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.

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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.