous conversations and eagerly giving out promo materials.

I kept pace pretty well, but felt a bit relieved that I had only one song to sing. (Here I am, singing it! Many thanks to Shirley Gibson for the photo.) Later, another musician pointed out something that I hadn't fully realized: "Bicycle Bell" is, itself, an affirmation of the "smaller voices" we hear, both in the world and inside ourselves. In the song, I affirm their potential to make positive changes...and yet, in life, I still find myself conflicted.

Did I want to stay up to participate in late-night showcases? No. But did I want to appear as though I was part of the crowd? Yes. Did I want to follow my own star, and express my own truth? Yes. But did I also want to fit in? Yep, that too.

Being an artist provides an opportunity to become aware of our sometimes opposing needs: to distinguish ourselves with our unique vision while also belonging to a larger whole.

Perhaps the thing that can bring both of these needs in tune with each other is the concept of community. If I stay in tune with my inner voice--even at those times when I feel out of step with the majority--I strengthen community by making it more inclusive and diversified.

As Parker Palmer writes in his book "Let Your Life Speak","When we live in the close-knit ecosystem called community, everyone follows and everyone leads."

Thank you to the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals for recognizing "Bicycle Bell" as a Songs From the Heart winner this year in the political category; for hosting a complex and multi-layered conference every year; and for seeking to build community with music and among musicians and presenters.

One Song

2008-10-23T14:49:00.002-04:00

This weekend I'm heading to a music conference, where I'm very fortunate to be singing one of my songs in an official showcase setting.

The song is called "Bicycle Bell".

As things have turned out, it's likely to be the only song I sing at the conference...a place where singer-songwriters often try to perform as many songs as many times as possible, so that the highest possible number of professional opportunities might arise.

Playing this one song, once...will it be enough?

It will be, as long as I know that we only ever have "one song". One life, one breath and one moment. Right now.

The idea that one performance must lead to another, and another, and another...it takes us away from truly inhabiting the one song we have.

May I be happy to be singing one song now.

Optimistic Songs in Hard Times

2008-10-17T22:05:00.003-04:00

This week I wrote a song in response to the recent Canadian election, for Take5 on CIUT. I billed it as an ironic love song to Stephen Harper. (For readers outside Canada, he's the frosty right-wing politician who will lead a minority government for the second time in a row. Sixty percent of us voted against him, but he remains our Prime Minister.)

The song (which contains the word "frosty") is called "Right Back Where We Started*. (Here's a live version from the radio show on Friday morning.) It's written in the voice of a woman reluctantly returning to a guy she knows isn't good for her. Depressing, right? Cynical? You'd think so, after an election like this.

But the song turned out to be generally happy-sounding. A cheerful little waltz in a major key. I had written an optimistic song, after a disappointing election outcome, during the worst economic crisis of my lifetime. What was I thinking?

Well, first of all, I wasn't really "thinking". Instead I was writing a song, and that's a whole other thing. When you're fully engaged in the creative process, your heart (or soul, or unconscious) is doing most of the heavy lifting, while your brain (intellect, conscious mind) just navigates the process. "Just a few steps more (one more verse, please)...don't bump into the wall (that line has too many syllables)..." That sort of thing.

Once songwriters become truly proficient, they write what they need to hear. Not only what they want to express, but what they need to hear. It's the unconscious mind, the soul, that midwifes into being the needed song, as opposed to the expected or "supposed-to-write" song.

After a week like this, I can tell you that I needed some good news, more than I needed a re-hashing of everything bad. I didn't want to deny what has happened or hide from reality, but I needed to frame that reality in a way that helps me stay sane and productive. Thankfully, the unconscious mind knew exactly what to do.

I'm glad that, without thinking, I wrote a happy song this week.

Its very existence tells me that optimism is still possible.

* A few notes on the lyrics, for anyone not familiar with the Canadian political system. The Prime Minister (Mr. Harper) presides over the deeply divided House of Commons ("...waltzing round the House again"). The space in between opposing parties is called the floor. Members of Parliament often behave badly in the House. ("Hurling names across the floor...") The Leader of the Opposition (only recently installed and likely to step down now) is named Stephane, and though a man of substance and integrity, he has turned out to be very unpopular. I think the rest of the lyrics are self-explanatory. - lh

Stephen Harper: Failed Musician

2008-09-25T08:53:00.006-04:00

"Picking up the pieces of my sweet, shattered dream..."

So goes the opening line of Gordon Lightfoot's classic, "Carefree Highway", one of a couple of familiar tunes Stephen Harper played on the piano for the television cameras, to prove that he loves music even as he slashes funding for the arts.

We dismissed his performance as mere media theatrics. But what if it was something else? What if it was actually a longed-for performance opportunity?

Maybe Stephen Harper hates professional artists because he's just jealous.

Let's remember former Ontario Premier Mike Harris for a minute. Harper's sneering at artists has been compared to Mike Harris's contempt for teachers, and his subsequent decimating of education budgets. Now, recall what Mike Harris did as a very young adult (before he became a golf professional and then a politician). Indeed, he went to teacher's college, and then became briefly (that is to say, unsuccessfully) an elementary school teacher.

Writing in her influential book "The Artist's Way" (1992), Julia Cameron calls adults with repressed artistic dreams "shadow artists". She writes "All too often the artistic urges of the artist child are ignored or suppressed. Often with the best intentions, parents try to foster a different, more sensible self for the child...Baby artists are urged to think and act like baby doctors or lawyers [or economists]. ...If encouraged at all, the children are urged into thinking of the arts as hobbies, creative fluff around the edges of real life. For many families, a career in the arts exists outside of their social and economic reality."

Sound familiar? When Stephen Harper talks about "the lives of artists not resonating with ordinary Canadians", what he means is, "that's not how my life worked out". When he imagines artists' lives as a stream of glamourous cocktail parties and television appearances, he's fantastizing about what his life might have been.

His fantasy would be inaccurate, of course. In reality, with a miniscule number of artists actually making a living (or earning any income at all) from their creative life (even if they do get the occasional grant), most of them spend their days as accountants, civil servants, cab drivers, computer programmers and advertising copywriters. In short, their lives are quite ordinary, just like Stephen Harper may secretly believe his to be.

Think of how Stephen Harper looked when he sat down at the airport lounge piano. He displayed that boyishly self-conscious pride we see at open mics, when shy adult songwriters take the stage after years of denying they play.

Wasn't it touching what he said, for the record, for the whole country to hear?

"I had a little bit of talent. I never had enough talent to be a professional, but..."

There it is! The regret! The might-have-beens! And there, too, is the feeling of personal loss and shame. "If only I had been more talented, my music might have amounted to something."

In the Globe and Mail interview, which you can listen to here, he says "I am a shadow of my former self". In fact, that shadow artist still haunts him--and now threatens the cultural sovereignty of our country.

Harper goes on to reflect (with a poignant lack of self-awareness), on how his artistic calling is alive today despite his attempts to banish it. (Note to Mr. Harper: some artists also support themselves as psychotherapists!)

"I've always been torn on music and piano in a way, because I actually get a great deal of satisfaction out of when I do it," he says. "But I get so wrapped up in it. I've always had that problem with the artistic things I've enjoyed doing. [Note the past tense.] You know, I played piano, I've sung a bit, I used to write poetry... [It's as if he's writing his artist c.v.!] ...but I've always found with these kinds of things that they really draw me in and I can't let them go. I find it difficult to do it just a little bit on the side, just a little bit here and now...that's always been my struggle."

Exactly. As a musician at heart, he will always be drawn back to that transporting and transformative creative experience, that place where he feels most alive. "Carefree Highway, got to see you my old flame...let me slip away, slip away on you." Both in his bewildered musing about his abandoned musical life, and in the songs he chooses to play, he expresses an artistic call that has not yet been answered.

(By contrast, another former Ontario Premier, Bob Rae, has always demonstrated a healthy self-awareness of his own artistic interests and abilities. He comfortably and competently plays piano in public from time to time, and speaks on arts issues with knowledge and depth. It should be noted that he does not display contempt for artists--neither does he express inner conflict over his own creative life and career.)

But, back to Stephen Harper, Failed Musician.

What was the other song he chose to sing? Just as revealing as the Lightfoot standard, it was George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps".

"I look at you all, see the love that lies sleeping...
While my guitar gently weeps."

Harper admits that it's his son's interest in the guitar that has re-kindled his own interest in music. Yep, that would stir up those old dreams, for sure--dreams that Stephen's father (not a musician, but an expert on jazz) and his grandmother and uncle (both accomplished musicians) must have shared. Jung wrote "Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their children, than the unlived life of the parent." Is it possible that nothing has a stronger influence on a country than the unlived life of the politician?

If Harper's cuts to the arts are best understood by reading between the lines--the ledger lines, if you will--it's appropriate, then, to end this essay with the little-known final verse that George Harrison wrote but seldom sang. (You can bet that Stephen Harper didn't sing this one in the airport lounge.)

"I look from the wings at the play you are staging
While my guitar gently weeps...
As I'm sitting here doing nothing but aging
Still my guitar gently weeps."

Okay, Stephen. Stop weeping and feeling sorry for yourself. Stop feeling jealous of your son (who you say plays by ear, as you never could), and contemptuous of the professional artists who had enough courage to follow their artistic passions. Start practicing for your Grade 10 Conservatory exam. Write a poem about your father. Then write a song about work, about purpose, about dreams and disappointments.

Take a deep breath and play. Whether your hands are shaking, or not.

Play like an ordinary person.

Like an artist.

There's still time.

What I Learned From Writing a Song a Week

2008-08-21T11:06:00.004-04:00

I'm coming to the end of a nearly two-year project, writing a new song most weeks for a current events program on community radio. Take5 has a "can-do" spirit and its executive producer was open to the idea of having a songwriter write something every week, inspired by a story on the show. Ultimately I wrote 69 songs for the program, before I felt an inner signal that it was time to move on. I have a special affection for all of those Songs of the Week (unexpected gifts, each and every one) and I'm grateful for the lessons I learned while writing them. Here are some of them.

1. If you can write one song a week, you can write a dozen. Creativity fuels itself, and there is no limit to how many ideas one can have in any period of time. The limitations we place on ourselves are arbitrary. In most cases the "song" of the week was actually two or three or four, sometimes different approaches to the same topic but sometimes new songs altogether. I just picked the one that I found the most inspiring.

2. Nothing lasts. The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi is: Nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, nothing lasts. As each song was written, each song immediately passed into "last week". The practice of letting go, week after week, was healthy. Even when a song garnered further attention, it only did so for a limited period of time, because I had to keep writing.

3. I am deeply and continually influenced by others. In writing a song a week, I was constantly aware of the work of other songwriters, but instead of letting that get in the way (through comparisons, jealousy or worry over plagiarism) I decided to consciously invite the other writers in, as if to help. So I felt I was guided by a lot of invisible, experienced hands.

4. Each song matters, and doesn't. You have to imagine it could change the world and have momentous impact, while being aware at the same time that it likely will not. This awareness of two apparent opposites allows one to write something that neither lacks substance nor gets bogged down in a sense of self-importance.

5. It's okay to work every which way. Use every and any tool or method you can to accomplish your goal. Don't get locked into pre-defined methods of working. What worked last week might not be appropriate for this week. Stay flexible.

6. It's not a competition. I have a tendency to rank stuff and pick winners and losers. I noticed the inclination to do this with the Song of the Week, and I saw that all that ranking didn't matter at all. I could let go of trying to pick the winning horse or predict which song might "go somewhere". None of them could, and all of them already had.

6. Honour the seed. No matter how "polished" or "finished" I wanted the songs to be, they stubbornly remained exactly what they were: fresh, small, fragile things...each of which held the potential to gain confidence and strength with repeated playings. If I had gotten caught up in perfection and full-fledged-ness at the start, I would have stopped the project after a few weeks, realizing that the timeframe and my own limitations would never permit polished, concert-level performance. I remember the point at which I realized that. I'm glad I decided to continue...to honour the seed. In life, there are many such seeds.

7. If you believe in it, it will come. The most valuable technique I used was the belief that the song was meant to be, and that it already existed...and only need my midwifery to bring it to the world. That outlook was, I think, just as important as a wide range of guitar chords, a taste for novelty, a good work ethic, a willingness to experiment and to potentially fail, and a lifelong fascination with songs and the creative process--all of which were essential too.

The 100 Mile Artist

2008-08-01T23:11:00.001-04:00

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the 100-Mile Diet: eating locally to make a positive change for the planet. It's an important idea. I'm really excited about reducing the amount of time and money I spend in big chain grocery stores, and walking instead to a farmer's market where I can buy locally grown food.

It got me thinking: how can songwriters apply the principles of "think globally, eat locally" to our music life? Is there value in being a 100-Mile Artist and writing a 100-Mile Song?

I think there is, even though we live in the Internet Age. Our music is now available at the touch of a button, as conveniently as our food and more cheaply than ever before. We consume music like we consume food and other products and entertainment: voraciously, often without any personal connection to how or where it's made.

As songwriters who want to be successful by our culture's standards, we tend to think that our music has to travel far in order to matter. We need to tour widely, or at least be heard beyond our local communities, via radio or the Net. We tend to believe (sometimes it's an unconscious thing) that a non-touring local musician, especially one who hasn't recorded his or her work, is less important than one whose product is shipped a greater distance.

But if we actually start living as environmental leaders recommend, getting more of our food closer to home, and choosing to buy and consume less, we might also start to value local artists in new ways. Local songwriters might feel more empowered to write songs grown organically in a real time and place...and we might not feel badly anymore if those songs (or if we as individuals) don't travel so much.

This re-framing might encourage songwriters to respond in a more particular, specific way about what's going on in their neighbourhoods, and to consciously sing the songs for the people there. The aim of writing a great song would be not to have it recorded by a big Nashville star, but to help actual people, right here and now. That kind of song, like that kind of great-tasting organic food, is nourishing to the soul. If songs are like food, maybe we can grow our own.

Of course, for anyone to buy the song (locally or otherwise), it had better be GOOD! Nobody, anywhere, wants a song that has no melody or whose lyrics are meaningless. Nobody will enjoy a tasteless or bland song that's supposed to be good for you just because it's local. That's why it's essential that those of us who are 100-Mile Songwriters create truly high-quality songs: songs that are on par with the widely-distributed "hits" of our times. There's no reason the next "Imagine" (or "The Rose" or "Blowing in the Wind" or "Heart of Gold", or...) couldn't be written in your town. It's just that in our commercially-driven culture, it's unlikely to be recognized. It's time we got better at that recognition process.

First of all, we can start appreciating the ways that excellent locally-grown entertainment enriches us. We can take pride in it, and be appreciative and grateful for it, without immediately thinking it should be exported. Instead of hearing a great song and saying "Wow, you should get Celebrity So-and-So to sing that" or "you should get it promoted to radio" or "get it used in a movie", we could learn to say, "Your song helped me get through my day" or "I always feel good when I hear you play" or simply, "thank you". That's enough. That, and a fair price to hear that musician perform, and a fair amount to purchase his or her recording--which was produced on a sustainable budget.

[As I write this, the rest of my family is hungrily devouring the MMVA's...the Much Music Video Awards...which features many celebrity artists who are the equivalent of the Oreo cookies in our cupboard. I find I often crave them, too. We are products of our culture. But as the priorities of our culture change, in response to urgent environmental and social needs, local artists could become valuable sources of direction, hope and wisdom. May we grow the best food we can.]

Let's Applaud the Amateurs: Bill Ivey

2008-07-19T21:52:00.008-04:00

I just read a piece in the Utne Reader that I'd like to share with you.

It's an interview with Bill Ivey , former chair of the National Endowment for the Arts in the United States, and the author of a book called Arts, Inc.: How Greed and Neglect have Destroyed our Cultural Rights.

In the article, Ivey comments on the failure of public policy, reflecting society as a whole, to recognize artists who are not considered professionals. He writes: "while we understand that amateur basketball players are not going to be as good as a superstar, there's no sense that they shouldn't be doing what they're doing. But in the arts...we tend to denigrate the amateur. The NEA participated in this by concentrating so much of its work on professionals: using the term excellence as a kind of euphemism for professional art-making, concentrating on elevating the top pros and the organizations that they work with, and pretty much leaving the amateur unincorporated art-making piece of the American scene off to the side."

Amateur artists are denigrated at times. We've all felt it, even those of us who have achieved some degree of professional success, because few of us achieve enough of it to make a dent in the cultural firmament. I think we do feel "off to the side" as Ivey says, in a kind of no-man's land where we feel neither fully professional nor contentedly amateur. To get out of that uncomfortable, anxiety-producing place, we spend a fair bit of time and money creating an image and a product that might put us on the map, all the while suspecting that no map, or straightforward success path for artists, exists.

One of the reasons I'm encouraged by Ivey's interview is that he suggests a change in perception is possible, and that it might come about through public policy. It's certainly not going to come through the commercial entertainment industry, which on the surface may appear to encourage amateurism through Idol and related reality programming, but in fact divides the world of artists into winners and losers: winner take all.

More good could be done by more artists, if we invested in ALL artists' sense of worth.

Discovery: Art of the Song

2008-06-06T23:30:00.006-04:00

I've been tuning in recently to Art of the Song which is one of the best songwriting websites and blogs I've encountered. It offers a refreshing change of perspective from most songwriting sites...focusing not only on technique (though it covers that beautifully) but on motivation and purpose...the spiritual dimension of creativity. Author and creativity coach Eric Maisel is also a contributor to the site. If you're an artist of any kind, I recommend that you explore his work. He seems to have a uniquely insightful perspective on the challenges faced by creative people.

In a recent interview on Art of the Song, songwriter Tom Kimmel talks about seeing his work as a form of service. This is a refreshing idea for songwriters, who too frequently are focused on audience-building and attracting attention from the media and music industry. I appreciated hearing his thoughts as I started developing the idea of the 100-Mile Artist.

Songwriting and Biomimicry

2008-06-04T15:48:00.006-04:00

I recently watched The 11th Hour Leonardo di Caprio’s documentary. In the special features section at the end, where possible solutions to the urgent problem of climate change are discussed, Janine Benyus, author of Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature spoke about the concept of biomimicry.

She writes: “Biomimicry (from bios, meaning life, and mimesis, meaning to imitate) is a new discipline that studies nature's best ideas and then imitates these designs and processes to solve human problems. Studying a leaf to invent a better solar cell is an example. I think of it as ‘innovation inspired by nature.’"

It occurred to me today that we can also use those principles to write better songs...in fact, I'm pretty sure it's something some of us do intuitively. It's nice to have a name for it.

Today, my challenge was to write two linked songs which would be played consecutively (kind of like Queen’s “We Will Rock You”/”We Are the Champions”). One of the songs had to do with a bridge, and they both had to do with the relationship between land, water and sky. That really got me going on the idea of interconnectedness.

I’ve always viewed song elements as a series of connected elements, forming patterns within a larger structure. This seems in line with biomimicry. The stronger the connections between the elements of the song, the stronger the whole thing will be. In turn, that stronger song will contribute to a stronger connection between human beings, while mirroring and celebrating the natural world we need to protect. That's the kind of song that can help sustain life.

In The 11th Hour, Janine Benyus suggests that to find solutions to the world’s problems, we might ask ourselves: “What would nature do?” She points out that Nature’s methods have often proven to be stronger and more beautiful than the high tech solutions human beings have come up with so far.

So, how can I apply the principles of biomimicry to songwriting? Here are a few ideas:

- Build a web of interconnected elements
- Seek balance and harmony
- Make efficient use of all materials (every note & word counts)
- Create patterns…and patterns within patterns.
- Don’t overcomplicate
- Encourage growth (development of melody, of ideas) within a sustainable structure
- Take your time.

Breaking in the Lyrics

2008-05-23T08:31:00.004-04:00

The other day I took my 13 year-old son out to buy shoes. Before finding the perfect pair, he tried on another that was almost right.

"Maybe these just need breaking in," I wondered. So we put them on hold with the saleslady, planning to come back for them if we didn't find anything better.

After looking around at several stores, we finally found a better pair: one that fit right away.

Even though the first pair might have done in a pinch (literally) and the breaking in might have helped, they still might have felt uncomfortable. That's the way it is with lyrics too.

Sometimes I write a line that looks really pretty on paper, but I try to sing it and it's just not comfortable. I stumble over it no matter how many times I sing it. When that happens, I know I have to keep looking for the phrase that truly fits, and sometimes that process (like shopping) can be maddeningly time-consuming.

But it's worth it in the end.

(This morning, my song-of-the-week for "Take5" on CIUT 89.5 fm is a historical song--a challenging form for me--about an old railway hotel being turned into a homeless shelter. Two of the lyrics, in particular, required a lot of "shopping".) Here's how the song came out! The New Edwin Hotel .

What Good Can a Song Do?

2008-05-17T11:15:00.006-04:00

A few weeks ago, I played at a community event organized by an environmental group. I played several original songs on "green" themes, including "Bicycle Bell" and "Wind of Change" . They were very well-received by the multigenerational crowd, who were eating locally-made organic food while waiting for a talk from a well-known environmentalist.

After the talk, I gave that well-known speaker a CD. I cringe as I write this, and I'll bet you do, too.

The contact was predictably awkward. My timing was poor, and I knew it. I also knew that I'd likely never get another chance for a face-to-face connection, and this is a person who genuinely inspires me--whose work is, I feel, essential in the world today.

In the past few years, my goal in writing songs has increasingly become "to motivate and inspire" in addition to "to entertain". I genuinely hope that my songs might "do some good" in the world by raising awareness of important issues, by illuminating the human challenges we face and ultimately helping us transcend those challenges. On a personal level, I find that the songs do help me get over my fear and inertia...they energize me and help me find meaning. They seem to help others too, which gives me more reason to keep writing and singing.

It all sounds pretty earnest, I suppose, and that may be one reason why I haven't exactly had a breakthrough in the entertainment business!

But back to back to that awkward CD handoff.

On the one hand, my intentions were good. I wanted to contribute what I could to the cause, and share work that had, in part, been inspired by the ideas of the keynote speaker and others like him. On the other hand, I have to admit I was hoping for some kind of endorsement or validation. And, I felt that such an endorsement might help increase my audience. Good for me, good for the world. Maybe.

Or maybe, despite the content of the songs, there's no getting around the fact that I'm just another obscure singer-songwriter desperately seeking attention. Thank you, entertainment industry, for creating that monster (which we happily feed and care for, with our dreams of celebrity success).

Anyway, yesterday I got an e-mail from the event organizer, wondering where she could send my honorarium. After a moment's pause, I decided to donate it back to the keynote speaker's organization.

There. I did some good.

Maybe I did a small but significant amount of good, too, when I sang for the assembled grandmothers and parents and toddlers, as they ate their organic samosas while waiting for the eco-celebrity.

Maybe, in the end, that's the most our songs can do.

They can keep us going...to do what needs to be done.

Creating "Simplicity"

2008-03-04T20:25:00.007-05:00

Speaking to a friend on the phone the other day, I mentioned my new CD, "Simplicity".

He said, "Let me guess...just you and your guitar, right?"

Hmm...so much for suspense and intrigue.

But he went on to say that he's looking forward to hearing this new collection. He didn't say, "Really? That's weird" or "Risky move on your part".

He said, "That's great".

Simple.

A few months ago, before I knew I was going to release this bunch of songs as a new record, I sent six of the songs to a friend/fan of mine in England. He wrote back:

"I love the collection, and just like Ron Sexsmith they sound so much more intimate with just you and an acoustic."

Thanks, Mark.

It means a lot, because "Simplicity" is difficult. It's hard to let go of the band, the bed tracks, the tweaks, the endless fixes. It takes practice to call it a record.

"Simplicity" is unfamiliar territory for me...and at times it feels a little scary.

It's more about subtracting than adding. What can I live without? What can I not afford?

(I can't afford those imaginary policemen for one thing...so out they go!)

Still Minding the Gap

2008-02-09T21:21:00.001-05:00

Back when I was writing about busking in the Toronto subways, I wrote a post called "Mind the Gap". It was about coming to terms with the difference between how I hoped to sound in my recordings and how I actually do...the difference between fantasy and reality.

Several years later, I'm still dancing with that gap. Just when I think I've achieved some new level of skill, something happens to remind me that I'm still learning and growing. That sounds like a good thing of course (we all want to learn and grow, don't we?) but in the moment it can be terribly uncomfortable. Self-acceptance is pleasant and natural when everything is going well, but when we fall short of our goals, it's not so easy.

A few days ago, I led a songwriting workshop with a group of high school students. I quoted Miles Davis who famously said "do not fear mistakes, there are none". And then, a few days later, when I made what I felt was a mistake as part of a creative project, I got completely stuck. I couldn't stop wishing things had gone differently, instead of focusing on right now and how to move forward gracefully.

Would the experience have gone differently if I had approached it with a spirit of playful experimentation instead of goal-directed perfectionism? Can I re-frame my attitude right now, viewing the results as unexpected new ideas rather than mistakes? Will a gentle acceptance of the ever-present "gap" help me pick up and move on? Often it seems that so much rests on our ability to get it exactly "right". Maybe those goals are less important than they seem.

The real prize is the growth we achieve when we stretch, simply as far as we can.

Happy New

2008-01-21T20:40:00.000-05:00

January seems a good time to update the blog, doesn't it?

I'd like to do that without the heavy sense of "resolution" that's so often associated with New Year's.

Instead, I'd like to think of gentle, small steps...the space of a blank page...the relief of dropping off three bags of clothes and toys at Value Village tonight. That's the "happy new" for me...happy new openness...contented letting-go.

I'll write another song this week for "Take5" . It'll be my 50th song for the program this week! When I think of all those songs piling up, sometimes I feel regret that I can't somehow elevate them all or promote each one. When I'm in that frame of mind I feel claustrophobic, and no new songs come.

But when I feel free to let them go, one at a time, I find the creative space I need to write another one.

Creative Lift-Off

2007-10-22T20:59:00.000-04:00

To write a good song, you need the kind of energy that comes with what I call “creative lift-off”. It’s the elevated forward motion that takes place when a song seems to be supported by something other than itself, in the same way that a plane naturally rises on a current of air once it’s reached a certain speed.

It’s possible to keep writing—even to complete a whole song—without creative lift-off. But just because it's possible doesn't mean it's ideal. Think of it this way: a plane speeding along the runway still goes forward, but it doesn’t go nearly as far, fast or high. The Wright Brothers weren’t trying to build an interesting new sort of car, they were trying to build a flying machine. That’s what we want too: a new thing that will seem to defy gravity…something that will travel a long way and be lofty and inspiring.

So, how do you know you’ve achieved creative lift-off? Watch for the moment when:

- You’re suddenly not comparing this song to any others, written by you or anybody else;
- You forget you’re “writing”;
- Magical-seeming, coincidental gifts fall into place in your lyrics;
- Your hand unconsciously goes to a new chord, and it’s the right one;
- You write something you didn’t know you knew how to write;
- You lose track of time;
- You can correct flaws easily, or ignore them comfortably;
- You have a knowing feeling that the song already exists, even though it’s not finished;
- You don’t have the frustrated feeling that something supposed to happen isn’t happening (as you would in a plane that never took off).

It’s a relief to notice creative lift-off when it happens. And, once it’s happened, we enjoy a sense of relaxation. It's as if the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, and we're free to enjoy the creative ride.

Creative Abandon

2007-09-18T14:02:00.000-04:00

I've been reading a lot of Pema Chodron lately, a spiritual teacher in the Buddhist Lojong tradition. She recommends using a number of simple slogans during everyday activities, to stay rooted in the present moment. Over the next couple of weeks, for an e-course I'm taking, I'll be working with the slogan "abandon all hope of fruition".

It's a useful slogan for anyone striving in the difficult career path of the arts.

Just yesterday, I found myself "hoping for fruition" as I sent a song to an influential music promoter. Although I told myself that I wasn't expecting a response, I was disappointed when I didn't receive a return email immediately. (Another Lojong slogan that is closely related is "Don't expect applause".)

Unconsciously, I also hope for fruition when I send an email out to my list of supporters and when I write a blog entry. What will people think, I wonder? Will they come out to the show? Will they think more highly of me? I often hold some expectation of result in my mind while I'm creating something new.

When I'm actually writing a song, the hope of fruition can be a real roadblock to success.

Thinking ahead, while writing, to the response of potential audiences diverts my attention from the song. If I think "ahah, this is going to be a masterpiece", I'm disappointed in myself and creatively blocked when, a few minutes later, it seems not to be fulfilling its potential. And if I think "oh no, this won't work for such-and-such audience or industry person" I start to fiddle with the song, worrying it into a mutant version of what it was originally meant to be.

In order to write something true, I have to honour my subject with my full attention.

When I simply let the song carry itself forward without all that weight on it, it generally comes out fine.

"Abandoning all hope of fruition" turns into "creative abandon", which is freeing and joyful.

Wanting Great, Getting Good

2007-08-14T10:08:00.000-04:00

Each time I write a song, I want it to be better than the last one.

I imagine my growing body of work as being a steadily improving thing...a smooth ascending hill. But in fact, it's more like the jagged line that illustrates an investment in the stock market. One day it's up, the next it's down...but gradually, over time, the investment's value increases in a series of peaks and valleys. (And isn't artistic practice a lifelong investment?)

Each time that little line dips, I feel queasy. I'm disappointed when a new song doesn't "pay off" the way I want it to. Why didn't it? Was it the idea, the execution, the presentation? It seemed pretty good when I was writing it... Why isn't it lifting off? There's a note of fear there.

Although some analysis is useful, it's important for me to stop judging and let go. Simply let the work be--present it, let it breathe, and let it go--and know that it's serving its purpose in the bigger picture of my creative life. Trust the mystery.

I'll probably always want "great". Through that stretching, I'm developing as an artist. Many times, despite my best efforts, I'll just get "good". Although it seems like a disappointment at the time, it leaves room for growth, and reminds me to practice the art of self-acceptance.

I Don't Like Middles

2007-08-02T14:51:00.001-04:00

This morning as I was working on a new song, I had the familiar urge to quit. It came at the usual point: after the initial excitement had waned, but before I could tell the song would be successfully completed.

It's always the middle period that's hard. Much like the middle of the day, too, I realize...as the clock says 2:56 and I'm tempted to stop writing now and go have a nap. Not to mention the middle of life, the middle of career...no wonder middles lead to crises.

Anyway, in this particular middle, I almost gave up on the song altogether. The song just didn't seem worth the effort. I saw it as unnecessarily complicated, challenging and serious. Oh, and the melody was terrible. These seemed to be perfectly valid concerns. Facts, even! So...

I ignored them and kept writing anyway.

There's a part of me that mistrusts the middle. It imagines that the creative process should be inspiration followed immediately by satisfaction. All magic, all joy, all the time! I avoid the middle at the beginning ("This song idea is brilliant! It will write itself!) , the middle ("This is too difficult. The song must be bad") and the end ("It was fun and easy to write such a great song!").

This time, I kept working during the middle, even though I wasn't enjoying myself and I didn't believe I was necessarily doing anything of value. I simply showed up and stayed put. To my surprise, only a few minutes later I saw that the song was nearly finished...and it was good!

It was good in the middle too. It was just not yet what I wanted it to become. It was still unformed...somewhat muddled...in the middle.

(Side note: did J.K. Rowling pull that brilliant name for humans, 'Muggles', out of a hat or what?!)

More on Chords

2007-06-24T15:19:00.000-04:00

Also...

I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.

The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.

We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.

At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.

Chords

2007-06-24T08:44:00.001-04:00

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That's one way to think about chords.

They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.

Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.

I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.

When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.

Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?

Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.

Writing the Bridge

2007-06-11T19:30:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I'm writing a song, and the verses and choruses are going well, when I think "Uh-oh, it's time for a bridge".

The bridge is tough. That's the section near the end of the song that takes the melody and lyric in a new direction, adding some kind of twist or transformation that makes the whole song more meaningful.

Some songs don't need a bridge. Their structure is "verse, verse, verse", or "verse, chorus, verse, chorus". Some songs have something called a pre-chorus too. Some songs (like "O Canada") don't have distinct, repeating verses or choruses.

When I'm writing a song, I know when it needs a bridge. I can feel it. To NOT write one would feel lazy...and would make the song incomplete.

That means I have to work a little harder, to come up with new material that hasn't appeared in the song so far and to truly understand where exactly my song is going and what it means.

Sometimes life needs a bridge too. Lately I've been feeling that a bridge is coming up in my life, and I have the familiar feeling of not knowing quite how it will look or sound.

As I begin to make this transition (the nature of which is still unclear) I need to do what I do when I'm writing a song: experiment.

What passage feels most natural? Does the song seem to call for a particular type of change, faster/slower, major/minor, a new key? Am I making little slips or mistakes that can show me a new direction? What just "sounds right"? Is there a transition that would bring all the verses and choruses so far into sharper focus?

Writing the bridge can be one of the most difficult aspects of the songwriting process, but when it's done well, it can elevate the whole song to a higher level. Knowing that helps me look ahead to transitions in life, trusting that they're necessary and worth the trouble.

Step Away from the Computer!

2007-06-08T09:03:00.001-04:00

Recently I was talking with a friend about doing some research. Feeling charged up, I headed for my computer and did a few searches. I was immediately deluged with information for aspiring songwriters.

According to Google, there are more than eight million matches for the word "songwriting" on the Internet. (In a previous post, I reported that there are also millions of entries for "making it in the music business".)

Why are there so many? I think it's because so many artists today, on the periphery of the commercial entertainment industry, share an intense hunger for validation. We are shadowed by the myth that only large audiences count, and that fame is a measure of self-worth.

Unable to shake that feeling that we're supposed to "make it" (that is, make ourselves matter), we turn to the Internet. And, on the surface, we find what we're looking for, in the form of those eight million entries. But soon it can turn into an unhealthy distraction. It can prompt us to spend large amounts of money on song contest submissions (paid easily with a credit card). It can take time away from the most important career-building activities: developing our craft and making genuine connections with real people, whether they're fans or people in the music industry. For anyone who's introverted (as many artists are), Internet-based connections can take the place of real interaction.

The Internet distances us from spiritual practice, solitude, direct observation of life...the things that make us better artists and more resilient and compassionate human beings.

Of course, the Internet has been an asset to some songwriters' careers. Take Jonathan Coulton for example, a 38 year old guy who (like me) writes a song a week and (not like me) produces them at home in really cool styles and markets himself effectively on the 'Net, to the tune of $3,000 to $5,000 per month.

It's great for him, and I know I could find it inspiring, but actually I end up having the opposite reaction. I end up thinking negatively about my own accomplishments. As useful as the Internet can be, cyber-comparison is an unhealthy habit I need to consciously avoid.

It's easier to do when I spend less time on the computer.

An "Ahah" Moment

2007-05-29T19:34:00.001-04:00

Today I went out for a long walk to write a song.

Walking is a very effective technique for songwriting, or for that matter, any kind of problem solving. There's something about a walk that puts the mind into a state of heightened conscious alertness and unconscious automatic pilot at the same time. When you're writing a song or solving any other kind of creative problem, you need both parts of your mind to be in tune.

Walks help.

So I took a very long walk to write a song about bicycles.

I was headed to the bank. On the way there, I came up with a pretty good lyric for my chorus. When it came to me I felt very pleased, and I sat down on a bench to write it down. Then I continued my walk, getting to the bank and making a side-trip along the way for some very good Italian cookies.

But on the way home, I was feeling unsettled. During all the walking in the meantime, I had repeated that chorus in my mind. To my disappointment, I realized (when I was standing in the bank lineup) that it didn't work. I needed a rhyme in the middle of the phrase as well as the end. The line I had written didn't have one.

So, on the way home, I made up probably 10 or 12 different lyric lines. I felt irritated because they were all pretty bad: the phrasing was awkward or the meaning weird. I wondered if I'd have to take the whole song apart and start again.

Then about 3/4 of the way home, I finally thought of a good line. A simple, clear one. Ahah!

And just then, I turned a corner and looked at a license plate: AHAH 642.

Showing Up on Stage

2007-05-23T17:43:00.000-04:00

It’s been said that 90% of success is just showing up.

As a performing songwriter, I find the “needing-to-show-up” a very challenging part of the experience.

Like other introverted performers, I often experience anxiety before the show, thinking at times that the feelings of discomfort are so intense, they outweigh my love of songs. If nobody was expecting me at the venue, I might just not show up, choosing instead to remain comfortably cocooned at home.

But people are expecting me at the venue. The show must go on, so I do.

During the concert, and afterwards, I usually feel so energized and positive, I wonder what all the fuss was about. Why was I so nervous beforehand?

Actually, I think there are good reasons to feel that way. Showing up on stage requires openness, vulnerability and an extending of myself. When I present my songs (my self, really) to others, I’m inviting acceptance and rejection, praise and criticism. I’m sticking my neck out. Everyone who shares her deepest self, expressed in any form, does so. It’s a necessary thing to do, and it’s risky.

Once I’m up on stage, I’m required to present my songs confidently, with energy and verve. Sometimes it’s an act. But “acting as if” is a powerful technique in many situations, and it usually contributes to successful stage performances.

I have to play the songs to the best of my ability and carry on to the end of the song, whether I’m completely happy with my performance or not. I have to show up fully, and at whatever “stage” I happen to be at, right now.

In life, I have to show up as well, whether I feel like it or not. I have to sing my song, play my part, to the best of my ability. I have to keep it up for the duration of the song, without quitting in the middle of the verse.

When I’m feeling tired or anxious, when I don’t really want to show up at the next challenge life is handing to me, I can do the same thing I’ve done at performance after performance: I can listen for my cue, step up onto the stage, and give each song everything I’ve got.

Life is a Song: The Main Idea

2007-05-21T11:22:00.000-04:00

Songwriters know how important the “title line” or “hook line” of a song is. It’s the thing people remember. The thing a song is “about”.

What am I “about”? What do I believe?

If you don’t know what your song’s about, it’s not going to make sense, to you or anybody else. You keep jumping from one topic to the next in verse to verse, often changing point-of-view, telling several stories at once. Many sections will seem vague and unfocused. It’s not clear what the title is. The song is therefore not memorable. It meanders along for a period of time, somewhat purposelessly, until it comes to an unsatisfying stop.

Do I want my life to be like that?

Or do I want my life to have shape, structure, meaning? A prevailing belief system?

Beginning songwriters generally write songs that go in many directions at once or have no clear direction—just as young people often lack clear direction at an early point in life. Eventually, through trial and error and exploration, a direction emerges and many successful projects, such as a career or an education, can get underway.

Because I write songs all the time, and I know how important it is to have one clear idea to guide my song, I can look at my life and ask myself what the main idea might be at this time in my life. Is my main idea: “I put my family first”? Or is it “I follow my heart”? Or, “I can change the world?”

I know that great songs can be written based on each of those ideas. But, they have to be separate songs. Those major themes can’t all be mushed in together without some separation, which is easy to do when you’re writing new songs, each of which is just four minutes long.

Life often seems not quite so clear…and yet, if we view it in a multi-dimensional way, perhaps it’s possible to “hear” more than one song playing concurrently in a life, or discern several main themes that are distinct and come and go within the framework of a symphony.

For example, it’s not that I have to choose between my work and my family, but that I have to see them as distinct songs, and attend to them separately.

I often work on several songs at once. I’m sure many painters and writers work on their creative works concurrently too. I find that when I do, the songs sometimes inform each other, or are so different that they create a complementary pair, like a yin and yang. I need to attend to each one of them individually to make them each come to fruition. I don’t have to drop one or the other, and they don’t need to compete.

The Introverted Singer-Songwriter

2007-05-14T17:33:00.001-04:00

I'm reading a book right now called The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney.

It's shedding some light on not only my personality, but the traits of my parents, brother, husband and children. It's also making me notice some interesting things about my singer-songwriter life.

Laney explains that many introverts think there's something "wrong" with them, when they're simply exhibiting normal traits of introverted people--needing to take time away from a party to recharge, for example. (Has anybody hidden out in the bathroom? I have.)

I scored quite high on Laney's introversion scale (23 out of 30). As I've been reading, I've been noticing how my introversion doesn't fit well with parts of my songwriting life.

Here's one example that really stands out. I remember telling a publicist (who was considering working with me) that I am uncomfortable with publicity. I can still hear the baffled silence on the other end of the phone! As the conversation ended awkwardly, I worried (and wondered if she then thought) that perhaps I didn't want to be successful after all.

Indie musicians are supposed to love MySpace. I don't. And I feel pretty uncomfortable on most discussion forums. I prefer the solitude of a blog.

Music conferences? A special kind of hell for the introverted singer-songwriter.

When I was researching this subject just now, I discovered an interview with Ray Davies from The Kinks, who said he believed virtually all performers are introverts. That makes sense to me, because as a performer (who chooses if not writes all of her material) I have a lot of control over how I express myself. A performance is scripted; life is not.

In regular life, people I know have been surprised to learn I'm a singer-songwriter, because I come across as quiet and reserved in many social situations. They're often surprised to see me confident and self-assured on stage (but they may be hesitant to come see me, thinking that I'll be awful!)

Of course, I'm probably a good songwriter because I AM an introvert. Some of my best reviews describe how I "focus on the small details of life". One of the introverted traits Laney identifies is "I tend to notice details many people don't see".

How to get the songs themselves noticed, now, that's a challenge for the introvert.

I'll keep reading.

Life is a Song: Melody

2007-05-04T22:59:00.000-04:00

(Recently I've been writing a series of essays exploring the ways that life might follow the principles of songwriting. Here's a sample! Let me know what you think.)

How can life be seen as a melody?

Well, to start with, melodies repeat.

In particular, the pleasing parts of melodies in songs repeat themselves. I tell beginning songwriters that if they find a melodic phrase they like, they should repeat it to satisfying effect. Sometimes they're reluctant to do this, thinking that they should always be novel, constantly reinventing their tune.

Not so. Once a pleasing melody is discovered, it's almost always a good idea to repeat it. Not over and over until it becomes boring, but often enough that it keeps someone (the songwriter at least) engaged and listening.

Melodies are made up of repeating patterns of notes. Their symmetry is pleasing to the ear and the emotions. They create a mood and shape when put together.

What are some of the repeating notes in my life?

Daily walks to and from school with my daughter...

Waking up and going to sleep in the same room...

Using a special greeting to say hello to my husband...

These are a few.

There are meals, habits, daily routines, family holiday traditions, birthdays, seasonal observances, weekly work schedules, the Monday morning meeting.

All of these form combinations, and they have additional repeating notes attached to them: the daily hello to the crossing guard on the morning walk, for example.

The melodies may be played a little differently each time, depending on the timing or emphasis of particular events for particular reasons. But they form specific melodies that belong to each of us.

By choosing those activities (notes) that are meaningful and pleasurable, and repeating them at regular intervals of days and weeks, we create balanced and interesting lives that have the same inspiring, engaging and sustaining qualities of musical melodies.

Sometimes, though, we do not choose the notes that make up the melody of life. Sudden unpleasant events strike a jarring note, sending the melody off into a different direction.

(...more on that later!)

The Great Crossword Puzzle

2007-04-30T15:12:00.000-04:00

One technique that I find helpful in songwriting is to imagine, especially when the work is not flowing easily, that the perfectly constructed song already exists. It’s like a crossword puzzle already devised, but with the answers not yet revealed.

During the creation of every song, there are many points at which I feel completely stumped. I tend to forget those moments later on, when the song is finished. It looks so right then, so simple in its completed form. How could it have been so hard to write?

But when I’m actually writing, I hit many roadblocks along the way. A melody I liked yesterday seems trite today. A lyric line doesn’t make sense, or seems clunky and unconversational. As I’m trying to solve the puzzle of the song, I often have to erase my previous attempts at solutions, because they’re so obviously wrong. I start over, again and again. As I do, I believe in the as-yet-unfound solution, the true song that’s yet to emerge.

But what am I’m believing in, anyway? Unlike a crossword puzzle in the newspaper, an unfinished song has no actual, pre-written solution. So, is it foolish to act as if there is one? One might think so, except that the technique seems to work. By visualizing a solution that already exists, I bring it into existence. Perhaps this is a songwriter’s take on the “law of attraction” recently popularized in “The Secret”, but expressed in many wisdom throughout the ages. Ask, and you shall receive. If you build it (believe in it) they (the answers) will come.

I do wonder, during times of creative difficulty, whether the technique will finally fail. Perhaps this song, finally, is the one that's unsolveable. But my experience as an artist has taught me otherwise.

Again and again, I find that the intended song always does exist, even if it's temporarily beyond my field of vision. When I am patient and let the words and music unfold naturally, eventually they fall into a harmonious order, which seems perfectly natural. The completed work has the sort of internal logic I associate with things like Rubik’s cubes and mathematical equations. This leads me to believe that works of art are somehow mirrors of the many other perfect and beautiful structures that also exist in the universe. As artists, we may bring about a new interpretation of that greater harmony, but it already existed before we came along. Our works of art come from us, but are independent of us.

This principle can apply to my life as well. Even if I don’t understand or fully believe that my life will ultimately grow to take on some complete and meaningful shape, I can believe that it will...and that it already does. I can consider this at times when my life seems nothing more than a tangle of disorganized scribbles on the page.

Slowly but surely, just as I grope for the right lyric or chord, I move toward my life’s destiny, in assurance that it already is fully formed and complete…and that it needs my part to fulfill its promise.

On Context and Joshua Bell

2007-04-13T17:04:00.000-04:00

This week, I heard about an article in The Washington Post from several sources, including Bob Baker’s and Kat’s blogs. The story described an experiment in which virtuoso violinist Joshua Bell fails to attract any attention while busking at a busy subway station.

I'm interested in this subject, having written extensively (in the earlier version of this blog ) about my own busking experience on the Toronto subway system.

Lots of details in the really excellent article resonated with me. I'll admit to feeling validated when I learned that even Joshua Bell was ignored by the passing crowds (“It’s not just me!”). I noticed that our experiences were very similar. Every child responded to the music. It felt strange when songs ended and no one applauded (or even noticed).

I was glad that the writer, Gene Weingarten, raised the philosophical question: “If beautiful music reaches no one, is it still beautiful?” I maintain that it is. I thought so when I was busking, and my opinion hasn't changed. But I would rephrase the question to make it reflect the experience more accurately. “If art reaches only a few …?” For it usually does reach a few. And to those people, art is not only beautiful, it is truly rare and precious: perhaps more precious than a mass-distributed product that reaches millions.

Is the lesson of the Joshua Bell Experiment that musicians need to ensure they get good gigs? Or is the lesson that as a culture, we're losing (or have already lost) our ability to recognize and nurture beauty? In such a market-driven, popularity-contest culture, how can artists respond?

Bob writes that “it's all about context” and that independent musicians need to do everything we can to create the context in which people will see us in a positive light. But in a world dominated by high-priced entertainment products, the price of the “right context” can be high.

In Toronto, an aspiring singer named Chantal Chamandy recently paid $500,000 to put her CDs in Dollarama stores and put big advertisements all over the city. She’s also planning a big concert at the Pyramids of Egypt—fantastic context—and I’ll bet she’s paying for that. About a year ago, a guy whose name I can't remember (!) rented Roy Thomson Hall for his first gig. On a smaller scale, musicians routinely lose money to pay side musicians and book prestigious venues, and pay $20,000 or more each time to produce professional CDs. Context, context, context. We're hooked on it.

A legitimate, if unusual and even radical, approach—one in line with a more slowed-down, sustainable, community-based and earth-centred approach to life and art—is to think less about context and more about content, less about celebrity and more about service.

To consciously aim to reach fewer people more deeply.

Ideally, that happens in a place that benefits both the sender and the receiver. Maybe not a subway corridor, maybe someone's home.

When such a connection occurs, playing on the margins isn't so bad.

Big Songs for Small Spaces

2007-04-12T08:31:00.000-04:00

Recently I found myself feeling jealous of a very successful blogging songwriter who has a lot in common with me. We're about the same age, experienced performers who write thoughtful, catchy and often inspiring songs in a folk-roots-rock vein. In our blogs, we write about spirituality and personal growth. We're "seeker-songwriters". (Wow! I just made that up!) And at the moment we have similar hair.

Career and lifestyle-wise, that's where the comparisons end. Christine Kane's audience and tour schedule is about a zillion times bigger than mine. Her career is focused and intentional, and not divided up between music and Everything Else, such as a family or parallel career. In my life, there's a lot of the Everything Else these days. Make no mistake: I admire Christine, find her inspiring and recommend both her music and her blog. I'm sure she'd be the first to remind me--in her honest, funny and spiritual way--that comparing myself to others is always a bad idea!

So, now that we've gotten that out of the way...back to the life I have chosen.

A friend asked me recently what folk festivals I'll be playing this summer. I said none, which is true. My freelance writing work is active right now, and my family doesn't particularly want to traipse around the festival circuit with me. My music, for now, is staying close to home.

In fact, just the other day we were reminiscing about the "hilarious" time we all spent camping in the fog at my first and only Major Festival Appearance, at the Stan Rogers Folk Festival in Canso, Nova Scotia. I have to admit now, three years on, that the highlight of the experience for me was probably seeing my name on a t-shirt on a long list alongside Bruce Cockburn and Ron Sexsmith . The highlight certainly was not spending two uncomfortable nights with children and husband in tents while "in-their-element" touring musicians jammed until 4:00 in the morning! During the long drive home, I developed lower back problems that lasted six months. All in all, not a net gain.

So...back to the life I've chosen. (I notice that this "coming back" to my own life, after I've been derailed by comparisons, is actually like returning to the breath during meditation.)

My life is a good one...no, a great one! I am grateful for my wonderful husband, our two fantastic children (now 10 and 12, growing up fast) and well-paying writing work for socially-responsible clients. I continue to write songs prolifically and play them regularly, at a community radio station , a local cafe, our Unitarian Church and an open mic. Immediately after the Stanfest tour, I enjoyed singing part-time as a subway musician for a couple of seasons.

I try to write big songs. I find myself singing them in small spaces. Sometimes I struggle with that, even though I believe that small spaces (such as human lives), with all their constraints and compromises, are where all good songs go . No matter what size the stage, ultimately a song finds a home in one human heart at a time. While I see the need for people on big stages who inspire and motivate large numbers of people (Oprah, Al Gore), I also hope that all artists can affirm the lives we have as vehicles for beauty and growth. We long for bigger and better stages...we take a breath...we return to the place we are.

At the open mic last night, a dishevelled man shuffled in, muttering to himself as he took a handful of free cookies. I was standing beside him getting coffee when I heard him mumble, "you can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes...". I wondered if I had heard him right, and he repeated it. "You can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes." I didn't know if he was talking to himself, to me (was he quoting this blog?) or to the artists' sign-up sheet.

Part of me hoped he wasn't talking to me. A bigger part knew that he was.

One Less Verse

2007-03-29T13:14:00.000-04:00

When I write my weekly song for Take5 on CIUT 89.5 FM, I notice something interesting.

As I approach the end of the writing process, I can usually successfully complete the song by lopping off one verse. Sometimes I have to tweak the remaining verses to ensure that the song makes sense, but usually I don't have to change very much. I've now done this with many songs in a row. Just let a verse go, and voila, I'm done.

I realize that because I can do this each time, I must be doing a little more than necessary when I'm writing. I'm going a little overboard...even trying too hard, perhaps. But maybe it's important to do so.

I can't achieve the lightness and economy I'm looking for by simply under-writing. That approach feels withholding and tentative. It's better to start from too much, and then cut back, than to start with too little.

This awareness helps me with the rest of my life. I can appreciate the abundance of my life, even when it seems overly busy or somewhat cluttered, if I take the time to consciously let go of the things that don't fit.

I notice that in my life, I often "edit" without being conscious of it, and realizing only after the fact that I've chosen not to attend an event or follow up on a particular project. Sometimes when I realize I've left something unattended, I feel a twinge of guilt or panic.

Perhaps, in the same way I consciously let go of the unneeded (though interesting and clever!) verse in a song, I can honour the "task-let-go" as I release it, letting go of guilt and regret at the same time.

The stuff that stays is always what's necessary.

Rehearsing

2007-03-27T15:25:00.000-04:00

Today I spent some time rehearsing for an upcoming show. I went through a whole set in order, which I confess is something I often don't do. It's more common for me to play a song or two...take time away for another activity...then do a couple of other songs. I can keep the songs fresh that way, but I don't experience the full flow and rhythm and shape of a whole show, which I need to do to be fully prepared. Over the last few days, I've been taking that time to rehearse the show completely.

I think of the word "rehearsing" as looking ahead to the future: preparing for a show, visualizing it in advance. But when I'm actually singing the songs on my own, today, the experience feels more like reminding or reconnecting...a referring back to songs I love and the feelings I had when I wrote them.

Just now I wondered what the origins of the word "rehearse" are. I found out something interesting. The word is said to mean "to repeat" (that's true: we repeat the songs over and over to improve our performance) but the origin of the word comes from "re" plus "hercier" which means "to strike" or (here's the interesting part) "to harrow".

"Harrow", a word I wasn't familiar with, is an agricultural term referring to a tool with spikelike teeth which is drawn over plowed land to level it, or break up clods, root up weeds and so on.

So...to rehearse, then, is to re-disturb the earth...to unearth again..to stir up deep-rooted feelings that have perhaps been smoothed over or tamped down under the pressure of our daily walk.

Now that's more like it...that's what rehearsal feels like to me.

It feels like digging in the ground and finding something new again.

Delegating to the Unconscious Mind

2007-03-22T10:50:00.000-04:00

I notice that when I wake up in the morning, I often have lyrics clear and ready to go, ones that I might have been fruitlessly working on the night before. When I wake up, my mind is refreshed and clear, my ideas lucid and flowing.

On any given day, I'll be working on a variety of diverse tasks--everything from writing a song to planning dinner to researching an article. I like being busy. Also, I like the fact that cross-pollination occurs between projects and even across disciplines. For example, the newsletter story I'm writing for the YMCA may give me an idea for whatever song is underway.

But on the other hand, sometimes this bubbling-over of creativity can turn into a sort of "idea clutter" that backfires. It tends to happen when I start to worry about whether I can handle many tasks at once. That fearful thought has nothing to do with whether or not such complexity and creativity is possible (because it usually is) but it certainly can get in the way of bringing it to fruition.

Starting from that worried "how will I do this?" place, I often start to unconciously "multi-task". Even as I'm congratulating myself for being so all-powerful and creative, I'm grabbing onto more and more threads of interest and concern, instead of gently noticing each task and stepping lightly from one to another. Before I know it, I'm feeling overstretched, inadequate and anxious...a big unproductive ball of fear.

If I find ways to clear my mind periodically, through a brief meditation, a walk, or simply noticing the thought and letting it go, I allow my unconscious mind to do the work for me. Pema Chodron recommends that we notice a thought and label it, "thinking". My worry ("I need a rhyming line for the bridge!" or "Oh no, I have to finish this article by Wednesday!") is not a real and scary thing. It's a thought. I can notice it and let it go.

Noticing the natural, unthinking abundance of the natural world helps me trust that my unconscious mind does know how to create. If I work with it, in a playful dance of conscious and unconscious awareness, I find myself being more productive and more calm.

The Next Level

2007-03-11T19:36:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I was in a roomful of musicians, listening to the brilliantly engaging Derek Sivers of CD Baby share what he knows about the independent music business (which is to say, a whole lot). While candidly sharing his wealth of knowledge, he invited the people in the room to introduce themselves and connect with others who might be able to help them in their careers.

So, people started introducing themselves to the warm, supportive and very crowded room. Some said they wanted to take their careers "to the next level".

I just searched the phrase "take your music career to the next level" on Google. It returned 5,510,000 entries.

Even if we didn't hear that phrase so often in independent music, it would be natural for us to think in terms of "levels". From the time we're kids, we focus on grades of achievement and levels of status, income and success.

Unfortunately, most creative careers don't ascend those levels in predictable ways. Even the most highly-skilled musicians find themselves in a fragmented marketplace that cannot financially support them. Today, the commercial music industry is in decline, at the same time more independent musicians are in business.

So, what if there's no "next level"?

For many of us, there will not be. Our audience will remain more or less the size it is now. We will not receive the critical praise we seek or feel we deserve. We will not be able to support ourselves on our creative work. Some of this may be our own doing, as we fail to achieve certain artistic or business skills, or choose to spend time raising a family or maintaining another source of income. Other factors may be completely beyond our control, such as the current state of the music industry.

Needless to say, if we're unable to rise to "the next level", we're not alone among artists, either today or throughout history.

But if there is no next level, there may be a silver lining. In fact, as Thomas Moore writes in his book Care of the Soul, "failure is a mystery, not a problem". As a mystery, it can deepen the heart and soul...strengthening our song and preventing us from wallowing in self-pity or clinging to fantasies.

Once out of the picture, perhaps "the next level" can be replaced with a deeper commitment to artistic practice itself, to service to others, to the present moment, to life itself.

A technique I often use in performance is to imagine that the song I'm singing is the last I will ever sing. I find that that perspective gives me renewed energy and focus, and I often use it when I feel I am losing ground...not quite hitting the mark.

It allows me to let go of the next level--even the next moment--and simply give what I have. Now. And without expectation.

Embracing Limitation

2007-03-03T23:13:00.000-05:00

At a songwriting workshop recently, I found myself telling the students that sometimes the “problems” that arise in songs actually turn out to be blessings. The length of phrases can be challenging, for instance, as I try to fit a complicated idea into only 12 syllables. (Maybe the idea’s too complicated.) Or perhaps there’s a line I’m hooked on that ends in a word like “orange”. (When I rewrite the line, I find my meaning is clearer—and a rhyme is there.)

Songs can be maddeningly confining structures at times, especially when we feel like letting our emotions hang out and telling our life stories in song. Songs don’t let us do that in an undisciplined way. If we ignore the demands of structure, we end up with sprawling, unfocused writing that no one (not even we) want to listen to again. The process might be cathartic, but the results will not be inspiring.

I’ve come to appreciate the limitations offered by songs; it’s the limitations of life that sometimes get me down. I sometimes feel frustrated that I don’t have more time to create, and complain that it’s impossible to meet multiple demands of work, family and art at the same time. It reminds me of being stuck on a lyric. How can I possibility fit everything into one short lyric phrase (that is my life)? Where’s the rhyme (and the source of harmony in my day)? What’s this song really about?

I’ve heard it said that art is a microcosm of life: we re-create the universe in miniature each time we paint a picture or write a song. The structures of art mirror those of the natural world—and perhaps one reason we are so moved by art is that it reminds us of the infinite amount of creative possibility contained within the limitations we all share. We all have limited time, limited resources. But, listen…so does this song. But, look…so does this painting.

By appreciating the blessings contained in the constraints of my art form, I can begin to appreciate that perhaps the structures of my life (work, family, marriage…) are not limitations, but blessings. By understanding that my life is “framed” in certain ways, I can make better use of the space within it.

Performance Anxiety

2007-02-28T14:05:00.000-05:00

Some time ago, a friend turned to me warmly and said "I'm sure you don't get nervous before shows anymore."

Of course I smiled confidently back and said, "Well, no, not really." Inwardly, though, I knew it wasn't true.

I do suffer from performance anxiety. I do even though I have the tools not to, when I've done my reading, when I'm approaching the show from a good and generous place, when I'm reasonably well-rested. In the twelve hours or so leading up to a performance, I feel queasy, jumpy and generally on edge. I find it difficult to eat. So there. I've admitted it.

And that's a good thing to do. It's helpful to admit it, accept it, acknowledge the feelings. Yes, I am nervous about tonight's show. It's not right or wrong, and it doesn't say a thing about my skill or experience or mental health. It simply is.

That's the first thing to do. Admit it.

Next, once I've stopped trying to deny the anxiety, I pause and breathe. I reframe. I am well in this moment. When an anxious thought crosses my mind, I notice it and let it go. If possible, I take 15 minutes or so to actually meditate, with a candle and calming music.

During the day of the show, I tend to rehearse a bit, not to learn to play the songs better (that's what the rehearsals leading up to today were for) but to remind myself that I love the songs. I do love them. When I sing them, I feel great...not anxious in the least. And when I'm singing them for others I feel even better. So I rehearse to get in tune with what I love.

Once I've reconnected with what I love about what I do, I decide to simply serve others tonight, to the best of my ability. That's what the songs are for: to make people feel better. Once I've decided to serve, I let go of my expectations, and simply show up and play my part.

It turns out that the theme of tonight's show is Love. As I was preparing for it, I came across this prayer in Marianne Williamson's book "A Return to Love":

"Dear God, please give my life some sense of purpose. Use me as an instrument of your peace. Use my talents and abilities to spread love. I surrender my job to you. Help me to remember that my real job is to love the world back to health. Thank you very much. Amen."

World View in a Set List

2007-02-27T14:08:00.000-05:00

When songs are put together in a grouping, such as a set list, it's possible to see patterns emerge. Certain themes come up again and again. Particular chords are favoured. Melody lines are related. Sometimes songs seem to comment or refer to other songs. Recently the painter Robert Genn suggested in a letter that the same thing happens in painting. Artists are constantly "filling in the blanks" of a cohesive body of work or individual way of seeing the world.

I imagine this as if it's a jigsaw puzzle, but without the handy box-top that shows us the ultimate finished design. We don't know what the end is going to be. Is the puzzle going to be "solved", the picture "finished", the body of work complete by the time our life ends? Is the unfinishedness part of the picture? Are the gaps part of the answer to the puzzle?

One of the beautiful paradoxes of creative expression is that it helps to pay attention to both the "big picture" and the "little picture", and that it's difficult to do these two things simultaneously. As one spiritual teacher I know might say, "It takes practice".

When I'm thinking too much on the big intentions, lofty visions of my body of work and so on, I lose sight of the individual song or for that matter the individual note or chord. Only by paying close attention to them, by serving them in fact, can I lovingly coax a beautiful song into being.

On the other hand, when I take time to contemplate what the bigger picture on the boxtop might be--what is my concept of God, for instance, and what missing piece of the Universe may I be able to provide--the songs are stronger individually, they fit beautifully into cohesive set lists, and they are more useful in my life and the lives of others.

How long it takes

2007-02-24T12:36:00.001-05:00

There’s a theory among songwriters that the faster a song is written, the better it probably is. Great songs such as Amanda McBroom's “The Rose” and Shirley Eikhard's “Something to Talk About” were said to be written quickly, and many of my best songs were too. The song seems to arrive fully formed, often taking shape in under a half-hour, and then all you have to do is tweak! It’s wonderful when that happens.

But sometimes it doesn’t. If I don’t have a deadline or reason to finish a song, I often abandon it if it’s taking more than a few days. I simply lose interest in it or it slips my mind or a new idea arises that I like better.

This week, because I was writing to a deadline, I had to stick with the project and not abandon ship. The song wasn’t a “quickie”. It took perhaps 10 or 15 hours, compressed over two rather uncomfortable days. During the process, I threw out two half-written drafts before finally landing on a concept for the song I liked.

What was “wrong” about the drafts I threw out? On the surface, not much. One of them was bold and catchy, the other sweetly lyrical. But something didn't sit right with me...and while deep in creative mode that's all I knew. It took a few days to see clearly that one was written in a detached, objective and preachy-sounding tone…and the other one, though pretty, seemed to lack confidence. (No doubt because I was taking so long to finish the song.)

Confidence is everything. And sometimes it’s important to have the confidence to NOT create fast. To take the time you need to experiment, get it wrong, throw it out. On my third try, I had a much better understanding of what I was trying to accomplish and the song was written successfully.

The Cure

2007-02-02T10:58:00.001-05:00

This week was going to be tough for writing a song. My husband's grandmother, whom we dearly loved, died on Monday. We had the visitation and the funeral to deal with, and much of the week seemed to be covered over by a heavy blanket of loss.

I thought it might be impossible for me to write my weekly song, so I notified the producer who naturally let me off the hook.

Still, it nagged at me. Would I feel better NOT writing a song...or writing a song?

One of the topics this week was Emily Carr, the Canadian painter (d. 1945) known for dramatic depictions of the British Columbia wilderness and the art of the Haida First Nation. The Art Gallery of Ontario will host a retrospective exhibition of her work in March. I have always found her art and her life story inspiring. At one point, her art career was so unsuccessful she dropped painting altogether for 15 years and worked at a series of unrelated jobs. Lawren Harris of the Group of Seven encouraged her and she resumed painting and finally did receive critical recognition...but for many years she had to contend with doubt, failure and isolation. Despite this, or more likely because of it, her paintings have a powerful spiritual dimension, reflecting her fierce determination to share her passion for the land with others.

I figured I could write a song about that, so I started one called "Emily in the Big Woods".

But it couldn't be finished by Friday. Wrestling with the subject, I found inspiration in Emily Carr's writing too. (She wrote many books and constantly reflected on her creative life. She would have been a blogger.) "I thought my mountain was coming this morning. It was near to speaking when suddenly it shifted, sulked, and returned to smallness. It has eluded me again and sits there, puny and dull. Why? " So. She would understand that some subjects take more time than others.

Oregano, on the other hand, works fast.

Oregano, or oregano oil to be more precise, is a natural cure-all that probably is very good for you. I've never tried it...but I sure do like my Cold-FX. Oregano oil promises to do much the same thing...boost the immune system...ward off colds and flues.

The word "oregano" rhymes with lots of fun things, I discovered. And it was time for a fun song.

After many drafts, I ended up assembling the song while watching Calla's swimming lesson yesterday night. As always, the feeling of satisfaction was huge when I finally slotted all the rhyming couplets into their correct order, to form a song exactly 3:00 in length. It feels like solving a Rubik's cube or a crossword puzzle (neither of which I can do).

Oregano lifted the blanket of woe that had fallen over our week. Listen!

Go Thistles!

2007-01-18T23:26:00.000-05:00

Here's a confession. I've never written a historical song, and I've never written a song about hockey.

Two risky admissions for a Canadian roots music performer.

That all changed this week, when I had to write another song for Take5. I think this is week, uh, 14? No, it's 15. I'm starting to lose track.

This week the pickings were looking a little, well, serious. Should I write about Rumi, the ancient Persian mystic (who is being commemorated in a concert this weekend)? Does anything rhyme with Rumi? Hmmm...

Then I visited the classy and inviting website of the Kenora Thistles, the team of seven speedy sportsmanlike players who won the Stanley Cup in 1907. Could I (non-hockey playing person) write a good song about that?

Turned out, I could. And I had a great time doing it.

I enjoyed fitting the players' names into a verse.

I enjoyed singing the phrase "right here in Kenora". (That's a lovely, lyrical name for a town. Much better than the previous name, "Rat Portage", which would have killed the song right there. So, where did the name "Kenora" come from anyway? Here's what Wikipedia says: "Rat Portage transformed into Kenora after amalgamating with the two neighbouring townships of Keewatin and Norman in 1904. A name change was in order for the new town; something encompassing all three of the new areas. Kenora formed from the first two letters of each area: KEewatin, NOrman, and RAt Portage: Kenora." I did not know that.)

And I enjoyed linking that 100-year old event with today in the song, by suggesting that the singer could possibly be the child of a player on the original team, now a grandparent of a young hockey player. The circle of life...the circle of hockey.

Here's something I meant to say in the interview which we pre-taped tonight.

"Go Thistles!!"

Because on Saturday, January 20th, 2007, they'll hold a commemorative game, with special guest players including Bryan Trottier, Dale Hawerchuck and Hayley Wickenheiser. Having lived and breathed this song for the past 36 hours, I am so there...

Here's the song.

Meltdown

2007-01-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

This was the first week that I thought I might not be able to achieve my weekly song.

We took a break over the official holiday period (they ran the studio-recorded version of "Vessie Outshining the Moon") but this week was "business as usual"...for everyone but me it seemed.

This week, all of my responsibilities seemed to barge in at once like guests to a Christmas party: freelance writing work for the YMCA and a condominium developer, children home from school and parents visiting from Winnipeg, holiday parties to attend, gifts to buy and distribute, friends to host for dinner...and a song to write for Take 5.

I felt, as I always do when I host a party of any kind, that I couldn't give adequate attention to any of these. In addition, and putting my relatively minor stresses into perspective, we learned that a friend had died after living with AIDS for many years, and that a couple we know is divorcing.

When it came to song topics, the one most on my mind was International Polar Year and global warming, which had been covered in depth on Tuesday's show. As the icecaps melt, temperatures in Toronto continue to soar well above freezing. Ski hills remain closed. And we're all walking around in a state of low-level anxiety.

On Wednesday, all the pressure of everything became too much for me. I cracked, and started to write an email saying that I had to take the week off. I couldn't possibly write a song this week, because I was much too busy.

That's when it hit me. I was having a meltdown.

The only thing to do was stop, breathe, observe. Make the connection between the state of my life and the state of the planet's. Write the song.

Optimistic Songs

2006-12-14T12:45:00.000-05:00

Like other works of art, songs have outlooks or moods. They can be "light" or "dark", optimistic or pessimistic.

Recently I was corresponding with a painter who told me that he could track the restless periods in his life by looking at his paintings. The moods on the canvas reflected the moods of his life, changing in rhythm from agitated to calm and back again.

I suspected I could find that kind of pattern in my body of work too. Yesterday I realized I was right, and I noticed an important twist. For me, the darker the mood, the brighter the song. (I'm sure there are exceptions to this...but there's a trend. I really remember feeling awful, for example, when I wrote "Einstein's Brain" [angry] and "When I Walk I Run" [sad].)

Yesterday I was writing this week's song for CIUT, with two candidates half-written. One had a dark mood, was set in a minor key, and had a serious political intent. Because I was struggling with my own dark mood, I found myself getting bogged down in it. It was striking me as ponderous and difficult and edgy (much like me actually). I put the song aside. But, unlike at other similar times, I didn't automatically think "it's not a good song". I just set it aside and started writing something I wanted to hear instead.

That "something" was very hopeful and optimistic. It's in a major key and is upbeat and affirming. Also, without any conscious intent on my part, the song ended up underlining the work of my friend Carol Kilby at The Gaia Centre in Haliburton, Ontario ("Work Like You Don't Need the Money"). Through the creative process, I made uplifting music that made me feel better and wrote lyrics that pointed me in a healthy direction.

This morning, I checked in with "the other song", thinking that perhaps it wasn't any good. To my surprise, it IS good! (Just as human beings still are, when they're feeling "bad".) Feeling more balanced today, I found I could work with it without being overwhelmed by its darker themes.

Tomorrow's song for Take5 is called "I'm Going to Work Forever", inspired by a story about the end of mandatory retirement at age 65 in Ontario. You can listen to it live tomorrow on Take5 on the Internet, or in Toronto at 89.5 FM.

What is the World Coming To?

2006-12-01T10:39:00.000-05:00

This week for CIUT 89.5 fm's morning show Take 5 I was encouraged to write a song in honour of upcoming Global Orgasm Day on December 22nd. Last week, one of the show's reporters interviewed the founders of the first-annual event. They are a free-spirited and loving couple in San Francisco, both seniors, who invite everyone in the world to envision world peace while participating in an unprecedented surge of coordinated positive energy.

Now THIS is a song topic!

At first, I figured I'd simply roll with the double-entendres and the giggles, maybe throw the "F Word" into a lyric (rhymes with luck, buck, roll in the muck...) and have a good ol' romp in the studio on Friday, the climax of the week.

Then a funny thing happened. I went to the Global O website and saw how serious it is...and realized I couldn't make fun of it in good conscience.

I also realized, as I started to write, that it's a lot easier to write a good song about two people (even if they're fictional) as it is to write a song about Everyone-In-the-World-All-Longing-for-World-Peace. (Or, for that matter, to attempt to write the official Global O theme song.) Because my weekly task is to write a good song, fast, I can't hold out for "Imagine". I have to write something simple and immediate and true. This is an excellent rule-of-thumb for the successful writing of any song. Keep it simple. Start small and build up.

I started with several "small" ideas, and started assembling. The ideas were:
1) one clever lyric that said something meaningful ("what is the world coming to?", a pun which refers to both orgasm and the complexity of world problems), 2) a romantically bluesy chord change (because I wanted the song to sound sexy), 3) the notion of how this might concern one couple, not the whole world, and 4) the Internet. Why the Internet? Because this is the sort of story people exchange links over and laugh about from the remove of e-mail. I have always wanted to successfully make reference to e-mail in a song. (After hundreds of songs written about telephone conversations, it's about time.)

When I start with a combination of strong song elements like that, the creative process generally kicks into gear. Then, often, the song turns out to be something surprising and unexpected.

In this case, "What is the World Coming To?" turned out to be not upbeat and funny, but somewhat bittersweet...hopeful yet sad. And that seems right to me. Our lives (and loves) are seldom simple...and they blend pleasure and pain in all kinds of ever-changing and dynamic ways. That's true of our relationship with the planet as well as with each other.

(You can find the song to listen or download in Take5's archives.)

Student of the Heart

2006-11-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

This week, I turned on the radio to listen to CIUT in the background on Tuesday morning while I was doing something else.

I knew that David Peterson, the former Premier of Ontario, had been appointed Chancellor of the University. He was being interviewed and I wasn’t paying much attention, thinking that there was no way such a stuffy subject would provide fodder for this week’s song.

But as the interview continued, particular phrases started jumping out at me, as if someone had turned up the volume on the radio. Peterson was using the word “passion” a lot, talking about how people need to be passionate about something; that passion is the quality we want to nurture in students today, so they can become engaged, enthusiastic people and effective leaders.

I thought, well that’s something I agree with and can write about…. something that resonates in my own life…the idea of being educated in passion and truth. Yeah, that’s good! Then a song idea popped into my head and I picked up the guitar. The title line “Passion 101” lasted maybe five minutes before I deemed it completely silly, trite and flat. But there’s a difference between a title line and the core idea or intent of a song, so I turned the idea over in my head and came up with a much better title: “Student of the Heart”. (Tucker, age 12, asked me what I was working on. T: “Your song for CIUT?” Me: “Yeah.” T: “What’s it called?” Me: “Student of the Heart”. T: “Good title!”)

I believe that to be an artist is to be a student of the heart. As I write a song (this one and any one), I need to be open and listening for what my “heart” (my unconscious inner voice) tells me. Inevitably, at some point in the creative process, my hands find an “accidental” chord change or “mistake” that becomes integrated into the song. I need to stay awake and open to hearing the beauty in the unexpected changes that arise.

I also have to be patient with myself as my writing grows from what is often--in the early going at least--superficial and self-centred and/or muddled and unclear.

I need to listen to the call to write something deeper: to not settle for less than my best, to have the faith in myself that I can clarify what I believe, and that I can communicate it in such a way that it will be of benefit to others. In other words, I need to aim higher than “Passion 101”.

If I do these things—allow my subconscious to speak, and allow my conscious mind to gently and patiently refine the work—I generally end up with something I’m pretty happy with: a song that has pleasing shape and colour, that has energy and forward motion, that says something meaningful and true. I believe that each song is, in a way, a microcosm of a life…a life that is constantly in a state of re-creation and re-vision.

I'll be playing "Student of the Heart" live on CIUT 89.5 FM's Take5 (streaming on the Internet) on Friday Nov. 24th at approximately 9:45 a.m.

Song of the Week

2006-11-06T19:47:00.000-05:00

Five weeks ago, I took up the challenge of writing a song a week for a brand new radio show, Take5 on CIUT 89.5 FM. The idea is that every Friday, I perform a new song in studio inspired by one of the stories they've presented during the week.

Should be fun, I thought. And it is. When it's not really, really hard.

So far, this self-imposed assignment has led to many unexpected challenges and joys. Already it's been a roller-coaster ride of managing deadlines, trusting my instincts, following my muse and performing live with very little rehearsal.

In short, it's provided enough food for thought to justify resuscitating this blog, which has been more-or-less dormant since I decided to take a break from busking. (A good decision and one I don't regret. Oddly enough, this project has a few things in common with busking which I may explore in a future post.)

So far, I have written songs inspired by the following topics: Scarborough, trash, a brewery that holds a mock election with beers named for politicians, songwriter Penny Lang and other women singers who have appeared on the program, and a new book called Vessie Flamingo: Outshining the Moon.

I'll write about some of these songs in upcoming posts...and about the creative process in general.

The host commented last week that after 52 weeks, I'll have enough songs for a Time-Life collection.

That's 47 songs to go.

The Way of the First Day

2006-08-30T23:38:00.000-04:00

Today I sang my song "First Day of School" at the official opening of the June Callwood Way near my home. I took a risk in choosing that song--it wasn't specifically about activism, or social justice, or even community leadership--but on this late-August afternoon it somehow seemed right.

After the singing, Mayor David Miller said in his speech that Ms. Callwood had specifically asked that her new street be near children. As I watched my own children sitting patiently in the folding chairs, near the toddlers from the South-Riverdale Child Parent Centre nearby, I knew I had picked the right song.

Every day is a "first day" as I continue to make my way in music. I often feel excited as a child learning to walk...until I trip and fall and bruise my ego. I'm often feel as if I don't know what I'm doing...that I'm a neophyte, a newcomer, too "green".

Where will this lead? Will I succeed or fail? What do those words mean? Can I look the definition up somewhere?

On "first days" like today, I glimpse the answer, and try to write it down so I don't forget. It goes something like this.

I succeed when I give my music to people, instead of expecting to get somewhere with it.

I succeed when my song is a contribution to a greater good, not a good that is confused with a commodity.

I succeed when I am grateful for the gift of music, and when I share it freely and without expectation.

Those lessons, as right and clear as they seem today, seem at the same time completely at odds with the commercial entertainment industry and how "indie artists" are supposed to think of themselves: as products instead of service providers. We're encouraged to want to be "idols", we're not encouraged to serve.

Needless to say, I'm hardly immune to this skewed value-system myself. Like everyone in our culture, I'm dazzled and seduced by money and power. As a performer, I find myself wanting the kind of prestige that the celebrity class of artists enjoys--and sometimes walking in "ways" that are out of tune with my own deeper personal values. Running pell-mell toward professional achievement in music, I often overlook the other paths to fulfillment...ways that are, frankly, simpler and easier to manage. And which may reach more people in the long run.

What am I doing (the ambitious indie artist asks herself) playing yet another tiny community event for free, in a little tucked-away laneway, with my children in tow (people say I should hide my age and the fact that I have children if I want to "make it in the music business"). What am I doing? Am I crazy?

No, I'm not crazy. I'm playing The June Callwood Way. (Not "the Rogers Centre way".)

Today, June Callwood was simply bubbling over with pride to have that humble laneway named after her. The Way shined as brightly (and attracted as many luminaries) as any new four-lane expressway...and Ms. Callwood vowed to return frequently to help keep it well-maintained. Throughout her 82 year-old life, she has understood the worth and strength of each person and each small action. She knows that great things--such as the more than 50 community service organizations she's founded--start with humble first steps.

So there we were today, in a little lane, far away from the busy street. We were tucked away with the children, near the library, the community centre and the women's shelter. It felt right to offering my songs in that setting, among people who support others, as we gathered to honour a woman who is a radiant example of the power of service.

It was another first day, of many more to come, as we continue to make our way in the world.