Saturday, February 25, 2006

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.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

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

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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.

Monday, February 06, 2006

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".

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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.

Friday, February 03, 2006

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.