Call and Response

I received a response to my "Mind the Gap" post from a friend in Switzerland. Like me, she's a writer and musician. These days she's working as a church deacon, and in that role, she's frequently called to engage in personal discussions with parishioners.

She wrote that in those conversations, she's continually trying to discern what is authentic and what is not (as I'm trying to do in my songwriting and performance). At the same time, she's seeking to clarify which ideas and emotions originate with her, which come from the other person, and which spring from some higher source. She writes:

"The more I'm in touch with that creative source, the more my words resonate with the person who hears them. It's a funny balance between consciously honing my skills at using my physical being, and learning to trust in something that is within me but that is greater than the sum of my parts."

This reminds me of another phenomenon I've noticed when I'm playing in public and also when I'm recording. More often than not, not thinking about doing something well or correctly produces a better response...a letting go or surrendering of control is necessary in order to make something truly beautiful.

My friend mentioned that she's recently discovered photo blogs--something new to me--and told me that in that medium, it's fascinating to watch the artist's true or authentic voice emerge over time in the progression of photos.

I wonder whether simply through the act of putting the images and ideas "out there" into the world, one invites a stronger or clearer response than if the creative work is done in private.

My instinct and my recent experience tells me that it does. When I'm creatively engaged with the world, I feel more deeply connected to all people (not just the ones who actively "say something" or "give something" to me) and I am more in tune with my purpose, my values and my spiritual beliefs.

I appreciate the reminder that creative, intentional expression (in any form) is a kind of conversation--with ourselves, our communities and our Higher Power.

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Another interesting response to that recent posting:

It was suggested that perhaps "recording facilitator" may be a less intimidating title than "producer" (though I'd have to add "brilliant bass player and accompanist" to the mix).

This playing with titles is an interesting concept.

Instead of "subway musician", how about "public space soundtrack artist"?

Grace Notes

Here's a treat Dave discovered that we think you'll enjoy. It's a short film made by a guy who decides to listen to one song continuously for a four-hour car trip. The song he chooses is "Dancing Queen" by Abba. 'Nuff said.

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I just got back from another songwriting workshop. This group of young songwriters was so enthusiastic, they couldn't help but writing lyrics even when I was singing or speaking. This is fine with me...in fact, I often find myself compelled to write lyrics when I'm watching another performer. I once wrote so much during a Lucinda Williams concert, another audience member asked me if I was a reviewer.

This group of 12 and 13 year-old students was devoted to love songs, and their new songs were at times achingly personal. I felt it was a privilege to be invited in, to listen to their first songs.

Just like at the last school, the group was led by a kind and intelligent teacher who, also, is a songwriter. After the workshop, he and I talked briefly about the challenges of balancing a day job (and other responsibilities, such as family) with an artistic life. I didn't mention that just yesterday, I found myself having a little fantasy...that I could go to teacher's college and find myself on a stable career path within a few years.

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Another aside: I'm listening now to Joni Mitchell's recent "best of" collection: "Dreamland" . Although I own most of the original records (on vinyl, and no turntable in our house seems to be working) it's great to have these particular songs collected in the same place. The package also includes a generous collection of her paintings, which I find inspiring and which illuminate her life story with power and grace.

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Have a great weekend.

Mind the Gap

Today I rode the subway to get to my producer David Woodhead 's house. We've been steadily working on my third CD for more than a year now. Although the process always seems to take longer than I expect (as so many projects do), it's always a pleasure to work with David. He's efficient, inventive and generous. He's a superb musician. And he makes good coffee.

On the way there, it felt strange to be in the subway and not be playing. When I arrived at Broadview Station I instinctively reached into my pocket for some change, but no musician was there to receive it. In fact, the performance space was taken up by a metal barrier and a couple of red pylons.

I was headed to David's to re-record a song called "Crossing My Mind". We originally recorded it about a year ago, shortly after it had been written, and we spent considerable time building it up from a simple guitar-and-vocal demo to a more produced version.

Even though we'd worked patiently on this version for quite awhile, I thought it might be worthwhile to try another one: a simpler one with a stronger vocal performance.

In the original, my vocals had a sweet but slightly hesitant quality and my timing wavered all over the place. That made sense, when I thought about it. Back then, I wasn't really committed to making another record. (When do you decide you've made all the CDs you're going to make, anyway?) I was just going over to David's and casually recording new songs after I'd written them. Then at a certain point we thought we'd collect them to make another CD.

Meanwhile, I started performing more often.

And my voice got stronger.

Had I had outgrown the first recorded version of the song? I thought, let's take a few hours and find out.

Naively, I thought I'd nail it on the first take (after all, I've performed it dozens of times now). I didn't, of course. But by the third take, I could tell we had something worth keeping: something warmer than the original, more weathered-sounding. I was taking more emotional risks in my performance. It was better.

And of course, it's still not perfect, at least not to my ears. Not even "imperfect-in-that-perfect-sort-of-way"--the way I think of Emmylou Harris or Neil Young.

One of the big challenges of recording is that the way you think you sound is often different than how you actually do. Trying to correct all the "flaws" can be time-consuming, expensive and ultimately futile.

There will always be a gap between the music I hear in my head and the music I'm able to physically create.

Maybe part of the process of artistic growth--and self-acceptance at every stage of it--is to be mindful of that gap: to acknowledge it with self-acceptance, while seeking to narrow it little by little, as time goes on.

Osgoode Station, Tuesday Afternoon

Plus one, minus one.

The temperature has been hovering around the zero mark today, and yesterday's thick 15 cm blanket of snow is turning grey and mushy.

I was scheduled at Osgoode station this afternoon, which was a convenient time and place for me today.

Our "official" subway schedule of rotating stations has started repeating itself now. Since October, I've had an opportunity (at some time of the day or night) to play at every subway station that has a performance space. I've played at sixteen stations so far. I still haven't visited Runnymede, Ossington, Dundas West, Finch, Wilson, Eglinton or Queen.

But today I'm happy to be back at Osgoode, which has been one of my favourites from the start. It's downtown, relatively near my home, and boasts a long corridor where people can listen long enough to decide whether or not to donate. The acoustics are good and there's a steady trickle of people through the station even in non-peak hours.

I have a theory about the stations near interesting walkable neighborhoods. (Osgoode is a short walk from the popular shopping & eating corridor of Queen Street West.) I suspect that in these locations, more people are simply out enjoying the day, in a flexible-schedule sort of way, maybe meeting friends for coffee or shopping. They're ambling a little more. They're a little more inclined to pause.

Today I noticed that more people than usual seemed to be catching my eye and smiling. Often I'm the one catching people's eyes, but today it seemed to be the other way around. Also, a higher-than-average number of people took a moment to speak to me and say something encouraging.

When I rode the subway before I became a busker, I used to be embarassed to catch a musician's eye if I couldn't donate any money. If you've ever felt that way yourself, let me reassure you that a simple smile or nod is very much appreciated (of course, money and smiles are especially appreciated.)

It occurs to me that any form of positive human interaction can be seen as "change".

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Because it's still not exactly spring outside, I considered wearing a drab but warm winter jacket today. Then at the last minute I changed my mind and put on my bright red spring coat. It's not as warm, but it's definitely more cheerful.

I was very pleased that I did because I ran into a friend who told me it looked great--and also told me she owns the exact same one! (I'm sure it looks great on her as well.)

I love these chance meetings. So often (as was the case today), they happen with people that I've thought about recently and wanted to see again--but might not have had the opportunity otherwise.

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I left Osgoode after just over an hour, feeling so damp and cold in the drafty corridor that I realized I was shivering.

As I climbed the stairs to street level, I saw thick white flakes of snow falling again, turning the grey world white once more.

House Concerts (The Toe Incident)

On Saturday night, my friend Brenda hosted a concert in her living room.

It's not a big living room.

But it's a warm space with a group of supportive listeners in it. So it's perfect.

In recent years, house concerts have emerged as a new opportunity for independent musicians. Some of these are well-organized, curated concert series, booked well in advance and featuring many very well-established artists. Others are more casual, privately-arranged events, often hosted by strong members of an artist's fan base.

When friends do this for me, I'm deeply grateful. It's a privilege to come into anyone's home and play...and it's very helpful to have the host introduce my music to their friends. Meanwhile, I've been told by the hosts that it works for them, too. It's an easy way to throw a party and the performance gives the evening a nice focus. (When it comes to admission, you can either charge a ticket price in advance or at the door, or take donations. Often guests buy CDs as well, so it usually works out well for the artist.)

I enjoy the relaxed quality of house concerts. I like being able to talk to the members of the audience in real time, answering their questions about songs and responding to requests. Being so physically close to people can take some getting used to ("eye contact with woman in far corner, yes or no?") but once you get the hang of it, it feels natural and fun. On Saturday, the twelve people in Brenda's living room seemed to be exactly the people I wanted to be with that night.

The only big problem I ever had at a house concert was the infamous "toe incident".

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It was the first day of summer--not according to the calendar, but according to my wardrobe. I was wearing sandals for the first time that season, and I'd even painted my toenails before the gig.

This particular house concert welcomed children as well as adults, so several pre-schoolers were sitting on the carpeted floor directly in front of me. I was standing for my performance, and I was tapping my foot to keep time, as I usually do.

Suddenly, I felt someone playing with my toes.

It was a small boy about three years old. Still singing, I tried to give him a stern "cease-and-desist" look, but I couldn't get his attention. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but keep tapping my foot, despite being worried I might squish his fingers.

I tried to catch the eyes of the parents. They smiled glowingly back at me from the back of the room, where they couldn't see their little boy. He had a firm grip on my toes now, making me afraid he might try to eat them.

At least I had a good excuse for not quite nailing that chord.

I figured, if you're professional, you should be able to handle pretty much any distraction, so I stuck with the song. (Of course, it occurred to me that a well-aimed tap of my toe might get the point across--but then again he might start to cry, which would be worse.)

Finally the song ended, and I said "please stop playing with my toes" (as sweetly as I could). The parents took the little boy into the kitchen (where he had a loud tantrum because he was missing the show).

On Saturday night I wore boots.

Pat Metheny

A friend of mine invited me out last night to see
The Pat Metheny Group at the Hummingbird Centre.

It was the second night of a tour in which they perform their latest CD "The Way Up", a 68-minute long continuous suite of complex and multi-layered instrumental music, highly sophisticated yet deeply accessible, rich in melody and meaning.

On stage, Metheny remarked that "The Way Up" is a challenge to perform live, even for him and his band (musicians among the world's very best). He also very graciously paid tribute to Toronto as a city that provides an uncommon level of support for the arts.

The performance was awe-inspiring on many levels—featuring dozens of guitars that were in constant use, handed on and off-stage in real time as the composition required, and numerous physics-defying solos from Pat Metheny, Lyle Mays and the rest of the band.

The concert had a quality of transcendence to it—a rising above of limitations and of definitions and labels. Many times during the show, I had the feeling that the group was falling up and into something larger than themselves—larger than any of us—while at the same time originating it. The sheer wonder and delight at that paradoxical achievement was reflected in Metheny’s expression of pure joy which he wore for most of the evening.

It was a privilege to witness.

This is My House

So, what happens when you create something, and somebody hates it?

It’s hard enough when a potential member of the audience says "it’s not my style" or "it doesn’t do anything for me", when an editor takes a pass on it or you spot your CD in a bin at a garage sale.

All of these little rejections are disappointing to artists. And they’re inevitable. Getting used to rejection is part of the process. The only way to avoid rejection is to, essentially, fail as a communicator—that is, to say nothing that will affect anyone one way or another, to be as bland as possible so as to offend no one. This approach may help one avoid stinging criticism—but it will also guarantee that nobody will care enough to become a passionate supporter of your work.

By committing to an artistic statement or a creative path—in a song, a painting or a personal essay—the creative person is (sometimes unwittingly) defining their circle.

Recently in these pages, a person who chose to remain anonymous gave me an opportunity to consider how to respond not only to legitimate, constructive criticism, but to an unprovoked personal attack on my life and career. From the very first post, which I deleted, the tone was invalidating and shaming. It escalated quickly to become what I consider hate mail—attacking my writing, my music career and even my family life. As a result, I’ve turned off the "comments" feature. This is my house. Bullies are not welcome here.

When I think of my mentors—writers as well as songwriters—I admire them for taking the risk of revealing themselves and taking responsibility for what they say. As I’ve said many times in these pages, expressing myself in public--in songs and in any other form--was something that I was afraid to do for many years. When I stepped outside my comfort zone, to increase the potential for rejection and acceptance on virtually every level, I discovered a voice I didn’t know I had.

Sure, it won’t be to everyone’s taste. Of course, it’s a work-in-progress. But how fortunate we are to live in a society that invites so many forms of expression and that protects free speech.

My heartfelt thanks to all of you who have offered your support, both on and off-line.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

The Heckler

I’ve always admired performers who could deal effectively with hecklers in the back of the room.

I once saw a songwriter remark that if you talk during a performance in a Texas bar, they just shoot ya.

That shut the talkers up.

Myself, I just hit "delete". (The heckler has left the building, folks.)

Hecklers are anonymous. They don’t step up and identify themselves, even though they crave the limelight.

It’s easier to stand at the back of the room and criticize whomever’s up there than it is to get up and speak—or sing, or write, or paint—from the heart.

Busking is very good practice for anyone, like me, who has a history of being highly sensitive to criticism.

"You must do the thing you think you cannot do."

What did I used to be most afraid of? What did I try to avoid at all costs?

Not pleasing everyone.

So, in the spirit of de-fanging the monster in the closet, let me shine a spotlight on…drum roll please…

"Anonymous"! S/he comes to us from deep within our collective psyche, threatening to expose us as the flawed and fragile selves we truly are. She calls us fakers, failures, whiners. She says we don't belong, wherever it is we happen to be.

She’s our inner critic, and she’s out there.

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And in other news...

I had a wonderful time at a school's songwriting club yesterday. In addition to a group of 5th and 6th grade students, I spent an hour with two teachers who are songwriters themselves. One of them came in for the lunchtime session, baby in tow, because he's on paternity leave.

As I often do during those sessions, I found myself affirming the value of all artistic self-expression, whatever form it takes.

Perhaps, if those students hear enough validating messages early in life, they'll continue to develop their own talents, express themselves openly...and respect others who do so.

Getting My Groove Back - Pape Station

It's Tuesday afternoon, smack dab in the middle of the February blahs.

I promised myself--okay, I promised my friend Brenda--that I'd get out to the subway today.

Yeah, yeah, I promised, but not before after I grumblingly itemized the million things I have to do (design flyer for April 2nd concert, write overdue press release for local theatre group, plan set list for this weekend's house concert, reserve spot for summer camp program as per request from daughter's friend's mother, establish career that actually makes money...) and not before I noted that it's still actually cold out there for heaven's sake, and maybe I'd like to just sit down for a few minutes and have a cup of tea?!

Brenda said I should get out anyway.

So, after I took Calla back to school after lunch, I packed my orange subway knapsack, figuring that I'd be able to sing for barely an hour before having to get back and take the kids to a dentist's appointment after school.

Did I mention that cup of tea?

I left the house, navigating the lake of melting snow that has taken over our backyard, balancing carefully along the two-by-four we've positioned over the largest puddle so we can get to the car. Someday maybe we'll get our backyard properly landscaped. (Did I mention that money-making career?)

Having successfully made it to the car, I discovered that my husband had left the lights on this morning, so the battery was dead.

Now, this could have been my cue to go back inside, call it a day, and make that cup of tea. Or, heck, have a glass of wine!

But there was Brenda to think of. Brenda, the indefatigable aerobics instructor. Brenda, who inspired my song When I Walk I Run . Brenda, who...oh, never mind.

I slammed the car door shut, hoisted up the backpack (with the 10 lb amp inside) and started walking.

And, indeed, soon I was also running--to catch the Pape bus.

Needless to say, I was relieved to see that my favourite spot--the narrowest, humblest rectangle in the whole subway system--was unoccupied. I set up quickly and started to play, figuring I'd grudgingly put in an hour and be able to say I did.

And then a funny thing happened.

I started to feel better.

I forgot about all the other things I have to do. I forgot how tired I've been feeling lately.

Last night I skipped my regular open mic, feeling as I was about as un-Groovy as I could possibly feel.

But this afternoon, I started to feel groovish after the first few bars of my first song, when the first donation came.

It was calming and freeing to sing for the man who was reading a manuscript on the bench when I arrived, and who lingered for three more songs after he was done. It was fun to run into old friends and try out new songs.

It was good to open the guitar case and invite assistance. It was good to say "thanks".

An hour later, after I'd earned a record $62.89 (two CDs there, and yes, this is proving to be a much better distribution model than any online or retail outlet) I felt positively...positive!

For the first time in about a week, I wasn't feeling sorry for myself.

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So, what needed to be done to get out of the trenches?

First, show up. Second, give something. Third, accept support.

And let's not forget the balancing act with the two-by-four over the icy lake (note to self, learn "Bridge Over Troubled Water"). And that brisk walk and run.

Gimme Shelter

I am trying to decide whether or not to accept an invitation to play music tonight at a local homeless shelter.

The man who invited me is someone I met ten years ago, when I was volunteering for the same organization. He was playing guitar and singing at the shelter back then and has continued to provide music as his form of service. He recognized me on the subway and asked if I'd like to take his place for a few weeks when he goes on vacation. For the next few Fridays he'll still be in town, so I can come and join him as he plays, thus learning the ropes.

At first, I said yes without hesitation.

And then, when I started thinking about it, the concerns began to creep in.

If I volunteered at the shelter by serving coffee and lasagna, I wouldn't be allowing myself to be known as fully as I would if I sang my songs. I wouldn't be opening myself up in the same way. Even if I sang cover tunes (Which ones do I know? "You've Got a Friend", "Early Morning Rain", "Homeward Bound"...) I'd be more visible and noticeable than I would be in other volunteer roles.

I'd be inviting more of a connection.

Of course, when I'm on the subway, I invite that connection as well, erecting no barriers between myself and any person, no matter what their social status or circumstance. Someone asked me once if I've noticed any demographic trends among people who make donations. Are people more likely to donate if they're of a certain age or race?

I told my friend that I hadn't been able to spot any trends so far. I certainly haven't been able to keep any sort of accurate tally of who gives what. But I have noticed that, as a group, people who appear to be the most down-and-out are often very willing to connect with me, either by catching my eye, talking, or taking change out of their own pockets.

I remembered the physically and mentally-challenged man who very deliberately gave me a dollar at Osgoode station. I recalled a more recent encounter, at Dundas, with a man who said as he donated, "I don't know why I'm doing this" because he was on his way to street level with his hat and harmonica.

Anyone who, for whatever reason, is living outside the boundaries of what's considered "normal" by the majority of people--the nine-to-five job, the house and kids--is more likely to identify with the subway musician. Certainly, people who themselves are "living outside the box" do not seem afraid of me or at all disturbed by my presence: they don't seem threatened the way some well-dressed, conservative-looking people appear to be.

Then too, there have been people who have assumed that I myself am homeless, despite many visible clues to the contrary: the stylish new coat, the spiffy Roland amplifier, the Taylor guitar. In the 15 seconds it takes to pass by, some people have overlooked these clues and have observed only that I am asking for money. One woman, you'll recall, donated food.

All things can change. Life circumstances can change. Jobs can be lost, relationships can end. Health can decline. Options can vanish.

"There but for the grace of God go I."

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It's my empathy for--and kinship with--the street community that makes me want to say "yes" and sing at the homeless shelter.

It's my awareness that I'm a young, petite, attractive woman, given to openness and empathy, that makes me say no. That, and my growing awareness of how my music can affect people.

Remembering my experience with the unbalanced man at Queen's Park, who became wild-eyed and agitated when he heard me sing, I realize that by singing for--singing to--some people who are desperately in need of comfort, I would be putting myself at risk. Simply by singing, I'd be creating an emotional connection that would be unsupportable and potentially dangerous. By singing for several hours over a period of weeks--instead of for a few fleeting seconds in a subway tunnel--I'd also be allowing myself to be very carefully observed. (Oddly enough, I don't think I'd feel as nervous about singing in a prison, and I'd be perfectly delighted to sing at a 12-Step group.)

As nourishing as I know my music would be, I can't run the risk.

Get Back, Get Back...

This afternoon I returned to Broadview and Danforth, and tried to create my own little folk festival in the subway vestibule.

This time, the lights on me were under construction.

Midway through my hour and a half-long stay, a group of maintenance workers set up a big yellow ladder at the edge of my performance space and fiddled with wiring overhead.

"Don't stop playing!", one of them said.

It was fine. I had to tune anyway, so I took a short break.

As I've mentioned before, Broadview subway station is perpetually under construction. Just when I think it might clear up, an ambitious new phase of the project seems to get underway. The man on the ladder today was working on the elevator installation, but there's more going on than just that. (Maybe I should suggest a stage and professional sound system?)

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Although donations at Broadview are generally low, likely because the acoustics are poor and the traffic flow is less-than-advantageous, this afternoon still yielded miracles.

Among them was a Sri Lankan man who told me he's a singer, planning to buy a guitar.

When I asked about his family, he told me that he had lost 60 relatives in the tsunami disaster. The courage and openness in his expression inspired me to say yes when he asked if I could teach him a few guitar basics, and to play "Distant Shore" for him, a song I wrote on December 28th.

I appreciated the two musicians who stopped--both the one who bought a CD and the other who had no money on him. We all had mutual friends. Somehow in the noise and rush, communities of like-minded people seem to find each other. (This is true no matter what, but I guess I'm helping it along by singing out loudly in a public space.)

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By the time I needed to go home, I'd earned $33.90, which included the price of one CD and a subway token. (The woman who gave it to me was particularly sweet, smiling and asking "Do you know what this is"? Of course I do. It's $2.50!)

As I was packing up, I saw for the first time a discarded Metro newspaper that had been lying less than a foot away from me, probably the whole time. It was open face-up to a story about the Juno Awards nominations which were announced yesterday.

Funny that I didn't even notice.

Winterfolk

For all I love about singing for a moving crowd, there’s nothing like the joy of singing for people sitting still.

Fortunately, most of the people at The Old Nick on Saturday night were doing just that.

A few people needed to leave, but that was probably because there were so many artists singing at the same time. You could easily bar-hop between the six venues at Broadview and Danforth and catch several artists in one hour.

That’s why it was especially pleasing when people stayed put for my whole set.

My Friday night performance had gone well, but had also been somewhat challenging because of a loud crowd at the back of the restaurant—a peril at that particular venue.

I saw Bob Bennett from California deal with an equally noisy crowd in the same place. (Bob’s songs tackle the "big questions" of life in a way I really respect; plus, his guitar playing is inspiring and he has a voice that makes me weak in the knees.) I thought he handled the noisy venue with more confidence than I had--probably because he has about twenty years’ more performance experience--and yet I could tell he was noticing it, too.

But when I performed at a different venue on Saturday night, everyone was listening. Plus, taking a cue from my subway life, I did something I rarely do in "official" performances.

I played without a set list.

This enabled me to be more responsive to my own impulses and the changing mood of the audience. It also kept me away from pre-rehearsed patter, which tends to sound stiff. I allowed myself to be open to the moment and willing to approach the performance more as an improvisation…and it worked beautifully.

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(If you’re interested in reading more about improvisation in life and in art, I highly recommend the work of Stephen Nachmanovitch and his book "Free Play".)

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I played a brand new song called "Pennies" on Saturday night. I’d wondered if I’d have the nerve to play it—it’s only a few days old—but not only did I find I wanted to, I needed to.

I guess it’s often like that with songs; we’re writing the ones we think we need at the time. And sometimes, the songs we’ve written rescue us unexpectedly.

In addition to Bob Bennett, I had seen Vicki Genfan earlier in the evening. She’s a virtuoso finger-style guitar player who has been playing since the age of five. (How is that even physically possible, I wondered?) Her dazzling musicianship was a privilege to watch. It also caused the noisy crowd at the venue to (finally) shut up in utter amazement.

Although I enjoyed her performance immensely, and I bought her excellent live CD, it did make me pause to consider whether, with guitar players like her around, the world needs all the rest of us.

As I started to introduce "Pennies"—which affirms the value of even the smallest gifts— I realized I myself needed that song right now. And hey, maybe some other "good-but-not-THAT-good" guitarists in the room could relate too? I took a chance, told the story and sang.

"Good song!", somebody yelled.

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Toronto's Winterfolk roots music festival is now in its third year, having survived beyond many people’s expectations.

The offbeat dream of non-conformist songwriter and guitarist Brian Gladstone , who started it after being turned down for similar events, Winterfolk is now an official member event of the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals. Hundreds of local, national and international artists—representing a wide range of musical styles and "levels" of "professional experience" (both of which are subject to a variety of interpretations)—have found appreciative audiences at the three Winterfolk festivals.

This year in particular, the enthusiastic cross-pollination of inspiration between musicians and volunteers, and the palpable feeling of excitement that such an event could actually fly, made Winterfolk feel truly magical.

My favourite moment, though, came when I noticed a chalkboard sign outside one of the local British-style pubs where the festival was being held for the first time.

Instead of "Winterfolk Festival", the sign read "Winter Folk Festival"—a subtle change, but an important one.

It was a small, inadvertent acknowledgement of the oxymoronic character of the event, a hopeful little contradiction in terms. It reminded me that although something may be improbable, it is not impossible--that no matter how harsh the climate, new music will always arise.

On that chalkboard sign, at that ordinary neighbourhood pub, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

More Skin

Immediately after writing that last entry, I decided to listen to some music.

I put on Woody Russell's sampler CD. He's an outstanding singer-songwriter from Austin, Texas. I met him at the Winterfolk music festival this weekend and he encouraged me to come down to Texas sometime to play. (I've been meaning to for awhile, because I was born there.)

Without consciously thinking about it, I picked up his CD...and I laughed, then cried, when the second song came on.

It's called The Skin I'm In . (Check it out!)

It goes: "This is the skin I'm in...and in the skin I'm in I've got to live...cause I have made my bed and I will sleep in it, with no regrets."

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While eating lunch, I decided to read the paper.

On the inside front cover of the Globe and Mail, a headline (about the Super Bowl, pigskin!) proclaimed "It's all about celebrity".

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Oddly enough, today I had no desire whatsoever to be a subway busker.

Is There A Busker In the Studio?

I'd been invited to be a guest on a phone-in show on a popular Toronto soft-rock station. The topic was "Women in Transition". Before the show, the hosts had been intrigued by my story, which was essentially: "Successful woman chucks professional career to become obscure musician."

The other guest on the program was a successful and well-known Canadian female actor.

In addition to the interview material, and questions taken by callers, the format of the show included about a dozen popular songs from well-known female artists. On tonight's show, we heard Jann Arden, Carole King, Shania Twain, Aretha Franklin and, unaccountably, John Mayer.

More than an hour was spent on the well-known Canadian actor (who was really very nice, and it wasn't her fault). The hosts asked her about other celebrities she had known. A caller phoned in to say he missed a television show of hers which had been cancelled. Her daughter phoned in to say what a great mother she was, having managed to balance her successful acting career with her family responsibilities.

I sat at the microphone, mute and obedient, holding my guitar.

More than an hour ticked by.

Shania Twain sang "Man, I Feel LIke A Woman".

The two male announcers talked about how they didn't really understand what it was like to be a woman, and yet, ha ha, here they were talking about it! At one point, they said they'd like to dress up as women to see what it felt like. Then one of them mentioned the book "Black Like Me" by John Howard Griffin (in which the author dyes his skin black so that he can experience life in society as a black man). This was remarkable, because I had thought of that book when I decided to become a busker. I knew that in a much less risky and provocative way, I'd be donning another "skin" and possibly be viewed (by some) as a non-person.

I didn't expect it to happen to the radio, mind you.

It occurred to me that I could boldly speak up--perhaps even challenge the whole notion of celebrity culture while actually on the air!--but I realized that the producer would immediately turn off my mic.

I used to work in broadcasting.

Eventually, after the celebrity had left the building, they turned to me and introduced me as the musical guest in the studio. (At the beginning of the program, I had been introduced as "a housewife who is now a busker".)

They seemed to realize that, having invited me to be on the program, it would be bad form to send me home without doing anything. So they gave me the opportunity to sing a couple of songs. Before I did, however, they told me I'd have to play "shortened versions" because they’d be throwing to a commercial each time.

I sang In Spite of It All.

I sang Room To Love.

Both times, as I introduced the songs, I intelligently made reference to the topic of the day—what was it again?—ah yes, courageous women making challenging career transitions. In spite of myself, I found myself mentioning the celebrity again.

And I sang with as much professional polish and class as I could muster.

The hosts were impressed. They said so in the break—that is to say, not on air.

I’m sure they thought they were doing me a huge favour by simply having me on the two-hour program for, oh, three minutes. They probably think they were doing me a favour by simply mentioning my name.

As I sat in the lovely studio, waiting at the microphone, I felt like the servant maid being allowed to sit at the table with the lord and lady of the manor.

When I left, I wondered whether I should give them my CDs, which I had planned to do. I decided to take the high road and handed them out. The hosts thanked me profusely and the producer said he'd make sure they got to the music director.

But I know how these things work.

+++

On the ride home, I did my best to keep my spirits up.

When I came in the door, I declared to Dave, "Well, I think I did extremely well under the circumstances!"

He said, "Shh! Don't wake the kids."

The Songwriter's Apprentice

Since I started singing on the subway, I've written more songs than ever before. This is a good thing in many ways, but it also presents some challenges.

First, I was prolific enough already, and I don't have the time or money to record everything I've written. My third CD still isn't finished, despite my intention to spend less time on it than I did on the two before, and now some of the songs on it are a couple of years old. Inevitably, by the time I get a recording finished, I've moved on to the next batch of songs and am performing them in concerts. Meanwhile, many people coming to the shows are primarily connected to the material from two CDs ago...and there isn't even enough time in a regular performance to keep everybody happy.

Maybe this is why prolific songwriters end up playing 250 dates a year, just to keep up with all their material. That's certainly one reason why I wanted to play on the subway. For once, I'd actually have enough time to play everything.

When it comes to songwriting, I find that the more I write, the more I want to write...and my output increases exponentially. The time available to complete songs, however, does not increase, so choices have to be made. And no matter how artistically valid I feel my songs may be, they're not paying the bills. (In fact, it could be argued that the more songs I write, the more bills I'll eventually have to pay: to the producer who is currently recording them.)

I'm suddenly reminded of the scene from Walt Disney's "Fantasia", called "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". In it, Mickey Mouse (playing out a fairy tale inspired by a poem by Goethe) tries unsuccessfully to use his teacher's spells to avoid work that has been assigned to him. His broomsticks divide and multiply, out of control, as he attempts to control the flood that he's unleashed with his unpractised spell. The story was set to music by French composer Paul Dukas (1865 - 1935) who was a friend of Debussy. According to a brief bio I just discovered about Dukas, "his self criticism led him to destroy many of his compositions and only allow a small number of works to be published".

What's the meaning in that story for me right now? Is it to do one's assigned task (mopping the floor) before working the magic (writing the song)? Is it to learn from the wise and experienced "sorcerers" who have been working in and with the torrent of songs all their lives? (This seems to fit in with my ongoing conversations with a particular songwriter who has twenty years' more experience than I do, and with my reading of Paul Zollo's book "Songwriters on Songwriting".)

Maybe it's just a reminder to rent "Fantasia"?

I loved it when I was little (and my mother played the soundtrack a lot at home).

And I remember being a little frightened by "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" story.

+++

I know you're thinking "yeah, yeah, but when is she getting back to the subway?"

Well, I'm pleased to report that this weekend the temperature is supposed to soar to 7 degrees Celsius.

However, starting tonight, I'll be singing indoors at the Winterfolk music festival. I'll write about that of course.

Then next week, it's back to the tunnels.

Ceiling of Stars

Every second Monday night, I often go to an "open mic" called Groovy Mondays . It takes place at a venue called Holy Joe's, on the top floor of a cavernous cube-shaped building at the corner of Queen and Bathurst.

As long as I can remember, the building has been a live performance destination. The exterior is painted bright blue and for many years the whole place was called The Big Bop. In recent years, the building has been segmented into three separate venues: the Kathedral (ground floor), the Reverb (second floor) and Holy Joe's (third floor, up the rickety stairs, past the fire escape).

To get to Holy Joe's, we haul our guitars up the painted-black stairwells and cut through a large nightclub. When we finally open the industrial-style door with the "Holy Joe's" sign, it's as if somebody threw a switch from black-and-white to colour. We pass through a curtain of 60's-style love beads into a pink and golden room, lit by multi-coloured strings of Christmas lights overhead.

Most Mondays, there's nothing happening on the first and second floors. But last night, a crowd of young club-goers lined up outside the building while several security guards stood watch at the door. They gave us one quick look and let us in, waiving the cover charge. They knew where we were going.

+++

The music from downstairs was so loud last night, it actually did made the walls reverberate. At one point, I imagined that we might suddenly hear some kind of explosion and be forced to use the fire escape for what it was intended for, rather than a place where smokers could still smoke. I wondered whether we would hesitate just long enough to grab our guitars (and be incinerated) or whether we'd be wise enough in that moment of panic to leave the guitars behind.

+++

But of course, the explosion never came, and all of us simply ignored the noise from downstairs as we played our designated two songs each, for a crowd of fellow songwriters that was, unfailingly, supportive.

No matter how diverse our influences (Dylan, Cohen, Cockburn, McLachlan...) and how personal our goals (major record deal? one great song?) we all had a lot in common. We'd all been drawn here, in the middle of a cold January night, to sing songs we had written. We hoped that people would like them. We all hoped that our songs made sense, that they were meaningful, that we wouldn't look silly when we sang them. We all hoped we'd do just a little better than we had last time.

We shared a belief that despite all outward appearances, the world still needs new songs, and that we are the ones to sing them. Come to think of it, we must have shared that belief with the much louder performer in the nightclub downstairs, whose lyrics we couldn't quite make out through the reverberating walls.

We were all the same, singing our little songs, under the twinkling Christmas lights: the glittering ceiling of stars.