This week, I've received lots of support for my thought of getting a degree in education and becoming a teacher.
My producer and his wife were very encouraging, telling me about several other musicians I respect who are also teachers. My parents and my friends think it's a good idea. My daughter's teacher is happy to have me volunteer a few hours a week to gain experience.
I've been feeling increasingly confident about this possible path: a well-paved road which would provide a liveable income, stability, benefits and an eventual pension. Although it would be demanding work, it would provide one job, and would not require me to continually re-generate new work as a performer or freelance writer.
I'd been feeling good about this new road.
Then I had a particularly good morning in the subway.
This morning at Pape Station, I felt buoyant and generous. I didn't have to remind myself to smile...I couldn't help myself.
Last night, for fun, I learned a Beatles song ("In My Life"). Today, for the first time, a man walked up to me and asked if I knew any Beatles. After I played the song, he sang for me for ten minutes, because he's a Byzantine chanter. He then taught me how the Byzantine scale works, all while we stood there with hundreds of people passing by.
A TTC bus driver stopped and listened to three songs and made a large donation. A woman in the cast of "Mamma Mia" stopped and bought a CD.
I found myself singing easily, with no fatigue in my voice. In fact, as I continued to sing I could hear my voice carrying further, becoming lighter and more playful. I tried new things today with my voice and my guitar, improvising new fills and turnarounds on old songs I'd been playing for years.
It all worked.
The donations kept flowing: from children and adults, people of all nationalities, young and old, "rich" and "poor". People put down armfuls of grocery bags to donate...turned halfway down the stairs and came back up to toss a few coins into my guitar case. (Later, when I counted up my change, I discovered that I had earned more than double what I usually hope for. I came home with almost $90.)
When I left after two and a half hours, wondering whether the man at the Gateway Newstand might be bored with me, instead he asked "Are you leaving so soon?".
Are you leaving so soon.
As I headed back home I thought: if I were a full-time teacher, I couldn't do this.
Would I be making a bigger contribution?
Would I receive a greater reward?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When I sat down for my now-habitual custard tart and tea at the Portuguese bakery around the corner from my daughter's Saturday drama class, I sat behind a man working on a laptop computer. When he got up to order something at the counter, he left his screen in full view in front of me.
In bold headings, I read an excerpt from what appeared to be a motivational manuscript.
One of the headings read: "Play Full Out".
Just then, Loreena McKennitt (an internationally successful artist who is known for having started out as a busker at Toronto's St. Lawrence Market) started to play over the restaurant loudspeakers.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Ladders
Last night I was back at Fat Albert's, the open mic in the Steelworkers Union Hall. This longstanding--36 year old--event has only recently moved to the Union Hall, but I can't help but notice how its new location suits its practical spirit and its emphasis on support. It's fun to be part of an event where musicians jump up spontaneously to bolster each others' performances with whatever tools they have, be they harmonies or hand-drums.
Meanwhile, back at home, I've been painting a room, so I've been climbing up and down a ladder over and over again. (The paint is a rosy shade of burnt orange called "Copper Bangle".)
As always, the roster of performers at Fat's last night was eclectic. Some sang original folk-rock songs while others played Gordon Lightfoot, Peter Gabriel and Merle Haggard tunes. One woman sang in Spanish; a man, in French.
At one point, a performer joked lightly that he'd heard "you play Fat Albert's on your way up or on your way down". He meant it in a self-deprecating way. He'd been away from the music scene for awhile and felt, perhaps, that he was on a downward trajectory.
I hadn't heard that one before.
In fact, when I thought about it, I realized that I like the place partly because many people there seem not to be focused on ladders. They're moving neither "up" nor "down". They're simply singing, in the place they happen to be. And many of them seem happy.
I've noticed that in myself, all the "up the ladder/down the ladder" evaluation of where I stand in the music industry heirarchy is just plain exhausting. All that striving gets in the way of simply being in the moment and performing to the best of my abilities.
Taking the ladder away can be a scary prospect. We're oriented toward achievement, we performer-types, and we want to think that hard work and talent will "get us somewhere", that is, lead to public recognition and financial gain. Take away the ladder, take a hard look at how few artists the entertainment industry actually supports, and do we fall (become bitter, stop creating) or fly (create for love)?
The removal of metaphoric ladders can also be helpful in turning around the performer/star/celebrity model into a service model. It became clearer to me last night that the entertainer's job is to make everyone in the room feel special...instead of expecting everyone in the room to say she is special. It can be very hard to keep these roles straight, as an artist in a celebrity-oriented culture.
From my vantage point today, the "music industry ladder" looks like a complicated and expensive contraption, off of which I am likely to painfully fall.
Better, maybe, to choose a smaller ladder, one that works for me. And to use time-honoured tools...accept helping hands...do what I can to change the colour of the room.
Meanwhile, back at home, I've been painting a room, so I've been climbing up and down a ladder over and over again. (The paint is a rosy shade of burnt orange called "Copper Bangle".)
As always, the roster of performers at Fat's last night was eclectic. Some sang original folk-rock songs while others played Gordon Lightfoot, Peter Gabriel and Merle Haggard tunes. One woman sang in Spanish; a man, in French.
At one point, a performer joked lightly that he'd heard "you play Fat Albert's on your way up or on your way down". He meant it in a self-deprecating way. He'd been away from the music scene for awhile and felt, perhaps, that he was on a downward trajectory.
I hadn't heard that one before.
In fact, when I thought about it, I realized that I like the place partly because many people there seem not to be focused on ladders. They're moving neither "up" nor "down". They're simply singing, in the place they happen to be. And many of them seem happy.
I've noticed that in myself, all the "up the ladder/down the ladder" evaluation of where I stand in the music industry heirarchy is just plain exhausting. All that striving gets in the way of simply being in the moment and performing to the best of my abilities.
Taking the ladder away can be a scary prospect. We're oriented toward achievement, we performer-types, and we want to think that hard work and talent will "get us somewhere", that is, lead to public recognition and financial gain. Take away the ladder, take a hard look at how few artists the entertainment industry actually supports, and do we fall (become bitter, stop creating) or fly (create for love)?
The removal of metaphoric ladders can also be helpful in turning around the performer/star/celebrity model into a service model. It became clearer to me last night that the entertainer's job is to make everyone in the room feel special...instead of expecting everyone in the room to say she is special. It can be very hard to keep these roles straight, as an artist in a celebrity-oriented culture.
From my vantage point today, the "music industry ladder" looks like a complicated and expensive contraption, off of which I am likely to painfully fall.
Better, maybe, to choose a smaller ladder, one that works for me. And to use time-honoured tools...accept helping hands...do what I can to change the colour of the room.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Dundas on Monday Afternoon
I returned to Dundas (following my official schedule) this afternoon, even though the last time I was at Dundas it had been slow for donations.
So, why did I decide to go back there today? It would have been just as easy to return to Pape Station or Bay or Osgoode, where donations tend to be more steady.
As I was playing, I realized something. When hardly anyone is interacting with me, the people who do seem somehow magnified. I appreciate them more. Today I wanted the opportunity to remember each person who donated, individually. In order to remember them, there had to be fewer of them. So Dundas was perfect.
Here are a few the people who made my afternoon:
- The man who donated something before he heard me play, because he was planning to sit down on the bench beside me for awhile,
- The woman who bought a CD. (I realized later that I asked her a dumb question when determining which CD she might like. I asked "Do you have a family" (when I meant "children") Well, of course she has a family. Funny how one can regret something said in conversation even in this quirky social situation!)
- The young man who looked exactly like Kalan Porter from Canadian Idol (maybe he is!) who said my songs were beautiful,
- The young woman with the purple headscarf,
- The child in the pink jacket with her babysitter,
- The TTC Special Constable who winked at me,
- The gentleman named Mike, a musician, who liked my playing, and said "just relax, write your own songs, play them, and you never know!"
Yes, you never know.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Also,
Today someone gave me one of those shiny new Terry Fox loonies. It's a beautiful thing, and I found it inspiring and motivational. I hope that other people, in whatever field they find themselves, discover those special coins in their change and find strength for their own journey.
So, why did I decide to go back there today? It would have been just as easy to return to Pape Station or Bay or Osgoode, where donations tend to be more steady.
As I was playing, I realized something. When hardly anyone is interacting with me, the people who do seem somehow magnified. I appreciate them more. Today I wanted the opportunity to remember each person who donated, individually. In order to remember them, there had to be fewer of them. So Dundas was perfect.
Here are a few the people who made my afternoon:
- The man who donated something before he heard me play, because he was planning to sit down on the bench beside me for awhile,
- The woman who bought a CD. (I realized later that I asked her a dumb question when determining which CD she might like. I asked "Do you have a family" (when I meant "children") Well, of course she has a family. Funny how one can regret something said in conversation even in this quirky social situation!)
- The young man who looked exactly like Kalan Porter from Canadian Idol (maybe he is!) who said my songs were beautiful,
- The young woman with the purple headscarf,
- The child in the pink jacket with her babysitter,
- The TTC Special Constable who winked at me,
- The gentleman named Mike, a musician, who liked my playing, and said "just relax, write your own songs, play them, and you never know!"
Yes, you never know.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Also,
Today someone gave me one of those shiny new Terry Fox loonies. It's a beautiful thing, and I found it inspiring and motivational. I hope that other people, in whatever field they find themselves, discover those special coins in their change and find strength for their own journey.
Intersections
It's not possible or me to sing, or even to write, today. It's Saturday. Between kids' activities, do-it-yourself house repairs and my brother coming over for dinner, taking time for busking is out of the question.
So I'm writing this, in longhand, during our daughter's drama class, when I go around the corner to the nearby Portuguese bakery for an hour. Who knows when I'll actually post this entry? It'll have to be sometime later, when I'm stealing time away from other work, and when it won't interfere with family business.
My subway singing and writing is taking up a significant amount of discretionary time. (I say this despite how quickly I'm typing, which is becoming pretty impressive.) Because both are essentially voluntary activities, leading to small amounts of income, it's hard to view them with the respect one would normally afford a "real" job. Depending on your perspective, neither busking nor blogging may merit any respect at all.
On weekends like these, I'm reminded of how incompatible an artist's life can be with the regular or respectable path: the life of nine-to-five jobs and traditional family roles. It takes an especially understanding spouse to accomodate his or her partner's intense creative periods...to support them even though they don't seem to be leading anywhere in terms of money or prestige. Competence in a creative activity may not, by itself, inspire the artist's family to support the activity--not unless the art itself is considered something that couldn't be lived without.
These days, how much art is viewed that way? Not much, unless it suddenly starts paying the bills.
My subway project has turned out to be more than I expected it to be. It's become, in a way, a vehicle to help me determine where I should be going. Where is my songwriting taking me? Where do I want to end up?
It's appropriate that I find myself at intersections.
Does one career route end in artistic fulfillment and recognition--or in loneliness, self-indulgence and poverty? Does another track (pursuing art as a hobby) lead to a stable family life and financial security, or to an avoidance of a deeper call? Which route leads to authenticity? Which to happiness?
I know. You're thinking, it doesn't have to be an "either/or". That's my belief as well, most of the time, as I continue to attempt to balance the needs of my partner, my children and myself along with my artistic goals and our financial needs. I work hard every day (and have for years), combining an array of paying jobs (mostly related to writing and teaching) with music performances (paid and unpaid), child care and the creation of new work. Although I might appear successful on the surface, I constantly find myself falling short in one or another of these areas. When I get one thing right, I trip up somewhere else: I see that something needs to be better-attended-to--my partner or my children or my bank balance or my health--and as soon as I turn in that direction I hear a voice calling me from another corner.
Some days I feel stuck at these junctions, unable to go anywhere, and I feel frightened and frustrated that I don't know which track to take. Other times, I appreciate the grace afforded me in the middle-ground, where for a brief period I am dependent on no one and no one is dependent on me.
So I'm writing this, in longhand, during our daughter's drama class, when I go around the corner to the nearby Portuguese bakery for an hour. Who knows when I'll actually post this entry? It'll have to be sometime later, when I'm stealing time away from other work, and when it won't interfere with family business.
My subway singing and writing is taking up a significant amount of discretionary time. (I say this despite how quickly I'm typing, which is becoming pretty impressive.) Because both are essentially voluntary activities, leading to small amounts of income, it's hard to view them with the respect one would normally afford a "real" job. Depending on your perspective, neither busking nor blogging may merit any respect at all.
On weekends like these, I'm reminded of how incompatible an artist's life can be with the regular or respectable path: the life of nine-to-five jobs and traditional family roles. It takes an especially understanding spouse to accomodate his or her partner's intense creative periods...to support them even though they don't seem to be leading anywhere in terms of money or prestige. Competence in a creative activity may not, by itself, inspire the artist's family to support the activity--not unless the art itself is considered something that couldn't be lived without.
These days, how much art is viewed that way? Not much, unless it suddenly starts paying the bills.
My subway project has turned out to be more than I expected it to be. It's become, in a way, a vehicle to help me determine where I should be going. Where is my songwriting taking me? Where do I want to end up?
It's appropriate that I find myself at intersections.
Does one career route end in artistic fulfillment and recognition--or in loneliness, self-indulgence and poverty? Does another track (pursuing art as a hobby) lead to a stable family life and financial security, or to an avoidance of a deeper call? Which route leads to authenticity? Which to happiness?
I know. You're thinking, it doesn't have to be an "either/or". That's my belief as well, most of the time, as I continue to attempt to balance the needs of my partner, my children and myself along with my artistic goals and our financial needs. I work hard every day (and have for years), combining an array of paying jobs (mostly related to writing and teaching) with music performances (paid and unpaid), child care and the creation of new work. Although I might appear successful on the surface, I constantly find myself falling short in one or another of these areas. When I get one thing right, I trip up somewhere else: I see that something needs to be better-attended-to--my partner or my children or my bank balance or my health--and as soon as I turn in that direction I hear a voice calling me from another corner.
Some days I feel stuck at these junctions, unable to go anywhere, and I feel frightened and frustrated that I don't know which track to take. Other times, I appreciate the grace afforded me in the middle-ground, where for a brief period I am dependent on no one and no one is dependent on me.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Teach Your Children
My son's teacher needed a parent volunteer for a field trip, so I joined the class for the day.
I had a good time. I did a good job, too, helping Grade 4 & 5's with a computer project that explored Gothic architecture. As I've told you recently, I enjoy working with children. They're open and alive and interested in things--not always the things you hope they'll be interested in, but interested nonetheless. They have a spark.
I see that spark every day when I'm on the subway. Children love public transit, with its big exciting red streetcars and shiny fast-moving trains. It's all very thrilling. When children see me playing, their eyes get wide and they stare without reservation. Just the thought of a child walking past me with a bored expression makes me laugh because it's so absurd!
Actually, if I saw that expression--that grown-up expression--on a child in real life I'd be concerned for his or her health. ALL young children engage with me as they walk past, virtually without exception. Some adults discourage this engagement, while others seem to use it as a "teaching moment" on the joy of giving and the value of music.
Today on our field trip, it felt strange for me to be on the subway accompanying a group of children--instead of providing musical accompaniment for children passing by. I'm not certain, but I believe another subway passenger recognized me even though I didn't have my guitar along. (I was wearing my bright red coat, which has become my busking uniform.)
At quiet in-between points in the day, the teacher and I talked together. I found myself mentioning my subway busking. I also mentioned my songwriting workshops. But I didn't raise the subject of teacher's college.
It seems I'm pretty clear about what I enjoy doing.
At another point in the day, though, the teacher mentioned a relative of hers who is a craftsperson, living a somewhat free-form life without a regular job.
She was justifiably mystified as to how her sister survives...and she was concerned for her future.
I had a good time. I did a good job, too, helping Grade 4 & 5's with a computer project that explored Gothic architecture. As I've told you recently, I enjoy working with children. They're open and alive and interested in things--not always the things you hope they'll be interested in, but interested nonetheless. They have a spark.
I see that spark every day when I'm on the subway. Children love public transit, with its big exciting red streetcars and shiny fast-moving trains. It's all very thrilling. When children see me playing, their eyes get wide and they stare without reservation. Just the thought of a child walking past me with a bored expression makes me laugh because it's so absurd!
Actually, if I saw that expression--that grown-up expression--on a child in real life I'd be concerned for his or her health. ALL young children engage with me as they walk past, virtually without exception. Some adults discourage this engagement, while others seem to use it as a "teaching moment" on the joy of giving and the value of music.
Today on our field trip, it felt strange for me to be on the subway accompanying a group of children--instead of providing musical accompaniment for children passing by. I'm not certain, but I believe another subway passenger recognized me even though I didn't have my guitar along. (I was wearing my bright red coat, which has become my busking uniform.)
At quiet in-between points in the day, the teacher and I talked together. I found myself mentioning my subway busking. I also mentioned my songwriting workshops. But I didn't raise the subject of teacher's college.
It seems I'm pretty clear about what I enjoy doing.
At another point in the day, though, the teacher mentioned a relative of hers who is a craftsperson, living a somewhat free-form life without a regular job.
She was justifiably mystified as to how her sister survives...and she was concerned for her future.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Long May You Runnymede
Runnymede, morning two.
I decided to come back the next day at exactly the same time (8:30 a.m.) to see if anything had changed, fishing-wise.
I also made a conscious effort to make sure I went in with the right attitude. Specifically, I reminded myself that I couldn't expect generosity if I myself wasn't feeling generous. Although I had taken a philosophical attitude about yesterday's low donations, I had also noticed a bit of cynicism and judgement creeping in: "Hey guy in expensive suit, while you've got your wallet open, why not throw a coin to the musician..." etc.
So I went in with the deliberate intention of simply giving my songs to the station. I briefly considered not opening my guitar case, but I thought that would just baffle everyone and they're already baffled enough. I reminded myself to smile and to be as generous in my outlook as possible.
Apart from being good for my mental health in general, the technique seemed to work. On Morning #1 I earned $11.40 in 1 1/4 hours, while on Morning #2 I earned $16.18 for 55 minutes. That's 15 cents a minute vs. 29 cents a minute, or a 93% increase in my hourly (minutely?) wage.
It's a small change, I know. But hey, it's small change!
My favourite moment came at the very beginning, when a little girl about two years old, being led by her grandma, wanted to listen and then was persuaded to very shyly give me a coin.
I sang Stage directly to her and she was completely enthralled. I had to end the song on purpose in the middle so her grandmother could coax her away without a tantrum.
While this drama was unfolding, a man stopped to watch the three of us interacting. He was clearly delighted, and then he walked off without donating. It didn't matter one bit.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thinking of more good Runnymede song puns? (I know I am!)
"Born to Runnymede" (I thought of using that, but felt it went a bit too far in the enthusiasm department...)
"Take the Money and Runnymede" (Actually, that's probably the best of the bunch isn't it? Let me know if you think of any more.)
I decided to come back the next day at exactly the same time (8:30 a.m.) to see if anything had changed, fishing-wise.
I also made a conscious effort to make sure I went in with the right attitude. Specifically, I reminded myself that I couldn't expect generosity if I myself wasn't feeling generous. Although I had taken a philosophical attitude about yesterday's low donations, I had also noticed a bit of cynicism and judgement creeping in: "Hey guy in expensive suit, while you've got your wallet open, why not throw a coin to the musician..." etc.
So I went in with the deliberate intention of simply giving my songs to the station. I briefly considered not opening my guitar case, but I thought that would just baffle everyone and they're already baffled enough. I reminded myself to smile and to be as generous in my outlook as possible.
Apart from being good for my mental health in general, the technique seemed to work. On Morning #1 I earned $11.40 in 1 1/4 hours, while on Morning #2 I earned $16.18 for 55 minutes. That's 15 cents a minute vs. 29 cents a minute, or a 93% increase in my hourly (minutely?) wage.
It's a small change, I know. But hey, it's small change!
My favourite moment came at the very beginning, when a little girl about two years old, being led by her grandma, wanted to listen and then was persuaded to very shyly give me a coin.
I sang Stage directly to her and she was completely enthralled. I had to end the song on purpose in the middle so her grandmother could coax her away without a tantrum.
While this drama was unfolding, a man stopped to watch the three of us interacting. He was clearly delighted, and then he walked off without donating. It didn't matter one bit.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thinking of more good Runnymede song puns? (I know I am!)
"Born to Runnymede" (I thought of using that, but felt it went a bit too far in the enthusiasm department...)
"Take the Money and Runnymede" (Actually, that's probably the best of the bunch isn't it? Let me know if you think of any more.)
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Runnymede on Empty
Today I went to Runnymede, perhaps the oddest-named subway station on the system. (Does the street refer to 'runny mead' I wonder? Is it some tribute to olde English ales? I must look that up.)
Anyway, Runnymede is in a sedate corner of the city known as Bloor West Village, a well-treed and established neighborhood where the houses are all detached and within walking distance of many quaint gift shoppes and cafes. Kitty-corner from the subway, you'll find a formerly grand historic theatre that was turned into a Chapters bookstore. A few years ago I played a (free) gig in that Chapters.
The performance area at Runnymede is peculiar. Unlike most performance areas, which are up against a wall, this set of yellow dots is smack dab in the middle of the large vestibule in front of a pillar. It's a very exposed place to be (as if any busking location isn't!) The Runnymede spot is positioned very well for pedestrian traffic, putting the performer directly in line of people heading to the turnstiles, often with their wallets open.
I've noticed, however, that if people don't plan to donate, their already-open wallet makes no difference. Indeed, if people do want to support a musician, they're often willing to stop, remove their backpacks and rummage through them to find some change. A few people did things like that this morning, which seemed nothing short of miraculous.
Generally speaking, the passers-by at Runnymede were just that. Passing by. Which is fine, of course.
I'm becoming much more comfortable with "slow" times. Subway performers talk about times and locations the way others talk about fishing: "the busking was good there today". Thinking about it that way, it doesn't seem so personal when many people choose not to donate anything. When you're fishing, you're enjoying the experience itself--the day, the water, the boat--and if you catch something, great. Even when you do catch a fish, you might let it go. The fishing metaphor helps me let go of expectations of financial return, and simply enjoy the experience.
Which is why I plan to return to Runnymede tomorrow morning, also at rush hour, to see if the fishing's any better.
Anyway, Runnymede is in a sedate corner of the city known as Bloor West Village, a well-treed and established neighborhood where the houses are all detached and within walking distance of many quaint gift shoppes and cafes. Kitty-corner from the subway, you'll find a formerly grand historic theatre that was turned into a Chapters bookstore. A few years ago I played a (free) gig in that Chapters.
The performance area at Runnymede is peculiar. Unlike most performance areas, which are up against a wall, this set of yellow dots is smack dab in the middle of the large vestibule in front of a pillar. It's a very exposed place to be (as if any busking location isn't!) The Runnymede spot is positioned very well for pedestrian traffic, putting the performer directly in line of people heading to the turnstiles, often with their wallets open.
I've noticed, however, that if people don't plan to donate, their already-open wallet makes no difference. Indeed, if people do want to support a musician, they're often willing to stop, remove their backpacks and rummage through them to find some change. A few people did things like that this morning, which seemed nothing short of miraculous.
Generally speaking, the passers-by at Runnymede were just that. Passing by. Which is fine, of course.
I'm becoming much more comfortable with "slow" times. Subway performers talk about times and locations the way others talk about fishing: "the busking was good there today". Thinking about it that way, it doesn't seem so personal when many people choose not to donate anything. When you're fishing, you're enjoying the experience itself--the day, the water, the boat--and if you catch something, great. Even when you do catch a fish, you might let it go. The fishing metaphor helps me let go of expectations of financial return, and simply enjoy the experience.
Which is why I plan to return to Runnymede tomorrow morning, also at rush hour, to see if the fishing's any better.
Friday, April 15, 2005
First Day of School
I was driving to a school in Port Perry, Ontario, and thinking about teacher's college.
Last night, Dave and I had one of those challenging conversations that other couples probably also have when at least one of them is an artist. The conversations have to do with the money one wishes one had...the money that would allow us to make house repairs without thinking about them...the money that would allow us to replace the 1990 Honda I was driving to Port Perry, and so on.
Most times, our lifestyle seems modest but comfortable. We place a high value on simplicity and small spaces, recycled clothing and homemade fun. I really do love our car, even though I'm starting to feel embarrassed by the rust. We live in a wonderful, eclectic neighborhood steps from a playground, and probably wouldn't move even if we could afford a larger home.
Still, these conversations do come up from time to time.
When they do, I wonder what path I could jump to, as gracefully as possible, so as to find a reasonably secure, well-paying job with dental benefits and maybe even a pension? I wonder if having such a job would prevent future conversations...and set my children up for a more financially secure future.
The idea of becoming a teacher had come up before. My mother (an accomplished painter and potter) was a public school teacher for 25 years. I wondered, as I drove, if my undergraduate degree would be enough to get in to teacher's college...whether I'd have to take upgrade courses.
And I noticed for the first time, in the fog that so often follows difficult late-night conversations, that here I was again, pursuing my music career, yes, but also driving to a another school.
I've been doing a lot of songwriting workshops lately. It turns out I'm good at them. I feel comfortable in classrooms and I love working with kids.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
On the other hand, my fantasy faded a bit as I spent time in the actual classroom, reining in a group of grade seven boys who had brought their electric guitars and amps to class ("Can you play 'Stairway to Heaven', Miss?").
Keeping them on track took at least as much energy as busking does. (And yeah, I did play 'Stairway to Heaven').
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was practically desperate to get to the subway when I left the school, even though the workshop had gone well.
Because I had to pick up my daughter at 3:45, I knew I'd only have an hour at Pape Station, if I hurried. So there I was, barrelling down the 401, hoping I wouldn't get a speeding ticket in an effort to be a subway musician.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I made it to Pape Station by 2:15, giving me exactly one hour to sing. I started setting up my amp, when I heard a familiar voice.
"Lynn!", she said, "This is amazing. I never take the subway, but I decided to today, and here you are!"
It was a friend from university, also an artist, who has spent the last twenty years combining theatre work, tutoring and parenthood. Always enthusiastic and supportive about my music, she asked about my recent show and upcoming concerts. I asked about her family and her own career.
"I just got accepted into teacher's college," she said.
She told me how she'd been worried about "selling out" and "giving up"...how she thought she might not get in because she only has an undergraduate degree (the same one as me, with the same average). She told me she's taking it a step at a time.
I said, we'll have to talk.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I didn't play First Day of School today.
Crying in the subway isn't pretty.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Last night, Dave and I had one of those challenging conversations that other couples probably also have when at least one of them is an artist. The conversations have to do with the money one wishes one had...the money that would allow us to make house repairs without thinking about them...the money that would allow us to replace the 1990 Honda I was driving to Port Perry, and so on.
Most times, our lifestyle seems modest but comfortable. We place a high value on simplicity and small spaces, recycled clothing and homemade fun. I really do love our car, even though I'm starting to feel embarrassed by the rust. We live in a wonderful, eclectic neighborhood steps from a playground, and probably wouldn't move even if we could afford a larger home.
Still, these conversations do come up from time to time.
When they do, I wonder what path I could jump to, as gracefully as possible, so as to find a reasonably secure, well-paying job with dental benefits and maybe even a pension? I wonder if having such a job would prevent future conversations...and set my children up for a more financially secure future.
The idea of becoming a teacher had come up before. My mother (an accomplished painter and potter) was a public school teacher for 25 years. I wondered, as I drove, if my undergraduate degree would be enough to get in to teacher's college...whether I'd have to take upgrade courses.
And I noticed for the first time, in the fog that so often follows difficult late-night conversations, that here I was again, pursuing my music career, yes, but also driving to a another school.
I've been doing a lot of songwriting workshops lately. It turns out I'm good at them. I feel comfortable in classrooms and I love working with kids.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
On the other hand, my fantasy faded a bit as I spent time in the actual classroom, reining in a group of grade seven boys who had brought their electric guitars and amps to class ("Can you play 'Stairway to Heaven', Miss?").
Keeping them on track took at least as much energy as busking does. (And yeah, I did play 'Stairway to Heaven').
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was practically desperate to get to the subway when I left the school, even though the workshop had gone well.
Because I had to pick up my daughter at 3:45, I knew I'd only have an hour at Pape Station, if I hurried. So there I was, barrelling down the 401, hoping I wouldn't get a speeding ticket in an effort to be a subway musician.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I made it to Pape Station by 2:15, giving me exactly one hour to sing. I started setting up my amp, when I heard a familiar voice.
"Lynn!", she said, "This is amazing. I never take the subway, but I decided to today, and here you are!"
It was a friend from university, also an artist, who has spent the last twenty years combining theatre work, tutoring and parenthood. Always enthusiastic and supportive about my music, she asked about my recent show and upcoming concerts. I asked about her family and her own career.
"I just got accepted into teacher's college," she said.
She told me how she'd been worried about "selling out" and "giving up"...how she thought she might not get in because she only has an undergraduate degree (the same one as me, with the same average). She told me she's taking it a step at a time.
I said, we'll have to talk.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I didn't play First Day of School today.
Crying in the subway isn't pretty.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thursday, April 14, 2005
We have a delay at Eglinton
As you may have guessed, I didn't return to Eglinton after my last visit.
Why is it that certain stations feel "right" and others do not? Is it the people passing through (demographics of certain areas in the city) or is the architecture itself (flow of pedestrian traffic)? Why do some musicians succeed in one environment while others don't? I don't have any proof that Adam did any better at Eglinton than I did, but he did seem more at ease.
Seeming ill-at-ease guarantees disaster in any performance situation.
So I'm sure Adam did just fine.
It's interesting that even a moving audience, watching you for only a few seconds, can smell fear.
I believe that it's important to confront that fear: to face it and own it in order to overcome it. That's part of the reason I'm busking. As a result of this choice, I'm feeling much more confident than I used to, and I believe I have a greater degree of self-acceptance.
Maybe it's that self-acceptance that helps me realize it's good to recognize an unhealthy situation for what it is and to take myself out of it. There's uncomfortable (challenging, worth sticking with) and there's unhealthy (marginalizing, victimizing). Trying to sort out which is which isn't always easy.
As it turned out, there were lots of reasons why busking at Eglinton was inconvenient for me this week. Mostly, I was just really busy. At the same time, I just didn't want to go back, and so I didn't. This week, it seemed to be the healthy and sane choice.
(I'm also perfectly happy to be busy on both Friday and Saturday night, so I'll miss my opportunity to play Yonge & Bloor station in front of thousands of late-night clubgoers.)
Why is it that certain stations feel "right" and others do not? Is it the people passing through (demographics of certain areas in the city) or is the architecture itself (flow of pedestrian traffic)? Why do some musicians succeed in one environment while others don't? I don't have any proof that Adam did any better at Eglinton than I did, but he did seem more at ease.
Seeming ill-at-ease guarantees disaster in any performance situation.
So I'm sure Adam did just fine.
It's interesting that even a moving audience, watching you for only a few seconds, can smell fear.
I believe that it's important to confront that fear: to face it and own it in order to overcome it. That's part of the reason I'm busking. As a result of this choice, I'm feeling much more confident than I used to, and I believe I have a greater degree of self-acceptance.
Maybe it's that self-acceptance that helps me realize it's good to recognize an unhealthy situation for what it is and to take myself out of it. There's uncomfortable (challenging, worth sticking with) and there's unhealthy (marginalizing, victimizing). Trying to sort out which is which isn't always easy.
As it turned out, there were lots of reasons why busking at Eglinton was inconvenient for me this week. Mostly, I was just really busy. At the same time, I just didn't want to go back, and so I didn't. This week, it seemed to be the healthy and sane choice.
(I'm also perfectly happy to be busy on both Friday and Saturday night, so I'll miss my opportunity to play Yonge & Bloor station in front of thousands of late-night clubgoers.)
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Egads! I'm at Eglinton!
A few months ago, I almost played at Eglinton subway but chickened out. So I was determined to play there during my scheduled time this afternoon.
Unfortunately, Adam Solomon was there when I arrived. He's an African guitar player who just returned from Winnipeg after winning a well-deserved Juno Award. I noticed that he wasn't displaying it in his guitar case--that would probably be unwise--but his intricate finger-picking sounded nothing less than stellar.
I'm not sure how to describe what Adam does. Is it jazz? World music? Some newfangled kind of ultra-cool R & B? Hmm... Whatever it is, it makes the mini-mall in the middle of Eglinton Station seem like a happening place to be.
I considered going back home and not interrupting him. But no! This is Eglinton! Stay the course, I told myself.
Meanwhile, easygoing Adam was happy to take a break. He ambled off to enjoy the sunny afternoon, leaving all of his interesting amps and instruments taking up most of the performance space between the yellow dots. I apologized for interrupting, squeezed myself into the remaining space and started to play.
Oh yeah, there was one other thing taking up a lot of space. My massive Inferiority Complex.
And it's a bigger liability than a broken string.
None of my songs sounded right at Eglinton today. My voice didn't seem to carry...my melodies seemed obvious...my lyrics seemed ridiculous. Shortly after I started, another musician from the open mic circuit came by and listened to six songs. Even though he complimented me on each of them, I still felt insecure. Then a nice elderly man came along and commented on my fingerpicking. I thanked him. And he revealed he was once a major folk festival booker. (Did I mention my timing was off?)
He picked up my CD. And put it back down.
I idiotically offered to give it to him in appreciation for his years of service (What was I thinking?!). He didn't take it then either.
Needless to say, I couldn't hear myself very well at Eglinton. I kept checking my amp to see if it was turned up to the highest allowable level. (It was past it.) My voice seemed to be swallowed up by the passing crowds. After a half-hour, I started wishing fervently that Adam Solomon would come back so I could go home.
Eventually he did come back. He listened to a few songs and made a donation.
And he paid me a lovely compliment.
Which I could barely hear.
Unfortunately, Adam Solomon was there when I arrived. He's an African guitar player who just returned from Winnipeg after winning a well-deserved Juno Award. I noticed that he wasn't displaying it in his guitar case--that would probably be unwise--but his intricate finger-picking sounded nothing less than stellar.
I'm not sure how to describe what Adam does. Is it jazz? World music? Some newfangled kind of ultra-cool R & B? Hmm... Whatever it is, it makes the mini-mall in the middle of Eglinton Station seem like a happening place to be.
I considered going back home and not interrupting him. But no! This is Eglinton! Stay the course, I told myself.
Meanwhile, easygoing Adam was happy to take a break. He ambled off to enjoy the sunny afternoon, leaving all of his interesting amps and instruments taking up most of the performance space between the yellow dots. I apologized for interrupting, squeezed myself into the remaining space and started to play.
Oh yeah, there was one other thing taking up a lot of space. My massive Inferiority Complex.
And it's a bigger liability than a broken string.
None of my songs sounded right at Eglinton today. My voice didn't seem to carry...my melodies seemed obvious...my lyrics seemed ridiculous. Shortly after I started, another musician from the open mic circuit came by and listened to six songs. Even though he complimented me on each of them, I still felt insecure. Then a nice elderly man came along and commented on my fingerpicking. I thanked him. And he revealed he was once a major folk festival booker. (Did I mention my timing was off?)
He picked up my CD. And put it back down.
I idiotically offered to give it to him in appreciation for his years of service (What was I thinking?!). He didn't take it then either.
Needless to say, I couldn't hear myself very well at Eglinton. I kept checking my amp to see if it was turned up to the highest allowable level. (It was past it.) My voice seemed to be swallowed up by the passing crowds. After a half-hour, I started wishing fervently that Adam Solomon would come back so I could go home.
Eventually he did come back. He listened to a few songs and made a donation.
And he paid me a lovely compliment.
Which I could barely hear.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Belonging
This past weekend was the first gloriously warm weekend of spring, and we decided to celebrate by taking a family walk along the Boardwalk in Toronto's Beach neighborhood.
This stretch of sand and sky is one of the prettiest places in Toronto. Couples walk arm in arm, toddlers wobble along adorably, dogs and joggers run in rhythm...and the big city seems miles away. With the setting sun casting a pink glow on everything, the scene couldn't be more idyllic. But then the unmistakable melody of "What A Wonderful World" wafts over everything from the strings of a sweet old Gibson, and we're truly in heaven.
Now that's a busker.
After making a contribution, Dave and I talked about why the music "worked". We agreed that in addition to being an excellent player, the guitarist seemed to fit his environment. He and his music just seemed to belong there. He didn't seem at all out-of-place or superfluous. His choice to play there made sense. Not surprisingly, he seemed happy and completely comfortable. As I passed his guitar case, I was admittedly curious about "how he was doing"--and to my surprise his case wasn't overflowing with toonies. He was doing fine enough. But more important, he was doing fine.
His music was doing something fine, indeed.
+++
When we got home from the Beach after dark, we learned that the TTC strike had been averted.
Okay then. Tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Eglinton station, the busking spot I lacked the nerve to visit a few months ago.
This stretch of sand and sky is one of the prettiest places in Toronto. Couples walk arm in arm, toddlers wobble along adorably, dogs and joggers run in rhythm...and the big city seems miles away. With the setting sun casting a pink glow on everything, the scene couldn't be more idyllic. But then the unmistakable melody of "What A Wonderful World" wafts over everything from the strings of a sweet old Gibson, and we're truly in heaven.
Now that's a busker.
After making a contribution, Dave and I talked about why the music "worked". We agreed that in addition to being an excellent player, the guitarist seemed to fit his environment. He and his music just seemed to belong there. He didn't seem at all out-of-place or superfluous. His choice to play there made sense. Not surprisingly, he seemed happy and completely comfortable. As I passed his guitar case, I was admittedly curious about "how he was doing"--and to my surprise his case wasn't overflowing with toonies. He was doing fine enough. But more important, he was doing fine.
His music was doing something fine, indeed.
+++
When we got home from the Beach after dark, we learned that the TTC strike had been averted.
Okay then. Tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Eglinton station, the busking spot I lacked the nerve to visit a few months ago.
The Other Way
With the TTC looming, I heard that a number of other subway buskers were planning to play outside liquor stores.
One of my neighbours urged me to do the same thing. Turns out he's been playing outside the Beer Store near our street, and he's been doing quite well.
I thanked him for the suggestion.
But there's no way I'm going there.
One of my neighbours urged me to do the same thing. Turns out he's been playing outside the Beer Store near our street, and he's been doing quite well.
I thanked him for the suggestion.
But there's no way I'm going there.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Standstill?
Of course, I was so busy writing about how much fun I'm having in the subway, I missed the announcement that the TTC is going on strike on Monday.
The Halfway Point
Today I marked the six-month anniversary of my first busking year by playing at Pape Station.
I only had an hour to spare this morning, but I knew it would be enough. In an hour I can play up to twenty songs, which is the length of a long set in a regular paid performance. Even one song, by itself, is better than none.
I thought of the man's question at Woodbine yesterday: "Is this worth your while?" I realize that my answer has always been yes, even when donations are slow and I'm feeling discouraged. Even when the songs don't seem to be reaching anyone else, they're reaching me...keeping me connected to the world and to my spirit. And I am sure that the music (the music of all the volunteer subway players) changes the city in ways we don't completely understand.
But let's be honest. It's just plain hard. Every time I play in the subway, I experience painful moments (sometimes stretching into half-hours) of doubt and discouragement, when I feel marginalized, ridiculous, a failure. There are many times when I consider turning around and heading back home so as to avoid embarrassment.
I often find myself asking "What am I doing here?".
That seems to be the central question.
When I ask it one way, I'm expressing a deep sense of frustration. I feel as though I don't know where to turn or what purpose I'm serving. I'm tired and self-pitying. I'm afraid that I've made foolish choices with my life and have landed in the wrong place.
But when I ask it another way, as a spiritual question or prayer, it's a question of deeper purpose: What can I do to make the most of this situation, this place, this song, this life, this moment?
When I'm singing on the subway I ask that question all the time. I see it from both perspectives, like two sides of a coin.
+++
Here's a list of the most important things I've observed, in six months of subway busking.
Many people are kind and generous.
Most people are preoccupied and distracted.
Many people appear sad.
Most adults tune out their surroundings
...but children tune in to everything.
Children freely express interest and delight
...while adults rarely do.
(Children find this confusing.)
People seem happier in light places.
People enjoy giving.
People like to hear "thank you".
People like to say "thanks".
All people are fascinating.
All people are beautiful.
We look more alike than we realize.
We can rely on serendipity.
We are all connected.
Every contribution means something.
It all adds up.
I only had an hour to spare this morning, but I knew it would be enough. In an hour I can play up to twenty songs, which is the length of a long set in a regular paid performance. Even one song, by itself, is better than none.
I thought of the man's question at Woodbine yesterday: "Is this worth your while?" I realize that my answer has always been yes, even when donations are slow and I'm feeling discouraged. Even when the songs don't seem to be reaching anyone else, they're reaching me...keeping me connected to the world and to my spirit. And I am sure that the music (the music of all the volunteer subway players) changes the city in ways we don't completely understand.
But let's be honest. It's just plain hard. Every time I play in the subway, I experience painful moments (sometimes stretching into half-hours) of doubt and discouragement, when I feel marginalized, ridiculous, a failure. There are many times when I consider turning around and heading back home so as to avoid embarrassment.
I often find myself asking "What am I doing here?".
That seems to be the central question.
When I ask it one way, I'm expressing a deep sense of frustration. I feel as though I don't know where to turn or what purpose I'm serving. I'm tired and self-pitying. I'm afraid that I've made foolish choices with my life and have landed in the wrong place.
But when I ask it another way, as a spiritual question or prayer, it's a question of deeper purpose: What can I do to make the most of this situation, this place, this song, this life, this moment?
When I'm singing on the subway I ask that question all the time. I see it from both perspectives, like two sides of a coin.
+++
Here's a list of the most important things I've observed, in six months of subway busking.
Many people are kind and generous.
Most people are preoccupied and distracted.
Many people appear sad.
Most adults tune out their surroundings
...but children tune in to everything.
Children freely express interest and delight
...while adults rarely do.
(Children find this confusing.)
People seem happier in light places.
People enjoy giving.
People like to hear "thank you".
People like to say "thanks".
All people are fascinating.
All people are beautiful.
We look more alike than we realize.
We can rely on serendipity.
We are all connected.
Every contribution means something.
It all adds up.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Return to Earth: Woodbine
It’s possible that the creative high was hormonal and the song isn’t really good after all.
I felt doubtful about it when I played it at Fat Albert’s last night and forgot half the lyrics--the same ones I’d been blissfully replaying for more than 48 hours. The other day I sang it in the subway with no difficulty whatsoever, but when I played it for people who were listening intently, my mind went blank.
Of course, everyone was supportive anyway. (These places are like church or 12-Step programs, and thank Goodness for that.) I was disappointed that I didn't manage a more polished performance, but I also figured it was a good reminder not to take myself (or the song) too seriously.
“I’d like to hear it again,” one friend told me. (Well, yeah…it’d be good to hear all of the correct lyrics. And in the right order.)
Now that the euphoric high has dissipated and I’ve returned to earth, I’m amazed at how much time was soaked up by the song. It dominated three days, leaving me behind on several things, especially because it came on the heels of last weekend’s concert. I dug out a bit by cleaning the house for an hour today and catching up on a writing project. But I still felt behind on everything and completely exhausted.
I considered skipping the subway, but realized I’d feel better if I did. At the very least, I’d feel better about myself having made the effort. So I went to Woodbine station, a stop I hadn’t visited for a long time. There’s something about the architecture of that green corridor that makes me feel protected and comfortable. I wanted to go there today even though it’s not the most well-travelled station.
Despite feeling exhausted before I began, I found myself singing and playing well, feeling confident and enjoying the connection with people. I played “Music Town” four times (not forgetting the lyrics) which attracted a number of donations. I sold a CD. Today I noticed, as I have other times, that many people making donations were moving more slowly than others, sometimes because of age or disability. On the other hand, others were actually running past me today, but many of them smiled as they whizzed by.
One man stopped to talk, asking if it’s worth my while financially to come out and sing. I told him that it was better than sitting at home.
I didn’t tell him that this afternoon, I’d been in danger of falling prey to the low that can follow the creative high. If I'd stayed home, I would have been second-guessing the quality of my new song and kicking myself for not playing it better last night. In short, I would have been feeling sorry for myself and letting insecurity get the best of me.
Better to come out and sing.
I felt doubtful about it when I played it at Fat Albert’s last night and forgot half the lyrics--the same ones I’d been blissfully replaying for more than 48 hours. The other day I sang it in the subway with no difficulty whatsoever, but when I played it for people who were listening intently, my mind went blank.
Of course, everyone was supportive anyway. (These places are like church or 12-Step programs, and thank Goodness for that.) I was disappointed that I didn't manage a more polished performance, but I also figured it was a good reminder not to take myself (or the song) too seriously.
“I’d like to hear it again,” one friend told me. (Well, yeah…it’d be good to hear all of the correct lyrics. And in the right order.)
Now that the euphoric high has dissipated and I’ve returned to earth, I’m amazed at how much time was soaked up by the song. It dominated three days, leaving me behind on several things, especially because it came on the heels of last weekend’s concert. I dug out a bit by cleaning the house for an hour today and catching up on a writing project. But I still felt behind on everything and completely exhausted.
I considered skipping the subway, but realized I’d feel better if I did. At the very least, I’d feel better about myself having made the effort. So I went to Woodbine station, a stop I hadn’t visited for a long time. There’s something about the architecture of that green corridor that makes me feel protected and comfortable. I wanted to go there today even though it’s not the most well-travelled station.
Despite feeling exhausted before I began, I found myself singing and playing well, feeling confident and enjoying the connection with people. I played “Music Town” four times (not forgetting the lyrics) which attracted a number of donations. I sold a CD. Today I noticed, as I have other times, that many people making donations were moving more slowly than others, sometimes because of age or disability. On the other hand, others were actually running past me today, but many of them smiled as they whizzed by.
One man stopped to talk, asking if it’s worth my while financially to come out and sing. I told him that it was better than sitting at home.
I didn’t tell him that this afternoon, I’d been in danger of falling prey to the low that can follow the creative high. If I'd stayed home, I would have been second-guessing the quality of my new song and kicking myself for not playing it better last night. In short, I would have been feeling sorry for myself and letting insecurity get the best of me.
Better to come out and sing.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Wednesday Morning, Music Town
My schedule said "Broadview Station, Morning". Sounded good to me.
When I got there I had second thoughts. The construction materials are really piling up in the performance space now, so I'd have to go up against a metal barrier, a stack of drywall and two pylons. Not to mention dust.
I considered sticking around and serenading the construction workers...but I chickened out and went to Pape again, where I resolved to play "Creature of Habit".
Several TTC workers were standing in the performance space when I arrived, talking to each other perhaps about the potential TTC strike which could begin next week. I walked up to them, wearing my best "I-hate-to-bother-you-but-I-was-hoping-to-busk" expression.
"Oh! You want to play here!" one exclaimed, seeming surprised and delighted by the idea. As I set up, they asked me how my amp worked and inquired about how much money I make. I told them I hope for about $20 an hour in a good location.
As it turned out, my amp didn't work very well at all today, dying out in the middle of a song after I'd been playing for 45 minutes. When I played without it, I heard myself over-singing to make up for the loss of volume. I decided to stop early. By doing so, I also made sure I wouldn't be late to pick up the kids for lunch. (Surely I'm the only mother perpetually running late because of her busking commitments.)
In this performance, I debuted the new song I've been telling you about. (!!!!...gratuitous punctuation to indicate continuing feelings of euphoria!!!)
So far, public reaction to the new work is positive.
In 45 minutes I earned $15.75 (exactly as estimated).
Approximately $7.00 of that (in five separate donations) came for "Music Town".
When I got there I had second thoughts. The construction materials are really piling up in the performance space now, so I'd have to go up against a metal barrier, a stack of drywall and two pylons. Not to mention dust.
I considered sticking around and serenading the construction workers...but I chickened out and went to Pape again, where I resolved to play "Creature of Habit".
Several TTC workers were standing in the performance space when I arrived, talking to each other perhaps about the potential TTC strike which could begin next week. I walked up to them, wearing my best "I-hate-to-bother-you-but-I-was-hoping-to-busk" expression.
"Oh! You want to play here!" one exclaimed, seeming surprised and delighted by the idea. As I set up, they asked me how my amp worked and inquired about how much money I make. I told them I hope for about $20 an hour in a good location.
As it turned out, my amp didn't work very well at all today, dying out in the middle of a song after I'd been playing for 45 minutes. When I played without it, I heard myself over-singing to make up for the loss of volume. I decided to stop early. By doing so, I also made sure I wouldn't be late to pick up the kids for lunch. (Surely I'm the only mother perpetually running late because of her busking commitments.)
In this performance, I debuted the new song I've been telling you about. (!!!!...gratuitous punctuation to indicate continuing feelings of euphoria!!!)
So far, public reaction to the new work is positive.
In 45 minutes I earned $15.75 (exactly as estimated).
Approximately $7.00 of that (in five separate donations) came for "Music Town".
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Creative Highs
The feeling of euphoria connected with writing a shiny new song has continued over the last few days. During that time, I've tinkered with the lyrics a bit more, settled on the groove and added hooky parts to the guitar and vocals.
All this time, I've been in a great mood. (Did the mood come first, or the song? Could this be hormonal?!) Things that normally trip me up are easy to manage.
I don't feel jealous of a friend's major movie opportunity or another friend's million dollar house. I'm more accepting of my own flaws (such as my tendency to feel jealous of stuff like that) and those of others. I'm smiling at everybody all the time. I'm dressing better and I feel great, even though I feel exhausted. Have I mentioned it's like falling in love? Maybe this is why some artists find it hard to stay in relationships...the relationship with the work can be like a romantic affair.
It's probably no accident that I wrote the song immediately after my big show last weekend, a time which often feels anti-climactic to say the least. I often feel exhausted and even depressed after big shows, wondering "what was the point of that?" and "what do I do now?" The new song moved right into that void, filling it up with positive new energy.
It's interesting to me that the feeling of creative joy seems to have nothing to do with professional expectations. I don't feel the song will "change" anything in my life. I'm not happy because I could enter it in contests or put it on my new CD or use it to open any doors, even though I believe it's one of the best I've ever written. The joy seems to lie instead in the feeling of meeting a "personal best" goal and in appreciating a beautiful new thing that wasn't there before and that I helped bring into being.
The creative high, while it lasts, overrides professional disappointment and envy and ambition. Maybe that's not so good, in a way. The song's mere existence doesn't pay any bills...and in fact the dreamlike euphoria could fool you into thinking the bills don't matter. That's why I'm grateful that I have some other commitments today (writing jobs and childcare) that keep me my feet on the ground of the real world while my head's in the creative clouds.
All this time, I've been in a great mood. (Did the mood come first, or the song? Could this be hormonal?!) Things that normally trip me up are easy to manage.
I don't feel jealous of a friend's major movie opportunity or another friend's million dollar house. I'm more accepting of my own flaws (such as my tendency to feel jealous of stuff like that) and those of others. I'm smiling at everybody all the time. I'm dressing better and I feel great, even though I feel exhausted. Have I mentioned it's like falling in love? Maybe this is why some artists find it hard to stay in relationships...the relationship with the work can be like a romantic affair.
It's probably no accident that I wrote the song immediately after my big show last weekend, a time which often feels anti-climactic to say the least. I often feel exhausted and even depressed after big shows, wondering "what was the point of that?" and "what do I do now?" The new song moved right into that void, filling it up with positive new energy.
It's interesting to me that the feeling of creative joy seems to have nothing to do with professional expectations. I don't feel the song will "change" anything in my life. I'm not happy because I could enter it in contests or put it on my new CD or use it to open any doors, even though I believe it's one of the best I've ever written. The joy seems to lie instead in the feeling of meeting a "personal best" goal and in appreciating a beautiful new thing that wasn't there before and that I helped bring into being.
The creative high, while it lasts, overrides professional disappointment and envy and ambition. Maybe that's not so good, in a way. The song's mere existence doesn't pay any bills...and in fact the dreamlike euphoria could fool you into thinking the bills don't matter. That's why I'm grateful that I have some other commitments today (writing jobs and childcare) that keep me my feet on the ground of the real world while my head's in the creative clouds.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Submerged in a Song
Since about 1 p.m. today I have been intensely preoccupied by a new song. I think it's finished now, which means it's taken about nine hours. I've taken a few breaks, for dinner and family activities, but I know I haven't been very good company. At dinner, I apologized for seeming distant.
My best songs are always born this way: quickly (over twenty-four hours or less) and very intensely. I compare the experience to falling in love or giving birth. It feels exhilarating and exciting and also disorienting, physically demanding and somehow painful. There's no stopping it. Eveything must yield.
+++
Because I'm just finishing the process, I can sketch out that process right now. I want to do this for myself, because a few days from now I will have completely forgotten how the song was born. (If you think this is too 'me, me, me', stop reading now!)
Earlier in the day, as a diversion, I started writing a (separate) silly novelty song on a related topic. I finished it during a break from the Big Song, so I ended up with one funny and one serious song on the same general idea.
Here's how writing of the big song went. I can't remember if I had the chord pattern or the title line first, so they must have come together. Because I'd used the same pattern before, I decided to change it a little so as not to repeat myself. I did something similar with the melody: started with something simple and made small adjustments to make it more interesting, experimenting to see what sounded most original and natural to sing. I also kept adjusting the tempo and strumming pattern, and though I'm getting close to deciding, right now I'm still debating two tempos/feels.
The lyrics started with a title/hook line and really got going with a metaphor that seemed fresh and surprising to me. I took care to ensure that the verses developed logically and told some kind of story and that there was a revelatory twist at the end. As usually happens when a song goes well, two "bingo!" surprise lyrics fell into my lap like perfect puzzle pieces, without any conscious effort.
Over the past few days, three songwriters have been on my mind: Jimmy Webb , Neil Young and Ron Sexsmith and I understand how they all influenced the song (though I doubt anybody else could tell, and I hope they can't!)
Another sign of a good song: I must play it soon in public.
My best songs are always born this way: quickly (over twenty-four hours or less) and very intensely. I compare the experience to falling in love or giving birth. It feels exhilarating and exciting and also disorienting, physically demanding and somehow painful. There's no stopping it. Eveything must yield.
+++
Because I'm just finishing the process, I can sketch out that process right now. I want to do this for myself, because a few days from now I will have completely forgotten how the song was born. (If you think this is too 'me, me, me', stop reading now!)
Earlier in the day, as a diversion, I started writing a (separate) silly novelty song on a related topic. I finished it during a break from the Big Song, so I ended up with one funny and one serious song on the same general idea.
Here's how writing of the big song went. I can't remember if I had the chord pattern or the title line first, so they must have come together. Because I'd used the same pattern before, I decided to change it a little so as not to repeat myself. I did something similar with the melody: started with something simple and made small adjustments to make it more interesting, experimenting to see what sounded most original and natural to sing. I also kept adjusting the tempo and strumming pattern, and though I'm getting close to deciding, right now I'm still debating two tempos/feels.
The lyrics started with a title/hook line and really got going with a metaphor that seemed fresh and surprising to me. I took care to ensure that the verses developed logically and told some kind of story and that there was a revelatory twist at the end. As usually happens when a song goes well, two "bingo!" surprise lyrics fell into my lap like perfect puzzle pieces, without any conscious effort.
Over the past few days, three songwriters have been on my mind: Jimmy Webb , Neil Young and Ron Sexsmith and I understand how they all influenced the song (though I doubt anybody else could tell, and I hope they can't!)
Another sign of a good song: I must play it soon in public.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Spring Forward
Ten minutes to showtime and I still hadn't figured out the coffeemaker.
It was the night of our big "Feels Like Spring" concert, which proved to be an ironically amusing title. I'm not what you'd call an ironic songwriter (which is perhaps unfortunate in an age of stylish post-modernism) so holding a "Feels Like Spring" concert in the middle of a freezing slush storm seemed particularly daring.
Anyway, we were prepared. We had created see-through green bookmarks and given them away as a souvenir in the program (yes, a program!) so it could feel like spring no matter what. Also, the concert had chanced to fall on "spring forward" night, which allowed me to sing my lyric "turn your clocks forward, don't you fall back, don't get tripped up by those things you still lack" with extra enthusiasm.
More than 80 people turned out for my show last night at our nearby community centre. (It's a lovely place, a big historical building, but not well known. To direct people to it I found myself referring to Jilly's, the better-known strip club a block away.) My bandmates for the night, Noah Zacharin and David Woodhead , played brilliantly. As for me, I decided it was best to simply sing and not mention the coffee-making debacle.
I've heard it said that when you're a mother, you're also a nurse, short-order cook, teacher, coach, cleaning lady and child psychologist. It's probably equally true that independent musicians are often publicists, event coordinators, caterers, couriers, set decorators and e-mail marketers.
At one point, when people were arriving, the decorations weren't quite up yet, the CD and food tables were a work-in-progress and I still hadn't figured out the coffee, I started to panic. A kind musician friend took me aside and reminded me that no matter what, I could just get up with the band and sing the songs and everybody would have a good time. I realized she was right.
We had hoped the weather would be perfect on April 2nd, and we'd hoped to have every single detail perfectly in place hours before the show. But that doesn't really feel like spring at all. Spring is known for its slush storms. And community events are (in my experience) known for their mystifying coffeemakers.
After talking to my friend, I looked around the room again and saw that miraculously the room had been transformed. Lights glittered on the ceiling, colourful paper flowers bedecked the floor and the CD and food tables looked fantastic, all thanks to many talented and generous friends.
The show went forward. It did "Feel Like Spring". I'm told the coffee was excellent...and so was the music.
+++
Our family spent the day recovering from last night's show...but we had enough energy to watch the Juno Awards, which were held in my hometown, Winnipeg, this year. We all jumped up from the couch and cheered when Ron Sexsmith won Songwriter of the Year.
It was the night of our big "Feels Like Spring" concert, which proved to be an ironically amusing title. I'm not what you'd call an ironic songwriter (which is perhaps unfortunate in an age of stylish post-modernism) so holding a "Feels Like Spring" concert in the middle of a freezing slush storm seemed particularly daring.
Anyway, we were prepared. We had created see-through green bookmarks and given them away as a souvenir in the program (yes, a program!) so it could feel like spring no matter what. Also, the concert had chanced to fall on "spring forward" night, which allowed me to sing my lyric "turn your clocks forward, don't you fall back, don't get tripped up by those things you still lack" with extra enthusiasm.
More than 80 people turned out for my show last night at our nearby community centre. (It's a lovely place, a big historical building, but not well known. To direct people to it I found myself referring to Jilly's, the better-known strip club a block away.) My bandmates for the night, Noah Zacharin and David Woodhead , played brilliantly. As for me, I decided it was best to simply sing and not mention the coffee-making debacle.
I've heard it said that when you're a mother, you're also a nurse, short-order cook, teacher, coach, cleaning lady and child psychologist. It's probably equally true that independent musicians are often publicists, event coordinators, caterers, couriers, set decorators and e-mail marketers.
At one point, when people were arriving, the decorations weren't quite up yet, the CD and food tables were a work-in-progress and I still hadn't figured out the coffee, I started to panic. A kind musician friend took me aside and reminded me that no matter what, I could just get up with the band and sing the songs and everybody would have a good time. I realized she was right.
We had hoped the weather would be perfect on April 2nd, and we'd hoped to have every single detail perfectly in place hours before the show. But that doesn't really feel like spring at all. Spring is known for its slush storms. And community events are (in my experience) known for their mystifying coffeemakers.
After talking to my friend, I looked around the room again and saw that miraculously the room had been transformed. Lights glittered on the ceiling, colourful paper flowers bedecked the floor and the CD and food tables looked fantastic, all thanks to many talented and generous friends.
The show went forward. It did "Feel Like Spring". I'm told the coffee was excellent...and so was the music.
+++
Our family spent the day recovering from last night's show...but we had enough energy to watch the Juno Awards, which were held in my hometown, Winnipeg, this year. We all jumped up from the couch and cheered when Ron Sexsmith won Songwriter of the Year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)