A few days ago, I took delivery of several large cardboard boxes of new CDs. Inside, there are many shiny cellophane-wrapped copies of "Broadview", my latest collection of recorded songs. Inside each jewel case, there's an even more shiny thing, the disc itself.
Embedded in the shiny discs is the digital information that makes up recorded music...the science that allows people to play someone else's song in their home or car.
And deep inside each song is the shiniest thing of all: the desire to share an emotion, or to describe something beautiful or meaningful...the urge to write it down, to tell someone, to capture it.
As soon as it's "captured", we see how elusive it is: I look at the boxes in my living room and I think, that's not shiny. That's just big and heavy and challenging: inventory that must be moved.
So today, I spent most of the day addressing envelopes, sending CDs flying around the world, moving them in the hope that they will move people in turn, and that the shiny new songs of others will find their way back to me.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Six Songs, Minus Six
I really wanted to go sing in the subways today. I wanted to go display my new CD "Broadview" and see if anyone would notice that it has the same name as a subway station.
Nope.
But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.
Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.
I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.
Nope.
But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.
Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.
I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
What song would you sing?
In the movie "Walk the Line", Sam Phillips of Sun Records challenges the auditioning John R. Cash by asking him with a sneer: "If you only had one song to sing to be remembered by, what would you sing?"
I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.
The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.
Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.
Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.
When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?
In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.
I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.
I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.
The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.
Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.
Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.
When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?
In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.
I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
The Return of the Mexican Coin
Faithful readers will remember my lucky Mexican coin.
It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.
Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.
Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.
When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.
"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."
Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.
Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.
In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.
It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.
Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.
Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.
When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.
"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."
Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.
Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.
In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Friday Matinee
In Toronto Life magazine (I think, if memory serves), there's a feature that appears regularly called something like "The Perfect Day". In it, local celebrities describe what they'd do if they had all the time and the money in the world. Usually they end up spending, oh,$35,000 in their mind...imagining buying lots of expensive stuff and going to interesting hipster places. I could never do a piece like that; I wouldn't know any of the cool spots my imaginary self was supposed to go, and I probably couldn't bring myself to spend large amounts of even imaginary money.
Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.
(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)
So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.
Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.
Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.
(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)
So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.
Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Number 12, Number 12
I've just returned from the CD manufacturer's office, where I needed to approve the press proofs for my album cover. I've been feeling rather behind on all of this.
Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.
Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.
I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".
I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.
Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.
Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.
Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)
But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?
Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.
Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.
Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.
I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".
I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.
Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.
Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.
Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)
But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?
Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Fallen Poppies
I wore my bright red corduroy coat today. Beside the stylish subway-station buttons I wear (Dundas, Osgoode), I pinned a red poppy, which almost matches the coat exactly.
As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.
During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.
Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.
But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.
It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.
It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.
And then we pause to pick another one up.
As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.
During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.
Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.
But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.
It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.
It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.
And then we pause to pick another one up.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The Squeaky Escalator
I heard the noise before I started to descend the escalator at Queen's Park station. At first I wondered if a violinist was in the spot, tuning her instrument or (perhaps) playing something bravely avant-garde.
Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.
Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.
It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.
Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.
But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.
Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.
Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.
It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.
Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.
But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)