Today I received two letters from friends who mentioned that they're still checking my blog...and meanwhile I haven't been posting very regularly. Well, here I am again. Thanks for reading!
Here's an update on my recent news. My third CD, called "Broadview", is now in manufacturing (whew!) and will be ready in about three weeks. I'm very proud of this collection of songs, all of which have been sung on the subway...and in other venues too of course.
The name of the CD refers to the subway station (there's a song called "Luminous Veil" on the record, paying tribute to the safety barrier on the Prince Edward Viaduct, and "Music Everywhere" which was inspired by the three-note "doors closing" signal) but it's also a way of saying "long-term perspective" and also, the "view" of one "broad" (which is to say, me). I'm very excited to be having the CD release party in the vestibule of Broadview station on...wait a sec, bad idea, middle of winter...never mind. The concert will be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 12th.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned in the blog that I was planning to pitch a few articles around. One article, which I started as a blog posting but then completed off-line and submitted, will appear as a Globe & Mail "Facts & Arguments" piece in the next few days or weeks. Another one, which was written a few months ago, will be published in the next issue of the Songwriters Association of Canada magazine. Coincidentally, a few other (paying!) writing jobs have come my way, which have kept me busier than usual. Also, I've been completing the book project based on my first year of subway busking. There's been lots of writing going on, but less blogging (and singing too).
But as you know, if you've been reading regularly, the regular singing (and writing) has helped me stay sane and creatively energized since this project began. So I'm sticking to it.
You may notice some changes soon. I'm planning to renovate the blog a little, to allow for the more natural inclusion of essays on a variety of topics. Chances are, most of them will have something to do with creativity, artistic expression and popular culture. (But don't worry, I'll still be busking. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to go out--though I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not sure have the nerve for Bloor & Yonge, where I'm scheduled!)
More to come...and thanks again for reading.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Ears
Last week, the subway musicians who use amplifiers got together at Osgoode station to have our amps registered and approved. We needed to set the appropriate levels for our machines so we won't play too loudly on the TTC and annoy people or cause a safety hazard.
After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.
I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.
I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.
I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.
I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.
Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.
+++
Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.
I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.
Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.
The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.
When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.
The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.
After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.
I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.
I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.
I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.
I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.
Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.
+++
Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.
I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.
Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.
The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.
When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.
The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Crowded Field
This weekend, I'm heading to Kingston for the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals conference. This is a once-a-year event where folk festival organizers get together as a community. It's a chance for artists to meet the people who might book them, to drop off promo packages, shake hands, smile--and possibly play some music too.
I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.
But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?
"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.
Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".
In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)
It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)
We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.
I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.
But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?
"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.
Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".
In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)
It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)
We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Re-Orienting
Yesterday I headed for the TTC Head Office with the other newly-licensed musicians for this year's orientation session.
On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.
At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?
The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.
What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?
In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.
But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.
+++
At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.
"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."
It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)
When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.
In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?
At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.
As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.
And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.
On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.
At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?
The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.
What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?
In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.
But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.
+++
At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.
"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."
It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)
When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.
In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?
At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.
As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.
And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Gift Exchange
What do you like to do on your birthday?
Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".
This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.
One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.
This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.
The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.
Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.
Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".
This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.
One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.
This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.
The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.
Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Too Busy Writing to Blog
Sorry I haven't written for awhile.
I've been too busy writing.
It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.
At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.
Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?
I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.
I've been too busy writing.
It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.
At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.
Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?
I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.
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