Optimistic Songs

Like other works of art, songs have outlooks or moods. They can be "light" or "dark", optimistic or pessimistic.

Recently I was corresponding with a painter who told me that he could track the restless periods in his life by looking at his paintings. The moods on the canvas reflected the moods of his life, changing in rhythm from agitated to calm and back again.

I suspected I could find that kind of pattern in my body of work too. Yesterday I realized I was right, and I noticed an important twist. For me, the darker the mood, the brighter the song. (I'm sure there are exceptions to this...but there's a trend. I really remember feeling awful, for example, when I wrote "Einstein's Brain" [angry] and "When I Walk I Run" [sad].)

Yesterday I was writing this week's song for CIUT, with two candidates half-written. One had a dark mood, was set in a minor key, and had a serious political intent. Because I was struggling with my own dark mood, I found myself getting bogged down in it. It was striking me as ponderous and difficult and edgy (much like me actually). I put the song aside. But, unlike at other similar times, I didn't automatically think "it's not a good song". I just set it aside and started writing something I wanted to hear instead.

That "something" was very hopeful and optimistic. It's in a major key and is upbeat and affirming. Also, without any conscious intent on my part, the song ended up underlining the work of my friend Carol Kilby at The Gaia Centre in Haliburton, Ontario ("Work Like You Don't Need the Money"). Through the creative process, I made uplifting music that made me feel better and wrote lyrics that pointed me in a healthy direction.

This morning, I checked in with "the other song", thinking that perhaps it wasn't any good. To my surprise, it IS good! (Just as human beings still are, when they're feeling "bad".) Feeling more balanced today, I found I could work with it without being overwhelmed by its darker themes.

Tomorrow's song for Take5 is called "I'm Going to Work Forever", inspired by a story about the end of mandatory retirement at age 65 in Ontario. You can listen to it live tomorrow on Take5 on the Internet, or in Toronto at 89.5 FM.

What is the World Coming To?

This week for CIUT 89.5 fm's morning show Take 5 I was encouraged to write a song in honour of upcoming Global Orgasm Day on December 22nd. Last week, one of the show's reporters interviewed the founders of the first-annual event. They are a free-spirited and loving couple in San Francisco, both seniors, who invite everyone in the world to envision world peace while participating in an unprecedented surge of coordinated positive energy.

Now THIS is a song topic!

At first, I figured I'd simply roll with the double-entendres and the giggles, maybe throw the "F Word" into a lyric (rhymes with luck, buck, roll in the muck...) and have a good ol' romp in the studio on Friday, the climax of the week.

Then a funny thing happened. I went to the Global O website and saw how serious it is...and realized I couldn't make fun of it in good conscience.

I also realized, as I started to write, that it's a lot easier to write a good song about two people (even if they're fictional) as it is to write a song about Everyone-In-the-World-All-Longing-for-World-Peace. (Or, for that matter, to attempt to write the official Global O theme song.) Because my weekly task is to write a good song, fast, I can't hold out for "Imagine". I have to write something simple and immediate and true. This is an excellent rule-of-thumb for the successful writing of any song. Keep it simple. Start small and build up.

I started with several "small" ideas, and started assembling. The ideas were:
1) one clever lyric that said something meaningful ("what is the world coming to?", a pun which refers to both orgasm and the complexity of world problems), 2) a romantically bluesy chord change (because I wanted the song to sound sexy), 3) the notion of how this might concern one couple, not the whole world, and 4) the Internet. Why the Internet? Because this is the sort of story people exchange links over and laugh about from the remove of e-mail. I have always wanted to successfully make reference to e-mail in a song. (After hundreds of songs written about telephone conversations, it's about time.)

When I start with a combination of strong song elements like that, the creative process generally kicks into gear. Then, often, the song turns out to be something surprising and unexpected.

In this case, "What is the World Coming To?" turned out to be not upbeat and funny, but somewhat bittersweet...hopeful yet sad. And that seems right to me. Our lives (and loves) are seldom simple...and they blend pleasure and pain in all kinds of ever-changing and dynamic ways. That's true of our relationship with the planet as well as with each other.

(You can find the song to listen or download in Take5's archives.)

Student of the Heart

This week, I turned on the radio to listen to CIUT in the background on Tuesday morning while I was doing something else.

I knew that David Peterson, the former Premier of Ontario, had been appointed Chancellor of the University. He was being interviewed and I wasn’t paying much attention, thinking that there was no way such a stuffy subject would provide fodder for this week’s song.

But as the interview continued, particular phrases started jumping out at me, as if someone had turned up the volume on the radio. Peterson was using the word “passion” a lot, talking about how people need to be passionate about something; that passion is the quality we want to nurture in students today, so they can become engaged, enthusiastic people and effective leaders.

I thought, well that’s something I agree with and can write about…. something that resonates in my own life…the idea of being educated in passion and truth. Yeah, that’s good! Then a song idea popped into my head and I picked up the guitar. The title line “Passion 101” lasted maybe five minutes before I deemed it completely silly, trite and flat. But there’s a difference between a title line and the core idea or intent of a song, so I turned the idea over in my head and came up with a much better title: “Student of the Heart”. (Tucker, age 12, asked me what I was working on. T: “Your song for CIUT?” Me: “Yeah.” T: “What’s it called?” Me: “Student of the Heart”. T: “Good title!”)

I believe that to be an artist is to be a student of the heart. As I write a song (this one and any one), I need to be open and listening for what my “heart” (my unconscious inner voice) tells me. Inevitably, at some point in the creative process, my hands find an “accidental” chord change or “mistake” that becomes integrated into the song. I need to stay awake and open to hearing the beauty in the unexpected changes that arise.

I also have to be patient with myself as my writing grows from what is often--in the early going at least--superficial and self-centred and/or muddled and unclear.

I need to listen to the call to write something deeper: to not settle for less than my best, to have the faith in myself that I can clarify what I believe, and that I can communicate it in such a way that it will be of benefit to others. In other words, I need to aim higher than “Passion 101”.

If I do these things—allow my subconscious to speak, and allow my conscious mind to gently and patiently refine the work—I generally end up with something I’m pretty happy with: a song that has pleasing shape and colour, that has energy and forward motion, that says something meaningful and true. I believe that each song is, in a way, a microcosm of a life…a life that is constantly in a state of re-creation and re-vision.

I'll be playing "Student of the Heart" live on CIUT 89.5 FM's Take5 (streaming on the Internet) on Friday Nov. 24th at approximately 9:45 a.m.

Song of the Week

Five weeks ago, I took up the challenge of writing a song a week for a brand new radio show, Take5 on CIUT 89.5 FM. The idea is that every Friday, I perform a new song in studio inspired by one of the stories they've presented during the week.

Should be fun, I thought. And it is. When it's not really, really hard.

So far, this self-imposed assignment has led to many unexpected challenges and joys. Already it's been a roller-coaster ride of managing deadlines, trusting my instincts, following my muse and performing live with very little rehearsal.

In short, it's provided enough food for thought to justify resuscitating this blog, which has been more-or-less dormant since I decided to take a break from busking. (A good decision and one I don't regret. Oddly enough, this project has a few things in common with busking which I may explore in a future post.)

So far, I have written songs inspired by the following topics: Scarborough, trash, a brewery that holds a mock election with beers named for politicians, songwriter Penny Lang and other women singers who have appeared on the program, and a new book called Vessie Flamingo: Outshining the Moon.

I'll write about some of these songs in upcoming posts...and about the creative process in general.

The host commented last week that after 52 weeks, I'll have enough songs for a Time-Life collection.

That's 47 songs to go.

The Way of the First Day

Today I sang my song "First Day of School" at the official opening of the June Callwood Way near my home. I took a risk in choosing that song--it wasn't specifically about activism, or social justice, or even community leadership--but on this late-August afternoon it somehow seemed right.

After the singing, Mayor David Miller said in his speech that Ms. Callwood had specifically asked that her new street be near children. As I watched my own children sitting patiently in the folding chairs, near the toddlers from the South-Riverdale Child Parent Centre nearby, I knew I had picked the right song.

Every day is a "first day" as I continue to make my way in music. I often feel excited as a child learning to walk...until I trip and fall and bruise my ego. I'm often feel as if I don't know what I'm doing...that I'm a neophyte, a newcomer, too "green".

Where will this lead? Will I succeed or fail? What do those words mean? Can I look the definition up somewhere?

On "first days" like today, I glimpse the answer, and try to write it down so I don't forget. It goes something like this.

I succeed when I give my music to people, instead of expecting to get somewhere with it.

I succeed when my song is a contribution to a greater good, not a good that is confused with a commodity.

I succeed when I am grateful for the gift of music, and when I share it freely and without expectation.

Those lessons, as right and clear as they seem today, seem at the same time completely at odds with the commercial entertainment industry and how "indie artists" are supposed to think of themselves: as products instead of service providers. We're encouraged to want to be "idols", we're not encouraged to serve.

Needless to say, I'm hardly immune to this skewed value-system myself. Like everyone in our culture, I'm dazzled and seduced by money and power. As a performer, I find myself wanting the kind of prestige that the celebrity class of artists enjoys--and sometimes walking in "ways" that are out of tune with my own deeper personal values. Running pell-mell toward professional achievement in music, I often overlook the other paths to fulfillment...ways that are, frankly, simpler and easier to manage. And which may reach more people in the long run.

What am I doing (the ambitious indie artist asks herself) playing yet another tiny community event for free, in a little tucked-away laneway, with my children in tow (people say I should hide my age and the fact that I have children if I want to "make it in the music business"). What am I doing? Am I crazy?

No, I'm not crazy. I'm playing The June Callwood Way. (Not "the Rogers Centre way".)

Today, June Callwood was simply bubbling over with pride to have that humble laneway named after her. The Way shined as brightly (and attracted as many luminaries) as any new four-lane expressway...and Ms. Callwood vowed to return frequently to help keep it well-maintained. Throughout her 82 year-old life, she has understood the worth and strength of each person and each small action. She knows that great things--such as the more than 50 community service organizations she's founded--start with humble first steps.

So there we were today, in a little lane, far away from the busy street. We were tucked away with the children, near the library, the community centre and the women's shelter. It felt right to offering my songs in that setting, among people who support others, as we gathered to honour a woman who is a radiant example of the power of service.

It was another first day, of many more to come, as we continue to make our way in the world.

Garden Salad

Yesterday my sister-in-law came over to help me with my backyard garden.

Actually, "garden" may be too optimistic a word. It's the kind of space best described as "having a lot of potential". At the moment, it's mostly bare earth, patchy grass, and a few hopeful perennials I planted last week. My sister-in-law insisted that we remove all of the proliferating violets which had taken over most of the yard. I had been keeping them, not wanting to call them weeds, but Carina said they just looked like salad. Besides, she assured me, they'll come back anyway.

My now-barren back yard stands in stark contrast to my overly exuberant front yard. In that garden, the black-eyed susans have gone berserk, taking over the modest 15' x 15' space in an explosion of golden blooms (seen above). They're even taking over the neighbours' garden. (I must apologize when they come back from vacation.) And yet, I can't bring myself to pull out any of these overachieving flowers. They're excessive, yes...but they're healthy and strong and blooming and, well, beautiful. (I make a mental note to thin them in the fall.)

As I haltingly approach both yards--wondering what should stay and what should go, what I should water and what let die--I admire my friends who seem to be born gardeners. They achieve harmony and balance in their gardens: planting and watering faithfully, weeding decisively when necessary.

A few weeks ago, our daughter put a positive spin on a dandelion. Picking it up and blowing the seeds into the wind, she called it a "wishing weed". It's a touching irony that by making a wish on a dandelion, we scatter its seeds and virtually guarantee more pesky, proliferating, unwished-for growth. There's something about the dandelion's design that makes wishing on it come naturally. Its seeds are held more beautifully aloft than others'; yet, when they land, those seeds become "weeds" that are difficult to uproot and to ignore. It reminds me of that old saying, "Be careful what you wish for". Our hopes and dreams always carry the seeds of troublesome change.

In the removal of some plants and the encouragement of others, we create personal gardens that may, at the best of times, be balanced and harmonious...and at other times, may be pleasing (or at least amusing) in their un-balanced-ness.

I like mine on the wild side, and I'm inclined to be kind to weeds.

Tommy

I could tell he'd want to talk the minute he came up the stairs.

With dirty clothes and long unwashed hair, he was drunk but didn't look threatening. I returned his smile and continued to play and sing. He took up residence beside the garbage can next to the designated busking area.

"Heeey..." he sang, not out of tune, while pantomiming a guitar strum.

I kept singing: "That flavour's an acquired taste...a bitter taste, it's true..."

"Hey, she's really good!" he called out. People rushed past us, looking uncomfortable. A few made a point of giving me some change, as if to demonstrate that they'd rather donate to a busker than a bum.

"It's working," he said, figuring that he was helping business. "Keep singing!"

I tried, but forgot my words and stopped. "So, you must be a musician." It's always a safe bet.

"Yeah, yeah!" he said. "Here, lemme show you..." He reached for my guitar.

"Actually, I can't let you play here," I said. "It's against the rules. People would ask you to leave."

That wouldn't be such a bad thing, of course. But I knew that I was on my own. I'd have to manage this interaction myself, unless a TTC staffer or special duty policeman happened to come along. The shopkeeper at the Gateway stand was keeping a watchful eye, but he seemed more entertained than concerned.

"C'mon," he insisted. "One song. 'My Sweet Lord'". He reached for my guitar.

"No, I really can't let you." He tugged at it gently.

I saw then that even though he was drunk, he was stronger than I am. I had to make sure he didn't become angry.

"Well, okay. One song. Half a song."

Sure enough, he knew the chords, and sang out with a clear and strong voice...too loudly for the public corridor. I quickly bent down to turn down the volume on my amp.

"My Sweet Lord..."

I couldn't help it. I chimed in automatically with "Hallelujah..." even though people were filing past us with alarmed expressions now.

"My Sweet Lord..."

" Hallelujah..." I continued, then suddenly came to my senses. "Okay, thanks, that's great. Maybe you can teach me the song." I took the guitar back from him.

Without waiting for him to demonstrate the chords, I surprised myself by playing the right ones immediately--no doubt aided by the stress of the situation.

"Maybe I can sing one for you now," I suggested. And I started singing "Crossing My Mind" as well as I could, to keep him from interrupting again.

"Issat your song?" he asked as I sang. I nodded quickly, and noticed that the man at the Gateway stand was smiling openly at me with clear approval. Why, I wondered? Was he pleased that I'd avoided a confrontation, or was he just enjoying the song?

No-one donated as they walked past, but I'm sure I sang "Crossing My Mind" better than I ever have...glancing occasionally at the man, who kept urging people to listen to me.

When the song was over, he held out his hand and told me his name, which was Tommy*. He said he's had "more guitars than years". Forty-five, I'm guessing.

"So...Lynn," he repeated. "What was your last name again?"

"Harrison," I said. "Like George."

"She's gonna make it," he said to no-one in particular and the Gateway man. And by that, I thought he also meant, "Not like me". But he just shook his head and didn't say it.

He wove back down the corridor a couple of times to shake my hand again, before leaving. "Tommy Mitchell," he said. "Like Joni."



* I've changed the name.

Needed and Wanted

One of my goals for the day is to actually write another blog posting and finish it.

As you can see, my blog has been somewhat dormant lately, which isn't such a bad thing. I've been doing lots of writing work lately for paying clients. Although the jobs don't allow me the opportunity to ramble on about songwriting or other artistic activities, they do require concentration and creative effort, which makes them satisfying. The paycheque I receive is important as well. But I suspect that the most important reward for me is knowing that my work is needed. I enjoy making other people's jobs easier, helping them communicate more clearly with their staff and clients. I like seeing that happen in real time.

My music work is needed and wanted as well, but often I don't see the transaction take place. People listen to my CDs when I'm not around. (This is a good thing. Sometimes well-meaning people put on my CDs when I'm at their parties, and I have to concentrate hard to focus on the conversation at hand, instead of my acquaintance's response to the background music.)

I've run into people by chance and they've told me, "I listen to your CD all the time". If I hadn't run into them, I would never have known that. When I reflect on the artists who mean the most to me, I understand this fact from the opposite angle. I can't send a fan letter to an artist every time I listen to their music; that would amount to stalking. We can't do that.

So we don't. We think warm thoughts about them, tell our friends how much we love the artist, praise them on the Internet or wherever we can, and go about our business. And we keep listening to the music (or enjoying the painting on our wall, or reflecting on the novel, or re-reading the poems). Meanwhile, the artist is also going about her business: trying (often unsuccessfully) to attract the attention of influential people; writing songs without knowing when they'll be performed or if they'll ever be recorded or distributed. A profoundly gifted songwriter I know recently expressed her fear that no-one would care whether or not she put out another CD. I was surprised because, compared to many other artists, she's received high-level critical praise: people have told her that her work is valuable, and yet, she doubts it because that validation doesn't happen constantly.

It doesn't happen as constantly as the phone ringing, as my client needs a rewrite on the corporate newsletter. Or as constantly as the kids' interruptions through the day, as they need me to arrange a playdate with a friend or go to the store to buy a new pair of sandals. The validation doesn't come as constantly as the drip in the basement which needs to be fixed, and will require thousands of dollars which can be made immediately by writing corporate newsletters, but perhaps not at all by making art.

As I was driving back from a small house concert this weekend, I listened to a CD that I hadn't listened to lately, by a singer-songwriter named Eliza Gilkyson. The record is called "Paradise Hotel" and it's an excellent collection of songs which will appeal to anyone who also likes Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams and Roseanne Cash. At the house concert, as I chatted with the audience beforehand, someone had commented on how songs (mine in fact) had become the "soundtrack of their life" and another person remarked that he'd noticed that wonderful effect in movies: how songs actually seemed to magnify the small details in the frame and provide more emotional power to the experience. (He expressed it so well, I wanted him to become some kind of public campaigner for the value of art.)

I thought about that as I drove north from Buffalo to Toronto, noticing how Eliza's eloquent words and soothing melodies elevated the scenery, made it all seem like paradise. When I got home, I sent her a short note by e-mail to tell her how much I enjoyed her music. As always, the fanmail paled in comparison to the actual experience. How can I pass along to her the deep knowing that her music counts in the universe...that it's needed and wanted...when that need seems to be best expressed in the moment, in real time, and in personal experience? Even in live performance, there's a distance between the artist and the audience...but never a distance between art and the heart that receives it.

Maybe by knowing, and expressing, how much the art of others means to us, we can become aware of how others are experiencing our art as well. We can be reassured that valuing and validation is taking place, beyond our field of vision and beyond our time and space.

Think Globally, Art Locally

I've been developing a workshop that I'll be presenting for the first time at the Gaia Centre in Haliburton on September 16th (and previewing at the Renaissance Cafe in Toronto on August 23rd.)

It's called "Creativity Off the Grid: Values, Meaning and Money". It's designed to help artists sustain their work through healthy sources of energy...and clarify the meaning of their work and its value.

Meanwhile, as always, I've been aware of my own addiction to sources of power and energy that may be harmful to me--and the community and the earth--in both the long and short term. (As I develop this workshop, I'm reminded--as I am when I write new songs--that I'm writing whatever I am at the time because I need it.)

For example, I sometimes discount the value of local and immediate opportunities to sing--which include my home, my church, the subway, the local cafe. At times I worry that I'm not touring enough; I'm concerned that I don't have wider distribution. Like many artists, I'm vulnerable to the sales pitch of a service that might possibly help me have a song picked up by a major international artist. The idea of fame is seductive...and it's an empty "Idol", a show of no "reality".

I know from personal experience that the songs that have the most meaning for me (and that have been most deeply felt by my audience) have been specific and locally based. They have sprung from this place, this person, this time. They don't have to go any further to be valuable (and yet, ironically, they've often gone much further... without any help from me.)

In the evaluation of the commercial marketplace, they may appear to have less value.
But, on the other hand, they are far more in line with my personal values, which are community and family-based.

If my art stays local, my attention can as well. I can look after and beautify this corner of the world, which includes specific people I would like to honour and specific causes I would like to support (such as two local environmental and healing organizations which, serendipitously, expressed an interest in my music today).

Art that has the world in mind--but that is created out of a sense of deep connection with the local and the immediate--is work that will have ongoing spiritual and personal meaning and will ultimately sustain the artist and, hopefully, the world.

For

I realize that if I get around to recording my tribute project before I record any new collection of songs, I could call it "For"...my fourth CD.

The project enjoyed a brief lull after I wrote and recorded the first two songs (for Neil Young and Bruce Cockburn). Now I'm working on a number of songs for (in tribute to) three women artists: Rita MacNell, Jane Siberry and Joni Mitchell. The Rita song has been half-finished for a few weeks now; the Jane song has been started a few times (who knows where it will go) and the Joni song was written tonight, after several hours of noodling that I wasn't sure was going anywhere.

It's always wonderful when a creative project suddenly snaps into focus. It's so reassuring, seeing that all the mucking around and exploration actually lead to something. I believe it's always leading to something, even when the completed project isn't soon in coming. One of the reasons I like songwriting, though, is that often the process is short: a sprint, not a long-distance run.

Fairly early on, as I began to write this song, I felt that it wouldn't be exclusively inspired by Joni Mitchell as a musician and songwriter. Instead, I wanted to highlight the connection of her paintings to her songwriting. It's always struck me that she's just as accomplished in both art forms, and in both cases she's manipulating shades of emotion and meaning, playing with light and shade and colour.

It may not be coincidental that on Tuesday, I picked up my own sketchbook for the first time in months, and drew a pretty fair pen-and-ink drawing of my daughter reading after her piano lesson. I was pleased with the results (much as I am when I write a good song) and yet I know what its technical flaws are, and I admire those who have mastered the ability to draw.

I think it was that admiration that informed "Colour Wheel", my tribute song for Joni Mitchell. I see her as an artist who understands all the brilliant shades of human emotion; who knows how to use them all.

Writing the song brings me back full-circle in other ways too. The first Joni Mitchell song I learned, back in high school, was "The Circle Game".

Step aside, Mom!

Just as my little song called "First Day of School" seems to be growing up and out into the world, the little boy who inspired it is doing the same thing, and with no help from me of course.

This afternoon, Tucker (turning 12 in August) will be spending the day at TVOntario, sitting in with the production team of TVO Kids. It's his prize for winning the TVO Young Filmmakers' Award a few weeks ago for his animated short film, "Spiders".

I love this film. It's simple and pleasant, and it has a happy ending. Actually it doesn't have a "happy" ending exactly, no big dramatic epiphany, but it doesn't have a dramatically tragic one either such as a foot stomping on the spider. One of the judges told us it was that fact--that the spider doesn't meet a tragi-comic demise as expected--that decided the win.

I like the fact that "Spiders" was made for fun, that the contest entry was an afterthought, and that the win was an utter surprise. It reminds me that positive and steady steps in the right direction often lead to happy surprises. ("When I walk, I run..." etc.)

It's funny, of course, that Tucker would be invited to "spend a day in a TV Studio!!!!" as a prize. As if nobody in his family has ever spent any time in tv studios...and have actually turned corners to walk into new places.

Calla, too, loves television... On our last trip to Winnipeg, she fell in love with the studio at the Children's Museum. Immediately at home, she took charge and directed strangers, read the news and reported the weather.

The weather today is sunny.

We notice that children are rewarded for these artistic things, encouraged early on, and any clouds of "what on earth do I do with this artistic talent?" are far off in the distance.

The spider walks happily on, and so do we.

I have to run now, to drive Tucker to TVO.

"...happy down the street, up the stairs, cross the hall, happy in the door..."

Sounds Like Motherhood

This coming Friday, May 12th, I'm going to be a guest on CBC Radio One's "Sounds Like Canada" with Shelagh Rogers.

This is part of my Canadian Dream.

So I'm just going to pause and savour it. (Pause. Savour.)

As I do, I'm going to resist the temptation to do what I've often done; that is, immediately raise the bar on myself and set a new much-higher goal.

I'm not going to tell myself, "Yeah, sure, but I still want to play Massey Hall and be awarded the Order of Canada".

Nope, I'm not saying that today. Today I'm saying "This coming Friday, May 12th, I'm going to be a guest on CBC Radio One's "Sounds Like Canada" with Shelagh Rogers."

I'm going to be singing "First Day of School" and "The Tooth Fairy Forgot" in honour of Mother's Day and in support of an event I'm participating in called Mamapalooza on May 14th.

This is interesting, because for the past several years I've been slightly annoyed when people highlight the "motherhood" angle of my music.

Even though the vast majority of my songs are about other subjects (relationships, spirituality, urban living...) it's been the "motherhood songs" that have stood out for many listeners. Reviewers have written "She writes about everyday subjects! Her house, her kids!!" and it's always been a bit mystifying to me.

Harry Chapin wrote "Cats in the Cradle" (well, actually, his wife wrote the lyrics) and nobody called him a "Dad Singer". Eric Clapton wrote "Tears in Heaven" and nobody called it a "grieving father's song". Bono has a song about his father on U2's latest album. And then there's Lee Anne Womack's "I Hope You Dance" which is in a class all its own.

Our relationship with our parents and our children (if we have them) is a crucial part of life. It's a universal theme.

And yet, writing songs from a mother's perspective is sometimes considered less than cool.

I've been advised, more than once, to keep my "mom songs" in the closet and off the stage. To sing more "love songs". To be more "mysterious".

My song "First Day of School" is probably the least mysterious song I've ever written.

It's the one that makes people cry, even people who don't have children.

It's the song that pushed me out of my house and onto a stage; the song that propelled me after twenty years of closeted songwriting into a local cafe to announce "I want a gig".

It's the song that started my education in what it means to be an artist: to express myself truthfully, to take a stand for the things I believe in, to live according to my values.

It's a song about the "true", the "false" and the "all of the above" of life.

And it's the first song I'll be singing on "Sounds Like Canada".

Don't Worry

The thing that bothers me the most is when people worry about me.

There's no easy way to convince people that even though I'm obviously neither rich nor famous (the thing they think artists should be if they're talented) I'm neither unhappy nor in dire financial straits.

(Even if I were, I think there's a pretty good chance that I could still be happy, while taking steps to change the situation.)

Today (in the subway, which is perhaps the most likely place to have such a conversation) I spoke with someone who thinks highly of me and hopes I'll do well...but who seems worried for me because (so far at least) I'm not commercially successful.

I try to reassure her, but I'm sure the more perkily I smile the more unconvincing I seem.

How does one put in perspective the realities of the artist's life?

How do I tell her that I feel good when I've reached one new fan...and that it genuinely makes a difference to me that she enjoys my CD? How do I convey my belief that a creative life is seldom a straight line to commercial success, but more a meandering path toward personal self-awareness and true communication with the world?

Would it be gauche to say "don't worry...I've been picking up lots of copywriting work these days"? That might seem as if I'm dishonouring my music career...when in fact it's one of many ways I support it.

Don't worry...I'm fine.

And I'm more fine when I continue to work the art. I would be a lot less fine if I quit because, say, my CDs sell in the hundreds instead of the thousands. But of course, regular people don't know that...and by most yardsticks of success, such low sales would be viewed as a failure.

I wonder if Ben Chin is facing a similar challenge these days. He was a candidate in a recent by-election in our riding. He didn't win...and now you see out-of-date election signs still hanging on a few buildings in our neighborhood. I wonder why nobody has taken them down. Surely he doesn't want to keep reminding people that he lost?

Or maybe he sees his presence on the signs as something beyond "winning" and "losing"...something more about maintaining a smiling presence in the community...continuing to "put his name out there". (Yeah, yeah, I know...probably somebody just forgot to take them down.)

What does he say when people meet him, post-election, and worriedly ask, "How are you doing?"

Does he admit that he was disappointed to lose? Or perhaps he simply smiles, states the victories he did achieve, and reminds everyone that he's still in the game.

Back to Broadview

When Pape Station was occupied, I thought at first that I should hit Osgoode or Bay, stations I knew well.

I didn't automatically think of Broadview, maybe because throughout last year (when I was busking more regularly) it was perpetually under construction: dusty, cold and generally inhospitable. I knew I should (dangerous word) go there because I'd just named a CD after it, but I generally found an excuse to avoid Broadview.

Today I was on my way westbound when something propelled me out the doors at Broadview, just before they closed. Why was I getting off here? Oh well, I thought, might as well check it out at least.

The new Broadview station has two busking locations, one of which is strategically located near the gleaming new elevator (which people do use). The busking rectangle (at the top of the stairs to the westbound tracks) also has an inviting bench right beside it, which also serves as a guitar case propper-upper. The space is bright and clean.

The TTC maintenance man said hello to me cheerfully and said he was glad to have real music here. The Gateway newsstand staff smiled and waved.

Most regular people didn't stop or take notice, so as usual I considered packing up several times in the first hour.

Not coincidentally, over the past month or so, I've thought "I'm leaving this whole business" more often than usual. Is it because I've been busking less? After three hours, five personal conversations with strangers, 21 original songs (I just counted...most of them were repeated more than once) and $38.00 (including one CD sold at a discount), I tend to think so.

I come home with new resolve, not to "make it in the music business"...but to keep making music. To find ways of earning income and creating security for myself and my family...and of recognizing the value of "enough".

Today, the smile and nod of the maintenance guy, it is enough. The handful of coins from the elderly woman, it is enough. The admiration of a younger musician, it is enough.

Not enough to live on, no. But enough to keep me playing.

Starting From Stuck

I had set myself a challenge. I was going to write a 12-song series...and I had only written Song #1.

Song #2 wasn't going well. I found myself feeling self-critical and increasingly blocked, while I was trying to write something that celebrated a prolific and generous writer (which is to say, the person I feared I wasn't).

The breakthrough came when I acknowledged to myself that I was, indeed, stuck.

I wasn't writing anything good. I felt like a failure, a fraud, completely unlike all the artists I planned to use as inspiration for my series.

Admitting that to myself turned out to be the key to the song.

When the darkness overtakes me, and I can't drift back to sleep...when the right words still escape me and my dreams have dimmed too deep ...

Well, maybe these lyrics weren't as brilliant as Bruce Cockburn's, but at least these lyrics were true I thought, as I tossed out all my horrible faux-enlightened verses.

As I kept writing ( When there's nothing I can write now that I see how much is wrong...When I can't seem to recall how to turn sorrow back to song) I realized that it's that characteristic in particular--the ability to keep working and writing even in the face of sorrow and injustice--that I most admire in Bruce Cockburn.

It's not just his finger-picking style or his detailed lyrics or even the fact that his songs are politically and socially motivated. It's the fact that he's seen so much horror in the world first-hand (far more than I probably ever will) yet still finds the energy, courage and inspiration to make new songs.

He's gone deliberately into dark places in himself and in the world...and come out, well, singing. That, to me, is the heart of his songs and the reason they've inspired me for so many years.

It's when I can't move forward that he (and people like him) come to mind: people who find ways to make meaning and even joy in the midst of fear.

It's when I feel the most down that I need these artists the most: I need their songs, and their example.

"You Come to Me", April 4th, 2006

On Wardrobe

Tonight I'm playing a benefit show for CFMU, a radio station in Hamilton, Ontario. A bunch of good performers are on the bill, including Toronto's Gregg Lawless and Steve Briggs, plus Stephen Fearing, an inspiring guitarist and songwriter I've looked up to for quite a while.

As usual, I spent quite a bit of time deciding what to wear.

Recently I saw a young woman perform for the very first time in a tiny Japanese restaurant. She wore an evening gown and very high shoes. At one point I thought she was going to fall face-first into the sushi.

She made the mistake of wearing something to the gig that she'd never wear in real life. The outfit contributed to her nervousness.

When you try too hard with your wardrobe, you're asking for disaster. But on the other hand, if you wear something that you'd just as likely wear to No Frills, you probably will feel as if you don't belong on the stage, under all those lights and stuff. That's how I feel anyway.

Gig apparel must be that ever-challenging perfect combination of elements. Special...yet comfortable. Fancy...but not fussy. And then there are other considerations, especially if you're a woman.

Sexy? (My husband is always encouraging me to go this route...and I appreciate the compliment.) Yes, why not...as long as I feel comfortable on stage and not too self-conscious. Sometimes, too, even folksingers can have embarrassing "wardrobe malfunctions" a la Janet Jackson's Superbowl escapade. I saw one woman perform in a gorgeous silk top that just happened to keep half-falling off. I felt bad for her at first, but then I started to suspect that she was intentionally letting it fall. And then I was just annoyed.

Pretty/tough? Youthful/mature? Trendy/classic? These choices, faced by everyone who wears anything, are more important when people are going to be staring at you for any length of time.

How do TV anchor people do it? Well, I guess the really successful ones have professional stylists...and a wardrobe budget.

Me, I go to Value Village.

That's where I went today, and found a form-fitting but not low-cut t-shirt with design that says "Schmidt's Cafe" in just the right amount of sequin action. (That's another thing: glitter is good, but if there's too much of it, you just look like a bad lounge singer.)

Magically, the top goes with my best pair of slightly shimmery magenta jeans...which I have now worn to at least five gigs. Total cost of outfit: $18.00.

I'll post a picture later.

--

By the way, I did write that Bruce Cockburn song and it turned out great. I was just keeping you (and myself too for awhile) in suspense. In my next post I'll tell you how I survived that particular patch of writer's quicksand.

Brooooce

Encouraged by the positive response to "We Come From the Same Place" (my Neil Young tribute song), I started to write the second song in the series. To make life easier for myself, I picked a subject I knew well: Bruce Cockburn.

Ever since I started writing songs, Bruce Cockburn has been an important songwriting influence and something of a symbolic figure for me. He's appeared in dreams from time to time and has coincidentally turned up at important points in my musical life. (When I received my first major review, a larger one for him was on the same page; when I played my first folk festival, he was the headliner.)

While I wanted to genuinely pay tribute to him in a song, I also hoped that perhaps he might someday hear it, so I started in on the writing process with high expectations, ego-driven ambition, and the constant feeling that he was looking over my shoulder editing my work.

This made this writing process rather difficult.

For instance, as soon as I noticed angel/critic Broooce whispering in my ear, I had to be sure that I didn't take his suggestions too much to heart. I didn't want this song to become an "imitation Bruce Cockburn" song. Nor did I want it to be a song written FOR him by me.

It appeared that this song would be up against some challenges from the start (not unlike other second-borns, I suppose). Not to worry, I told myself. I can do this. As if to prove it to myself, I quickly found a guitar figure that was suitably Brucey (yet simple enough for me to actually play) and composed a pretty melody to go with it.

Right away I started hearing him singing the melody, and suddenly I found myself fending off lyrics from his existing songs which neatly fit into my new one. I was suddenly aware of how familiar I am with Bruce Cockburn's catalogue and realized this is both a blessing and a curse when it comes to this project. I worried about unconscious plagiarism.

And then I wrote pages and pages and pages of very bad lyrics.

At least they were original.

(to be continued...)

----

Meanwhile, last week, I saw Kurt Swinghammer perform a song he had written in tribute to Burt Bacharach and Hal David.

The Tribute Project

It all started with Neil Young.

We went to see the movie "Heart of Gold" and bought "Prairie Wind", the CD that goes along with it. Meanwhile, I read a long interview with Neil Young in Performing Songwriter magazine, in which he describes his writing process and his life as a songwriter.

It occurred to me that even though he's in his 60s and a man and a big name, our lives as artists are very similar. This idea became the start of a song called "We Come From the Same Place" which also refers to our shared hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba.

I wrote the song, on purpose, in a Neil Young-ish style (I could even add a little musical reference to the song "Heart of Gold" at the end if I liked). I used slightly altered basic chords, straightforward song structure, a singalong melody, strumming. The song turned out well. I was excited about writing it and eager to sing it. (It elbowed several other songs I was working on off to the side for the time being.)

And then, in the middle of finishing the song, I had an "ahah!" idea.

I could write a whole series of songs inspired by songwriters...the ones who inspired me.

This idea really turned me on. First, I like writing "on assignment". It narrows my focus immediately and gives me a bunch of ideas right away. (When I write songs solely out of my own inspiration, I try to establish the frame quickly too.) Second, I liked the idea of using songwriters themselves as subject matter--as inspiring, in their own way, as rocks and trees.

I also liked the fact that the assignment would be difficult. Would I be able to write songs that stood on their own and were not cheap imitations of the Inspiring Artist's? Could I reflect on their effect on me without being maudlin? Could I write songs that would resonate with people who are not themselves artists? Did I have enough ability, myself, to refer to such a range of styles...and to write songs that I would want to sing, apart from the project? Could I keep my own voice, while paying tribute to the voices of others?

Sure, why not! I plunged ahead.

I quickly made a list of Canadian songwriters. (Not only did I want to narrow the field--we now eliminate The Beatles, Bob Dylan, James Taylor--I also had the vague and optimistic idea that I might be able to attract government funding.) I limited it to songwriters who, I feel, have genuinely influenced my own work.

Here's the list I came up with (in no particular order).

Neil Young (might as well put him first)
Bruce Cockburn
Joni Mitchell
Jane Siberry
Ron Sexsmith
Shirley Eikhard
Leonard Cohen
Alanis Morrissette
Fred Eaglesmith
Gordon Lightfoot
kd lang

There are a few "dark horses" too...not officially on the list but still in the running. They'd be Jann Arden, Burton Cummings &/or Randy Bachman, The Barenaked Ladies, Sylvia Tyson, Raffi. (And there's the possibility that I've left somebody out...if you think of anyone, let me know.)

So, that's it. The project is underway. Two songs have been written so far!

I'll keep you posted.

Staying in Tune

Wednesday turned out to be a better busking day.

On a brilliant blue-sky morning, I found my way to Queen's Park station, where the busking location is in a sunny alcove underneath a skylight. I felt lucky to get the spot, having abandoned my original plan to play at Osgoode, where a maintenance team was circular-sawing through a panel of ceramic tile.

Every time I go out busking, I have to work up my confidence to get out and play. It's probably a good thing when I can't play at my originally-intended location, because it makes me feel fortunate to get whatever spot I get.

Today I consciously practiced letting go of expectations and tried to notice my own attention and how it flip-flopped between my experience of making music and my observations of other people and how they were responding to me. (Regular readers of this blog will note that I've written about this before; however, I've discovered that there's a constant forgetting-and-remembering that happens, so I'm returning to this topic.)

I found that I was able to notice the differences in my perception. For brief periods of time, I was fully in the moment of playing and singing; the physical space around me seemed to disappear and I was "in" the song. This experience contrasted with the other times (even within the same song) when I was inadvertently focusing on the people around me and their apparent response, or I was aware of some other thought, such as "I wonder when Dave is going to come meet me for lunch?" or "which song should I play next?".

I'm not sure that either state of awareness is "right" or "wrong". In performance, it's important that I'm in touch with the people who are listening to me and watching me. On other stages, I notice a sort of dance that takes place with my audience, as I connect with them by meeting someone's eyes, for instance, and then I look away. Constant connection with the audience is distracting, while constant inwardness (even to the point of closing one's eyes) distances the performer from the audience.

When I'm busking though, this interplay is even more complex, because some people are clearly "listening" (being an audience, and perhaps wanting contact) while others are not. And of course, my own consciousness of them might come from a secure performer's stance ("I'm playing this song for you") or an insecure one ("Do you like me?").

When I arrived at Queen's Park, I noticed that I had left my electronic guitar tuner at home. Accomplished players probably wouldn't give this a second thought--these devices are convenient but not necessary--and I perhaps rely on mine too much. I figured it'd be good practice for me to get by without it today.

I found, to my surprise, that I kept my guitar in tune without any difficulty, even though I used a couple of alternate tunings for particular songs, and had to adjust the tuning periodically. Some days this is a challenge for me, especially in the subway where the environment is noisy and I sometimes feel self-conscious. It occurs to me now that just as I was aware of my own mental "tuning", and adjusting it accordingly, I was able to make minute adjustments to my instrument as required.

After the "Ridiculous"

It had been four weeks since I'd been out busking anywhere--the longest stretch since I started playing in the subways in October, 2004.

I was excited to be back at Pape Station, but I felt a little out-of-practice. Not only with the singing, but with my acceptance of the subway experience...my comfort with it.

I felt strange and out-of-place again, as if I hadn't ever sung there. I was acutely aware of the slight change in the performance space--the slight shift to the left to accomodate the new waste/recycling bin--which seemed to make the pedestrian traffic pattern just that much less advantageous. I was aware of the guitar I was using--not my usual one--and worrying that it was perhaps too quiet.

In fact, it probably didn't make any difference.

The subway is what it is.

People walk by.

Usually they say nothing. On Friday morning, though, in the hour-and-a-half I spent at Pape (not very long, especially when I consider that some buskers I know stay out for 7 hours at a stretch) many people said things.

One man said "Where have you been? I haven't seen you here for a long time." (This surprised me...I didn't recognize him and I couldn't imagine that he'd seen me often enough in that location to actually miss me. But he had.)

And another man (young, black, about 18) said "Ridiculous!" as he sauntered by, laughing, with his friends.

Not able to let this go, I called after him down the corridor, "Hey, do you play an instrument?" (Yeah, guitar.) "Then you try this sometime!" (Yeah, sure, lady.)

Later still (amazing how an hour can seem so long), a couple speaking a language I didn't recognize decided to discuss some documents of theirs while standing directly over my guitar case, only inches from me. (I didn't say anything, maybe because I knew they didn't speak English, but more likely because I was acting the way they were treating me...like a piece of furniture.)

They left.

I turned up the volume on my guitar. It didn't help.

I sang beautifully. It didn't help.

I confess, after Mr. Dreadlocks passed by, I considered packing up and going home. But I knew it was important to stick it out...to wrestle some value from this disheartening experience, even if all I went home with was a thicker skin.

I tried to focus on the positive interactions, few and far-between as they were. For instance, one man deliberately reached AROUND the foreign-speaking couple (also without asking them to move) to drop a dollar into my guitar case.

Later, at home, I was reading a book called "Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living" by the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron. She writes "don't expect applause", or thanks, for being fully in the world. Instead, she encourages us to be "inquisitive and curious about what comes through the door".

After the "ridiculous", when I'd returned home and felt less vulnerable, it was easier to shrug off the young man's rude comment...or if not shrug it off, at least not take it so personally. At the time, though, I was hooked. (In fact, I suppose I'm hooked by the positive strokes I get too, when people give me money or praise. If nothing else, the subway is a great place to practice letting go of expectations.)

Tonight's the Night

I survived the trip to Ottawa with no incidents caused by songwriting en route.

The gig was good. Quiet, but good. (A lot of life is like that.)

I wrote three half-songs on the trip, and have started and finished two more this week. This writing streak (which has been going on for about a month) is getting out-of-hand, but it sure is fun. Every day, I wonder "what song is going to drop by today?" as if they were strange and interesting relatives. I keep feeding them.

My most recent song--the one I was so excited about I had to go play last night even though I hadn't quite memorized the words--is a tribute to Neil Young. (We recently saw "Heart of Gold", his concert film directed by Jonathan Demme.) It's fun to write a tribute song. I told myself I had to write pretty much in the Neil Young style, without plagiarizing anything. It worked out pretty well I think. Plus, I got to mention Winnipeg.

I wrote it on Tuesday, and figured I'd play it Wednesday night...and then I had an attack of the mysterious stage-fright vapours, consisting partly of a feeling of genuine illness combined with a sudden urge to nap. (I know from experience that if I'm actually ill, the best thing for me to do is go out and sing--it basically cures anything--but the napping/escape instinct can be even more powerful than this self-awareness.)

So, I was all set to say "nah, I'm staying home tonight" when I walked into the kitchen where Dave was playing Classic Rock radio.

Neil Young came on, singing "Tonight's The Night".

So I changed back out of my pj's and took the guitar out to the car.

As it turned out, it was also a night I'd see two friends I hadn't seen (or in one case, heard) for too long. Good thing I listened.

Songwriting and Driving

I'm off to Ottawa this weekend for a show on Saturday, March 11th at Rasputin's. I'm looking forward to the trip.

I often get song ideas when I'm driving. I wonder why this is. Maybe it's the stimulation of having the scenery race by, or the sense of confidence that comes from moving very fast. It's a great feeling, especially when you're on the way to a great gig. But there's a safety issue here. If you're a good songwriter, writing while driving is probably more dangerous than talking on a cell phone.

Maybe it's time the authorities knew this. They could institute some kind of safety program with roadside spot-checks.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, have you been songwriting this evening?"

"Uh, well, I did have a title line about an hour ago..."

"And is that an open notebook I see there on the seat beside you?"

See what I mean? I'd be sunk.

It's a scary scenario...but not so scary as if I actually had an accident while writing a song. Imagine, having to report that I caused a thirteen-car pileup because I just had to finish that verse. Pretty pathetic.

So, I'm off to Ottawa, listening to music instead of writing it. I'm loving Roseanne Cash's "Black Cadillac" these days.

Chances are, Roseanne will inspire me to write something...and I'll pull over to the side of the road. "I've always got time for Tim Horton's..." and another song.

WhoseSpace is it Anyway?

Recently another musician encouraged me to join MySpace, the social networking service that has become the latest online craze.

My first reaction was, “Who has time?” Well, lots of people, I discovered.

Then I felt irked. “Look, I’m already blogging, aren’t I? Isn’t that up-to-the-minute enough?’ Apparently not.

Last year, the blog was the new website. This year, MySpace is the new blog. Musicians, in particular, have taken to MySpace, because it allows their songs to start playing instantly when people visit their page, and it also provides easy gig listings and bloggability. In other words, it’s the new website AND blog. Plus, it has that all-important social networking aspect.

What’s the appeal of social networking for “indie artists”? The ability to publicly praise artists one likes and be praised back, hopefully by artists of high status. The more people linking to you—and the more appealing or successful they are—the better you look.

In other words, MySpace is a big public popularity contest.

Maybe that’s why I spent so much time picking out my picture for it. Actually, I ended up taking it myself (which is somehow appropriate). I briefly posted the picture in this blog, but it looked so ridiculously self-centred (because I already have one picture of myself on the page) I took it off.

As for MySpace, I couldn’t get into the “music” part of the site, so my picture ended up on the ordinary networking part of the service, and for some reason, the default setting (which I couldn’t change) is “single” (which I’m not). Seeing this, I immediately moved to delete my picture from my page, but it wouldn’t delete. This is a bad sign. Suddenly I’m feeling very protective of my space.

Then I browsed around the site and discovered that Joni Mitchell (THE Joni Mitchell) is on the “friends” list of some musicians I know. Suddenly I feel as if I’m back in Grade 7. “Omigod, why hasn’t Joni picked ME??!!!!!” I think, “Now I MUST get on MySpace Music…RIGHT NOW!”. And then I think, “I must find the girls’ washroom because I think I am going to cry.”

Then, I notice the fine print, breathe a sigh of relief and collect myself.

“This isn’t actually Joni Mitchell’s personal MySpace page. It’s run by a fan.”

Oh. Well, then. The world has not gone completely berserk.

It's a relief to know that Joni is not checking her MySpace page as we speak, looking to see how many "friends" linked to her. Perhaps, instead, she's writing a beautiful song, or painting, or corresponding with her daughter, or…I don’t know, even writing a personal essay in a teensy unnoticed corner of the blogosphere (which is, as you’ve noticed, MY space.) At least that’s creative and reflective.

Right now, I’m going to look around my real-life space. What do I see? I see a room that needs tidying, and a life that needs attending-to. I see evidence of real people, just a few, the only ones this house can comfortably accommodate. I see a guitar and a notepad, which really don’t take up so much space in my life…which are most at home in real places, and appreciated by real people.

P.S. When I first wrote this piece, a few days ago, I couldn't upload it for some reason, so it remained dormant for a few days. During that time I wrote a new song called "Larger Than Life" which marks a first for me, something I've been trying to accomplish for some time: referring to emails and cyberspace in a decent song. I'm happy with how this one came out, but it's the first time it's worked. It turned out to be not only a commentary on Internet self-promotion, but other ways of artificially inflating our all-too-human selves.

Here's an excerpt:

I post my picture on the message board
I send my signal into space
A million pixels reaching out for more
Some idol time cannot erase

We look around at the things we’ve got
So scared that everything’s too small
Charge our purchase to the lines we bought
And punch our cards into the wall…

Larger than life, we could be
Larger than life
Larger than life
We all wanna be...

Misadventures in MapQuest

As an "emerging singer-songwriter" (I love that term) I'm trying to develop many skills simultaneously, many of which are unrelated to my core skills of writing songs and singing them.

As artists, we're trying to "emerge" in many places at once, which means we have to "tour" (play gigs away from home), and that means we have to read maps. But maybe we don't! Maybe we can use MapQuest.

Like many overworked and multi-tasking people, I rely on many high-tech devices to get me through my day. I don't use a cell phone as much as many people do (and Blackberries are beyond me) but I do like my computer. Sometimes I wonder if my memory is being replaced by Google. The other day, I blithely traded in my brain cells for Mapquest.

I was heading off to an appointment north of the city. The night before, I plugged in the destination address on MapQuest, which instantly spat out my optimal route. 36 minutes, it optimistically told me, would be my travel time from door to door.

Directions in hand, I felt cool, in control and somewhat self-important. My appointment was a television appearance (at a small cable station) for my own big artistic project (which remains well below the pop culture radar). But a television appearance it was, and I was on my way. I knew where I was going! (Well, actually, I didn't. But I didn't need to. I had MapQuest.)

I praised myself for arriving exactly on time as I followed the precise, step-by-step instructions. "Right on Yonge Street: 2.1 miles. Right on Harding: 3.4 miles. (Hmm...this is a bit unusual, it looks like a residential street...) Left on Cloverdale Crescent...(lights? camera?) Ta-da! You have reached your destination!

But, it's a quiet cul-de-sac, a circle of sleepy split-levels. Where is my splishy TV studio?

Looking more carefully at my MapQuest directions, I realized that somehow, under the "destination" heading, the exact street address had been left off, so that only the name of the city remained. My trusty direction-bot had guided me by the shortest possible route to the edge of the city limits.

No longer feeling smart and cool, I threw the car into reverse and headed for the nearest gas station, where I frantically searched for an ordinary paper map of the the region, to the amusement of the man at the cash register.

"You are lost?" he inquired, beaming.

"No, no, of course not," I lied. "Just checking my directions."

I made it to the cable tv station on time, with not enough time to fiddle with my hair or apply makeup to that very obvious zit on my nose, but in time to sing two songs and talk about them. I arrived at the place I was supposed to. And on the way, I also arrived at that little cul-de-sac.

The computerized map, in my all-too-human hands, had led me to the general vicinity of where I needed to go, but I hadn't double-checked my own route to make sure it was exactly where I needed to be. As it turned out, the distance between the two possible destinations was only a mile or two, but they couldn't seem further apart.

When I got back into the car to head home, I saw the paper map hastily unfolded on the seat beside me, taking up lots of space. Instead of scrunching it up quickly, I paused and carefully re-folded it along the old-fashioned accordion fold lines.

Something tells me I'm going to need that map again.

A Rose for Valentine's Day

Today is my parents' 47th wedding anniversary. Thank you, Mother and Dad, for your commitment to each other and your loving guidance over the years. We love you both very much. Congratulations! - Lynn, Dave, Tucker and Calla

++++++

This morning, my scheduled busking spot was Dundas Station, under the Eaton Centre. I like that spot, and it's out of the cold, so I decided to go there. Unfortunately, a major escalator overhaul had taken over the whole corridor, so I had to go someplace else.

I wound up at Osgoode, which is a so-so location at the best of times, and also tends to be very cold and damp.

Predictably, I encountered mostly sour faces as I sang my collection of love songs. Here's one I sang!

I was considering just going home after three songs or so, when a man stopped (during the song you're listening to, this being a multimedia experience) and bought a CD for his wife for Valentine's Day. Thus validated, I ended up singing for another hour, until my fingers were numb with cold.

Not many people donated today--or even smiled for that matter--but the ones who did were valuable to me and I will remember them. When I'm busking, I often notice that when few people seem to appreciate you, the ones who do really stand out. Maybe that's a commentary on love itself. We value our relationships with family and close friends (even if they're imperfect) so highly because they're so rare. Most of the time, our individual gifts are undervalued and virtually invisible to everyone else, as we all shuffle ahead quickly in this big moving crowd.

Today's task was love songs, and although I sang many of my own, I found myself also wanting to sing Amanda McBroom's "The Rose" (made popular by Bette Midler). In my opinion, this is one of the best songs ever written. The inspiring story of how it was written can be found here at Amanda McBroom's website. Also on her website, in the "Gossip" section, you'll find a wonderful speech by the writer Anne Lamott, which includes this:

"It's magic to see spirit largely because it's so rare. Mostly you see the masks and the holograms that the culture presents as real. You see how you're doing in the world's eyes, or your family's, or--worst of all--yours, or in the eyes of people who are doing better than you--much better than you--or worse. But you are not your bank account, or your ambitiousness. You're not the cold clay lump with the big belly you leave when you die. You're not your collection of walking personality disorders. You are spirit, you are love, and...you are free. You are here to love, and be loved, freely. If you find out next week that you are terminally ill--and we are all terminally ill on this bus--all that will matter is memories of beauty, that people loved you, that you loved them, and that you tried to help the poor and innocent." - Anne Lamott, giving a commencement address at the University of California at Berkeley in 2003.

Isn't it amazing, by the way, that I can go to the website of the woman who wrote "The Rose"?! Until just this minute, I've been connected with her only through the song...and I've always imagined her as some distant, mysterious genius-goddess. Now, I discover she's much like me, posting fun essays and stuff on her website. (It occurs to me that perhaps she can better afford to take time to do this because of The Song. Notes to self: Write Great Song. Sell Great Songs.)

I sang "The Rose" especially well at Osgoode Station today. Appropriately, the best rendition (I think) took place when the station was almost deserted and the few people passing by were pretending not to notice.

"Just remember, in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows...lies the seed that with the sun's love in the spring becomes the rose."

Thanks, Amanda.

Happy Valentine's Day.

The Songwriter's Gift Cupboard

This is an essay I shared recently with a student songwriting club in Whitby, Ontario, as part of my work with the School Alliance of Student Songwriters.

The subject of half-finished songs also came up yesterday at the Winterfolk IV festival, when Gregg Lawless and David Newland and I started talking songwriting on workshop stage. (We could have talked songwriting all afternoon, but fortunately we decided to talk less and sing more!)

Anyway, here's "Gift Cupboard".

+++

I have a closet at home that comes in very handy when I need birthday presents and Christmas gifts. It’s my gift cupboard, which I try to keep well-stocked with appealing items that I’d like to give to others. Throughout the year, if I see something that might make a good gift in the future, I buy it and put it in the gift cupboard.

My songwriting gift cupboard serves the same purpose. It consists of title lines, groups of chords, subjects, lyric fragments and other ideas that are likely to come in handy for future songs.

About a year ago, I was busking in the subway when I found myself strumming a little groove in between other songs. It was a very simple C to F pattern, and along with it I found myself singing “people come and go…it happens all the time”, as I noticed the people coming and going in the corridor.

Later that day, and other times when I was practicing, I found myself playing that little song-beginning, just for fun. I liked it. But on the other hand, when I tried to develop the song, it didn’t seem to want to go much further. The topic didn’t interest me particularly, and I had other ideas that were more compelling to work on. So, I put the idea into my “gift cupboard”. I didn’t throw it out; I put it in a special place for safekeeping.

Then, about three weeks ago, an important relationship in my life changed, when a previously close friend became more distant. Although I understood why the person needed space, I still was sad (and a bit angry) about the change. I found myself working through the situation by writing…and I discovered “People Come and Go” just waiting for me in my gift cupboard.

When I pulled it out this time and started working with it, I found that the writing went very easily, and the song was finished, more or less, in an hour or so. The writing had a natural, easy flow to it because the subject was now immediate and vital to me. Any subject that you really care about, right now, is the best one to write about.

Like the gifts in the cupboard, waiting for the right time to be given and the right person to be given to, our “unfinished” songs are waiting for the right time to be given to the world.

Most Wanted

Here's something else independent artists (and probably lots of other people) do from time to time:

They search their own name on Google.

We justify it by saying that "search engine optimization" is an important part of our businesses, which maybe it is.

On the other hand, sometimes it's just navel-gazing.

Anyway, right now Lynn Harrison the singer-songwriter occupies the Top 8 spots on Google.

The 9th listing is an FBI "Most Wanted Fugitive". (Somebody else...a Gary Lynn Harrison, also, coincidentally, from Texas. Wanted for bank fraud. Note to self: pay Visa bill today.)

It's a symbolic reminder that my "web-presence" isn't the real me. The real person is hiding out somewhere else...and she's the "most wanted" one.

Quote-O-Rama

I recently read a quote, or "blurb", which praised an artist I know very highly.

Upon reading it, I immediately experienced a wave of negative emotions, much like an allergic reaction.

I felt jealousy, competitiveness, unjustified anger (at both the artist and the person who praised her), insecurity ("why didn't this person give me a quote?") and confusion ("what should I do next?").

In the game of self-promotion, many artists are chasing blurb-quotes as visible markers of validation. "Look, I AM good! So-and-so, who's a somebody, says so!"

I use the blurbs myself, in the hope that they might positively influence others and enhance my career prospects.

But when I think about it, I realize that as an artist I'm trying to reach a wide range of people (not particularly other musicians or media professionals). And, in life, I want to respect all people equally, not just those with professional status.

So, why not use the words of praise I received from the firefighter, the bookseller, the teacher, the author, the cook? For that matter, are titles necessary? Why not simply credit Bob or Sue, or dispense with review blurbs altogether?

Even though I question the importance of the quote-o-rama ritual, I find I'm not quite ready to give up the illusion of prestige I receive from those "somebodies".

It would feel like a leap of faith to stop using those blurbs (I notice, too, that I use the word "using", which describes other unhealthy addictions)...to rely instead on the integrity of the work and the real-time experience of communication with an audience.

Still Wondering at Spadina

I haven't abandoned the subway entirely. I'm still getting out at least once a week, but sometimes I don't get around to writing about it. Last Friday, I went to two different stations, Spadina and Queen's Park.

At Spadina, a man came along and contributed to our conversation about "What kind of music do you play?".

He didn't ask that question exactly. What he actually asked was "What kind of music IS THAT?"

He obviously really liked my songs, and I realized (but too late to be truly helpful) that he was asking the question so he could find more of this kind of music in the future.

The right answer for his question might have been simply "folk", because there IS a folk section of the record store and that's where my CDs usually are. When they're at record stores, that is. Which they rarely are.

Maybe he'd find other people whose music is similar to mine in the "Folk" section. Then again, he might find better songwriters in the "Rock" or "Country" section. It's really about the artist and the song, not the category.

As it turned out, the song I happened to be playing, which he liked, would probably be filed under "Jazz".

It wouldn't have been very polite to say "I don't know what you'd call it, but it's only available right here in this vestibule on this $20 CD which you'll never see again!" If I'd been a bit more on top of my game, I'd have pointed him to my website.

Isn't there a Patron Saint of Missed Opportunities?

Anyway, Mr. Very Nice Man at Spadina, I'm sorry I was vague. Thanks for asking.

+++

Note to self: I'm going to take my camera out next time. Promise. Speaking of cameras, a couple of tourists on their way back to Amsterdam took my picture in Spadina on Friday, on their way to the airport. It would be fun to busk in Amsterdam.

What kind of music do you play?

(Photo by Arthur Uyeyama.)

A few days ago, I launched a conversation on a discussion board about the question "What kind of music do you play?"

My post was mostly tongue-in-cheek, highlighting the inevitable inadequacy of whatever I say (usually a variation of "contemporary folk singer-songwriter").

The responses I received were entertaining. Some were lighthearted while others were surprisingly serious. One person suggested that, because I took note of how difficult it is to answer the question, I must not have spent much time defining my art. (My guess is, neither has he. And that's okay.)

The discussion made me notice, more clearly, the many times the question is asked. Coincidentally, it's been asked a lot over the last few days.

Last Wednesday, I had just arrived at Pape Station to play and was tuning my guitar. A man stopped to watch me and called over from the wall to ask "What kind of music do you play?" even though I was clearly just about to play whatever kind of music it was.

The second time, I was at a clothing store (Here & Now Clothing Co., 770 Queen St. East in Toronto, where I bought the cool top I'm wearing in the picture). The owners had been listening to my CD and seemed to want to find a way to describe it. They cast about for adjectives and similar-sounding artists (as I do), came up short, and happily talked with me about how difficult it is to describe an artist and about the challenge of finding the right career path and calling. We didn't come up with any brilliant insights, but we had a delightful conversation and I bought a very nice shirt for my brother.

Then last night I was at a concert by the superb guitarist Stephen Bennett. In the break, a friend-of-a-friend asked me again, "What kind of music do you play?" He asked it twice, genuinely interested. I offered him a few possible answers, and then said something like "I'm still learning how to answer that". An artist himself, he smiled and nodded.

As I sat in the church, listening to the beautiful melodies and note-patterns Bennett offered into the space, I continued to wonder at the question, and I felt ultimately it was the wondering that counted.

I'm always wondering what the most important parts of life are...what lessons I'm supposed to be learning. I'm always wondering where beauty and truth lies. I'm wondering whether a new melody or lyric might be a little more accurate in describing the often-baffling complexity that is being human.

In a sense, the opening up to the Creative Spirit is an asking of that question to the world: What kind of music do you play?

As I reflect on that question, may my songs be a mirror of that greater Music.

Listening to Myself

It was obviously my ego talking.

When I was asked "Would you like us to record the show?" I said, "Yes!" And when they said "How about you edit it for us?" I replied, "Sure!"

The road to obscurity is full of self-created potholes.

One of which is having to listen to your live performance, rather than simply basking in the knowledge that the concert was a big success and that everyone seemed to love it.

Today, after spending two days listening to myself (and laughing and cringing by turns) I'm feeling humbled and surprisingly grateful. I've been reminded that I'm likely to make mistakes and have "off" moments not only in the lowly subway corridor, but in a prestigious venue with all the lights on me. Although I'd like to choose which venue I'd prefer as a training ground, I'm not in charge. I will be plunked right down in the place where I need to be, just in time to fall into the pothole.

Ironically, many of my songs are concerned with the acceptance of imperfection, in myself and in my relationships with others.

Naturally, I want to sing them perfectly.

In my songs, I reassure myself that I'm okay the way I am.

And I find myself wishing I was "better" than I was.

When I record my songs, I re-record them until they sound the way I want. I edit out the flaws I'm least comfortable with...and keep in the ones that I think seem stylish. (It occurs to me that other recording artists are doing the same thing...which must be good news for recording studios.)

Tonight, at our children's music lesson, the teacher told them: "There are no mistakes".

As I overheard her saying that, I realized how many times I'd semi-consciously heard and dismissed it. "Oh yes, that's an encouraging platitude, appropriate for children," I'd think. "Yes, yes, 'there are no mistakes'...except for [annoying stage habit/botched guitar chord/wobbly vocal delivery]."

Needless to say, the imperfections that seem so glaring to me are likely less noticeable to others. It's our own flaws that inevitably come to light. I can cling to them (and beat myself up) or hide from them (by reciting the evening's glowing reviews). Or I can listen to them, observe them, and accept the fact that they exist. I can start to see "mistakes" in another light...as an integral part of the design of being human. Then I can move forward, knowing that even this awareness won't insulate me from the next hurdle I'll surely trip over.

Tonight I'm grateful for the opportunity to listen to myself as I am, and to embrace that person who is still growing.

Huge Room

You probably can't see them in the dark, but there were people there at all those tables.

I couldn't see them either. When the lights are on you, you can't see very far ahead. Past the first row of tables, it's all fuzzy and black. You rely on the sound of applause.

My show at Hugh's Room went really well. But before the show, I was very nervous. It's unusual for me to get nervous these days, so I was annoyed at myself, which made me even more nervous. What was I nervous about? I couldn't really tell. Nothing really...and everything. Who'd show up, who wouldn't, how I'd sound...all those things, but mostly, whether I really belonged there.

It's funny...you work so hard to get to "the next level" (whatever it happens to be at the time) and then when you're there, you think maybe it's all a big mistake.

Anyway, I didn't feel like my usual confident self, and suddenly I felt a strong kinship with Carly Simon and Barbra Streisand, both of whom had stage-fright problems. (Today, 48 hours later, "Memories" has been going through my head. I'm sure that's why.)

Part of the problem was that I had not pre-planned the "before-show" time period. I had carefully mapped out every other part of the day, but had ignored the two-and-a-half hours between sound check and curtain time. As it turns out, two-and-a-half hours is a very long time, especially when you're too nervous to eat anything but a protein bar. The guitar player, Eric, kindly accompanied me to a used record store and then a cafe to kill time.

When we returned, the room was filling up, so in order to avoid socializing nervously with friends and fans before the show, I was forced to spend time wringing my hands in the little anteroom behind the club's administrative offices (which is to say, a bad place to look like a complete wreck). Just then, my producer and bass player David mentioned that I could go outside to the roof.

The roof? Where? I was practically sprinting towards it.

He led me along a zig-zag corridor through the kitchen, where the staff were merrily preparing food and listening to some other kind of music, completely oblivious to my panic.

And then, out the doorway, there it was: a blessedly open rooftop deck...the kind you find in back of so many Toronto houses, apparently even those that have been turned into restaurants.

It was cold on the rooftop, but I could pace and sing, freely and without being noticed.

Also, I could notice the moon, which was almost full, and the stars clearly visible above the city's glow. I was shivering, but I stayed as long as I could, singing for awhile but then just standing still and watching the real stars, which put my own reaching upward into perspective.

Lessons from Busking on the Eve of a CD Release Party

1) You never know who's going to show up.

2) Play like nobody's ever going to see you again.

3) On the other hand, nobody's paying as much attention to your performance as you are.

4) What you're doing is virtually unimportant in the big scheme of things.

5) But what you're doing is valuable and special.

6) That contradiction is funny!

7) You're always right beside the garbage bin.

8) People are asking you for directions.

9) There are always several directions to go, not just up or down.

10) It's easier to be singing than to be thinking about singing.

The Big Small

Pape Station is a small place. It has a little name and a narrow busking space, which is, apparently, shrinking. When I returned today after an absence of several weeks, the rectangle of yellow dots designating the performance area had shrunk to maybe three feet by one foot, because a new garbage-and-recycling sorting bin had replaced the garbage can.

The sorting bin is a good thing (in fact, it seems to draw people to the immediate area) so I'm not complaining. I can still fit into the space.

This week, I've been thinking about big things! A big CD release concert! At a big venue! With a band! (That's pretty big, for me.) A few people from (small) radio stations have interviewed me about my music...giving me a chance to think big thoughts about why I wrote the songs in the first place. "Why do you write about little things?"

I answered something (off-the-cuff, not edited, not exactly right) and later found myself thinking about Mrs. Popeski and Bob Dylan.

Mrs. Popeski was my high school art teacher. She required us to create what she called "home drawings", one per week. We had to draw an object or objects in our house. Some students protested that their house was not interesting enough, but she was firm. It didn't matter how humble your environment was: if you observed it carefully, set your subject in the right light, invested time and care and improved your technique through practice, you could produce beautiful work. (This was proven true by my friend Janice, whose gorgeous drawings of objects in her famiiy's small house will someday, I predict, be worth a lot of money.)

Bob Dylan, master poet and illuminator of details, summed up the poet's eye when he wrote "In the fury of the moment, I can see the Master's hand, in every leaf that trembles and every grain of sand." In fact, I think we all can see it. But usually we don't notice it. And even if we do, we can't express that we see it so eloquently. (I certainly can't.)

But it's worth trying.

So today I returned to Pape Station, to observe the afternoon, while painting with the melodies and words I know. Once or twice, I got a phrase just right...other times, I rushed through it, missed a detail. When some people noticed me, I realized that I too am a detail, a footnote, a bit of local colour. Worth being.

Earlier today, I was feeling tense with anxiety over my upcoming "big" event (which, as I had already observed but pretended not to notice, isn't really so big at all). I calmed down only when I did something humble and easy, something virtually insignificant in the big scheme of the entertainment world.

Welcome back to the Big Small.