To write a good song, you need the kind of energy that comes with what I call “creative lift-off”. It’s the elevated forward motion that takes place when a song seems to be supported by something other than itself, in the same way that a plane naturally rises on a current of air once it’s reached a certain speed.
It’s possible to keep writing—even to complete a whole song—without creative lift-off. But just because it's possible doesn't mean it's ideal. Think of it this way: a plane speeding along the runway still goes forward, but it doesn’t go nearly as far, fast or high. The Wright Brothers weren’t trying to build an interesting new sort of car, they were trying to build a flying machine. That’s what we want too: a new thing that will seem to defy gravity…something that will travel a long way and be lofty and inspiring.
So, how do you know you’ve achieved creative lift-off? Watch for the moment when:
- You’re suddenly not comparing this song to any others, written by you or anybody else;
- You forget you’re “writing”;
- Magical-seeming, coincidental gifts fall into place in your lyrics;
- Your hand unconsciously goes to a new chord, and it’s the right one;
- You write something you didn’t know you knew how to write;
- You lose track of time;
- You can correct flaws easily, or ignore them comfortably;
- You have a knowing feeling that the song already exists, even though it’s not finished;
- You don’t have the frustrated feeling that something supposed to happen isn’t happening (as you would in a plane that never took off).
It’s a relief to notice creative lift-off when it happens. And, once it’s happened, we enjoy a sense of relaxation. It's as if the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, and we're free to enjoy the creative ride.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Creative Abandon
I've been reading a lot of Pema Chodron lately, a spiritual teacher in the Buddhist Lojong tradition. She recommends using a number of simple slogans during everyday activities, to stay rooted in the present moment. Over the next couple of weeks, for an e-course I'm taking, I'll be working with the slogan "abandon all hope of fruition".
It's a useful slogan for anyone striving in the difficult career path of the arts.
Just yesterday, I found myself "hoping for fruition" as I sent a song to an influential music promoter. Although I told myself that I wasn't expecting a response, I was disappointed when I didn't receive a return email immediately. (Another Lojong slogan that is closely related is "Don't expect applause".)
Unconsciously, I also hope for fruition when I send an email out to my list of supporters and when I write a blog entry. What will people think, I wonder? Will they come out to the show? Will they think more highly of me? I often hold some expectation of result in my mind while I'm creating something new.
When I'm actually writing a song, the hope of fruition can be a real roadblock to success.
Thinking ahead, while writing, to the response of potential audiences diverts my attention from the song. If I think "ahah, this is going to be a masterpiece", I'm disappointed in myself and creatively blocked when, a few minutes later, it seems not to be fulfilling its potential. And if I think "oh no, this won't work for such-and-such audience or industry person" I start to fiddle with the song, worrying it into a mutant version of what it was originally meant to be.
In order to write something true, I have to honour my subject with my full attention.
When I simply let the song carry itself forward without all that weight on it, it generally comes out fine.
"Abandoning all hope of fruition" turns into "creative abandon", which is freeing and joyful.
It's a useful slogan for anyone striving in the difficult career path of the arts.
Just yesterday, I found myself "hoping for fruition" as I sent a song to an influential music promoter. Although I told myself that I wasn't expecting a response, I was disappointed when I didn't receive a return email immediately. (Another Lojong slogan that is closely related is "Don't expect applause".)
Unconsciously, I also hope for fruition when I send an email out to my list of supporters and when I write a blog entry. What will people think, I wonder? Will they come out to the show? Will they think more highly of me? I often hold some expectation of result in my mind while I'm creating something new.
When I'm actually writing a song, the hope of fruition can be a real roadblock to success.
Thinking ahead, while writing, to the response of potential audiences diverts my attention from the song. If I think "ahah, this is going to be a masterpiece", I'm disappointed in myself and creatively blocked when, a few minutes later, it seems not to be fulfilling its potential. And if I think "oh no, this won't work for such-and-such audience or industry person" I start to fiddle with the song, worrying it into a mutant version of what it was originally meant to be.
In order to write something true, I have to honour my subject with my full attention.
When I simply let the song carry itself forward without all that weight on it, it generally comes out fine.
"Abandoning all hope of fruition" turns into "creative abandon", which is freeing and joyful.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Wanting Great, Getting Good
Each time I write a song, I want it to be better than the last one.
I imagine my growing body of work as being a steadily improving thing...a smooth ascending hill. But in fact, it's more like the jagged line that illustrates an investment in the stock market. One day it's up, the next it's down...but gradually, over time, the investment's value increases in a series of peaks and valleys. (And isn't artistic practice a lifelong investment?)
Each time that little line dips, I feel queasy. I'm disappointed when a new song doesn't "pay off" the way I want it to. Why didn't it? Was it the idea, the execution, the presentation? It seemed pretty good when I was writing it... Why isn't it lifting off? There's a note of fear there.
Although some analysis is useful, it's important for me to stop judging and let go. Simply let the work be--present it, let it breathe, and let it go--and know that it's serving its purpose in the bigger picture of my creative life. Trust the mystery.
I'll probably always want "great". Through that stretching, I'm developing as an artist. Many times, despite my best efforts, I'll just get "good". Although it seems like a disappointment at the time, it leaves room for growth, and reminds me to practice the art of self-acceptance.
I imagine my growing body of work as being a steadily improving thing...a smooth ascending hill. But in fact, it's more like the jagged line that illustrates an investment in the stock market. One day it's up, the next it's down...but gradually, over time, the investment's value increases in a series of peaks and valleys. (And isn't artistic practice a lifelong investment?)
Each time that little line dips, I feel queasy. I'm disappointed when a new song doesn't "pay off" the way I want it to. Why didn't it? Was it the idea, the execution, the presentation? It seemed pretty good when I was writing it... Why isn't it lifting off? There's a note of fear there.
Although some analysis is useful, it's important for me to stop judging and let go. Simply let the work be--present it, let it breathe, and let it go--and know that it's serving its purpose in the bigger picture of my creative life. Trust the mystery.
I'll probably always want "great". Through that stretching, I'm developing as an artist. Many times, despite my best efforts, I'll just get "good". Although it seems like a disappointment at the time, it leaves room for growth, and reminds me to practice the art of self-acceptance.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
I Don't Like Middles
This morning as I was working on a new song, I had the familiar urge to quit. It came at the usual point: after the initial excitement had waned, but before I could tell the song would be successfully completed.
It's always the middle period that's hard. Much like the middle of the day, too, I realize...as the clock says 2:56 and I'm tempted to stop writing now and go have a nap. Not to mention the middle of life, the middle of career...no wonder middles lead to crises.
Anyway, in this particular middle, I almost gave up on the song altogether. The song just didn't seem worth the effort. I saw it as unnecessarily complicated, challenging and serious. Oh, and the melody was terrible. These seemed to be perfectly valid concerns. Facts, even! So...
I ignored them and kept writing anyway.
There's a part of me that mistrusts the middle. It imagines that the creative process should be inspiration followed immediately by satisfaction. All magic, all joy, all the time! I avoid the middle at the beginning ("This song idea is brilliant! It will write itself!) , the middle ("This is too difficult. The song must be bad") and the end ("It was fun and easy to write such a great song!").
This time, I kept working during the middle, even though I wasn't enjoying myself and I didn't believe I was necessarily doing anything of value. I simply showed up and stayed put. To my surprise, only a few minutes later I saw that the song was nearly finished...and it was good!
It was good in the middle too. It was just not yet what I wanted it to become. It was still unformed...somewhat muddled...in the middle.
(Side note: did J.K. Rowling pull that brilliant name for humans, 'Muggles', out of a hat or what?!)
It's always the middle period that's hard. Much like the middle of the day, too, I realize...as the clock says 2:56 and I'm tempted to stop writing now and go have a nap. Not to mention the middle of life, the middle of career...no wonder middles lead to crises.
Anyway, in this particular middle, I almost gave up on the song altogether. The song just didn't seem worth the effort. I saw it as unnecessarily complicated, challenging and serious. Oh, and the melody was terrible. These seemed to be perfectly valid concerns. Facts, even! So...
I ignored them and kept writing anyway.
There's a part of me that mistrusts the middle. It imagines that the creative process should be inspiration followed immediately by satisfaction. All magic, all joy, all the time! I avoid the middle at the beginning ("This song idea is brilliant! It will write itself!) , the middle ("This is too difficult. The song must be bad") and the end ("It was fun and easy to write such a great song!").
This time, I kept working during the middle, even though I wasn't enjoying myself and I didn't believe I was necessarily doing anything of value. I simply showed up and stayed put. To my surprise, only a few minutes later I saw that the song was nearly finished...and it was good!
It was good in the middle too. It was just not yet what I wanted it to become. It was still unformed...somewhat muddled...in the middle.
(Side note: did J.K. Rowling pull that brilliant name for humans, 'Muggles', out of a hat or what?!)
Sunday, June 24, 2007
More on Chords
Also...
I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.
The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.
We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.
At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.
I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.
The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.
We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.
At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.
Chords
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That's one way to think about chords.
They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.
Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.
I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.
When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.
Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?
Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.
They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.
Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.
I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.
When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.
Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?
Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Writing the Bridge
Sometimes I'm writing a song, and the verses and choruses are going well, when I think "Uh-oh, it's time for a bridge".
The bridge is tough. That's the section near the end of the song that takes the melody and lyric in a new direction, adding some kind of twist or transformation that makes the whole song more meaningful.
Some songs don't need a bridge. Their structure is "verse, verse, verse", or "verse, chorus, verse, chorus". Some songs have something called a pre-chorus too. Some songs (like "O Canada") don't have distinct, repeating verses or choruses.
When I'm writing a song, I know when it needs a bridge. I can feel it. To NOT write one would feel lazy...and would make the song incomplete.
That means I have to work a little harder, to come up with new material that hasn't appeared in the song so far and to truly understand where exactly my song is going and what it means.
Sometimes life needs a bridge too. Lately I've been feeling that a bridge is coming up in my life, and I have the familiar feeling of not knowing quite how it will look or sound.
As I begin to make this transition (the nature of which is still unclear) I need to do what I do when I'm writing a song: experiment.
What passage feels most natural? Does the song seem to call for a particular type of change, faster/slower, major/minor, a new key? Am I making little slips or mistakes that can show me a new direction? What just "sounds right"? Is there a transition that would bring all the verses and choruses so far into sharper focus?
Writing the bridge can be one of the most difficult aspects of the songwriting process, but when it's done well, it can elevate the whole song to a higher level. Knowing that helps me look ahead to transitions in life, trusting that they're necessary and worth the trouble.
The bridge is tough. That's the section near the end of the song that takes the melody and lyric in a new direction, adding some kind of twist or transformation that makes the whole song more meaningful.
Some songs don't need a bridge. Their structure is "verse, verse, verse", or "verse, chorus, verse, chorus". Some songs have something called a pre-chorus too. Some songs (like "O Canada") don't have distinct, repeating verses or choruses.
When I'm writing a song, I know when it needs a bridge. I can feel it. To NOT write one would feel lazy...and would make the song incomplete.
That means I have to work a little harder, to come up with new material that hasn't appeared in the song so far and to truly understand where exactly my song is going and what it means.
Sometimes life needs a bridge too. Lately I've been feeling that a bridge is coming up in my life, and I have the familiar feeling of not knowing quite how it will look or sound.
As I begin to make this transition (the nature of which is still unclear) I need to do what I do when I'm writing a song: experiment.
What passage feels most natural? Does the song seem to call for a particular type of change, faster/slower, major/minor, a new key? Am I making little slips or mistakes that can show me a new direction? What just "sounds right"? Is there a transition that would bring all the verses and choruses so far into sharper focus?
Writing the bridge can be one of the most difficult aspects of the songwriting process, but when it's done well, it can elevate the whole song to a higher level. Knowing that helps me look ahead to transitions in life, trusting that they're necessary and worth the trouble.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Step Away from the Computer!
Recently I was talking with a friend about doing some research. Feeling charged up, I headed for my computer and did a few searches. I was immediately deluged with information for aspiring songwriters.
According to Google, there are more than eight million matches for the word "songwriting" on the Internet. (In a previous post, I reported that there are also millions of entries for "making it in the music business".)
Why are there so many? I think it's because so many artists today, on the periphery of the commercial entertainment industry, share an intense hunger for validation. We are shadowed by the myth that only large audiences count, and that fame is a measure of self-worth.
Unable to shake that feeling that we're supposed to "make it" (that is, make ourselves matter), we turn to the Internet. And, on the surface, we find what we're looking for, in the form of those eight million entries. But soon it can turn into an unhealthy distraction. It can prompt us to spend large amounts of money on song contest submissions (paid easily with a credit card). It can take time away from the most important career-building activities: developing our craft and making genuine connections with real people, whether they're fans or people in the music industry. For anyone who's introverted (as many artists are), Internet-based connections can take the place of real interaction.
The Internet distances us from spiritual practice, solitude, direct observation of life...the things that make us better artists and more resilient and compassionate human beings.
Of course, the Internet has been an asset to some songwriters' careers. Take Jonathan Coulton for example, a 38 year old guy who (like me) writes a song a week and (not like me) produces them at home in really cool styles and markets himself effectively on the 'Net, to the tune of $3,000 to $5,000 per month.
It's great for him, and I know I could find it inspiring, but actually I end up having the opposite reaction. I end up thinking negatively about my own accomplishments. As useful as the Internet can be, cyber-comparison is an unhealthy habit I need to consciously avoid.
It's easier to do when I spend less time on the computer.
According to Google, there are more than eight million matches for the word "songwriting" on the Internet. (In a previous post, I reported that there are also millions of entries for "making it in the music business".)
Why are there so many? I think it's because so many artists today, on the periphery of the commercial entertainment industry, share an intense hunger for validation. We are shadowed by the myth that only large audiences count, and that fame is a measure of self-worth.
Unable to shake that feeling that we're supposed to "make it" (that is, make ourselves matter), we turn to the Internet. And, on the surface, we find what we're looking for, in the form of those eight million entries. But soon it can turn into an unhealthy distraction. It can prompt us to spend large amounts of money on song contest submissions (paid easily with a credit card). It can take time away from the most important career-building activities: developing our craft and making genuine connections with real people, whether they're fans or people in the music industry. For anyone who's introverted (as many artists are), Internet-based connections can take the place of real interaction.
The Internet distances us from spiritual practice, solitude, direct observation of life...the things that make us better artists and more resilient and compassionate human beings.
Of course, the Internet has been an asset to some songwriters' careers. Take Jonathan Coulton for example, a 38 year old guy who (like me) writes a song a week and (not like me) produces them at home in really cool styles and markets himself effectively on the 'Net, to the tune of $3,000 to $5,000 per month.
It's great for him, and I know I could find it inspiring, but actually I end up having the opposite reaction. I end up thinking negatively about my own accomplishments. As useful as the Internet can be, cyber-comparison is an unhealthy habit I need to consciously avoid.
It's easier to do when I spend less time on the computer.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
An "Ahah" Moment
Today I went out for a long walk to write a song.
Walking is a very effective technique for songwriting, or for that matter, any kind of problem solving. There's something about a walk that puts the mind into a state of heightened conscious alertness and unconscious automatic pilot at the same time. When you're writing a song or solving any other kind of creative problem, you need both parts of your mind to be in tune.
Walks help.
So I took a very long walk to write a song about bicycles.
I was headed to the bank. On the way there, I came up with a pretty good lyric for my chorus. When it came to me I felt very pleased, and I sat down on a bench to write it down. Then I continued my walk, getting to the bank and making a side-trip along the way for some very good Italian cookies.
But on the way home, I was feeling unsettled. During all the walking in the meantime, I had repeated that chorus in my mind. To my disappointment, I realized (when I was standing in the bank lineup) that it didn't work. I needed a rhyme in the middle of the phrase as well as the end. The line I had written didn't have one.
So, on the way home, I made up probably 10 or 12 different lyric lines. I felt irritated because they were all pretty bad: the phrasing was awkward or the meaning weird. I wondered if I'd have to take the whole song apart and start again.
Then about 3/4 of the way home, I finally thought of a good line. A simple, clear one. Ahah!
And just then, I turned a corner and looked at a license plate: AHAH 642.
Walking is a very effective technique for songwriting, or for that matter, any kind of problem solving. There's something about a walk that puts the mind into a state of heightened conscious alertness and unconscious automatic pilot at the same time. When you're writing a song or solving any other kind of creative problem, you need both parts of your mind to be in tune.
Walks help.
So I took a very long walk to write a song about bicycles.
I was headed to the bank. On the way there, I came up with a pretty good lyric for my chorus. When it came to me I felt very pleased, and I sat down on a bench to write it down. Then I continued my walk, getting to the bank and making a side-trip along the way for some very good Italian cookies.
But on the way home, I was feeling unsettled. During all the walking in the meantime, I had repeated that chorus in my mind. To my disappointment, I realized (when I was standing in the bank lineup) that it didn't work. I needed a rhyme in the middle of the phrase as well as the end. The line I had written didn't have one.
So, on the way home, I made up probably 10 or 12 different lyric lines. I felt irritated because they were all pretty bad: the phrasing was awkward or the meaning weird. I wondered if I'd have to take the whole song apart and start again.
Then about 3/4 of the way home, I finally thought of a good line. A simple, clear one. Ahah!
And just then, I turned a corner and looked at a license plate: AHAH 642.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Showing Up on Stage
It’s been said that 90% of success is just showing up.
As a performing songwriter, I find the “needing-to-show-up” a very challenging part of the experience.
Like other introverted performers, I often experience anxiety before the show, thinking at times that the feelings of discomfort are so intense, they outweigh my love of songs. If nobody was expecting me at the venue, I might just not show up, choosing instead to remain comfortably cocooned at home.
But people are expecting me at the venue. The show must go on, so I do.
During the concert, and afterwards, I usually feel so energized and positive, I wonder what all the fuss was about. Why was I so nervous beforehand?
Actually, I think there are good reasons to feel that way. Showing up on stage requires openness, vulnerability and an extending of myself. When I present my songs (my self, really) to others, I’m inviting acceptance and rejection, praise and criticism. I’m sticking my neck out. Everyone who shares her deepest self, expressed in any form, does so. It’s a necessary thing to do, and it’s risky.
Once I’m up on stage, I’m required to present my songs confidently, with energy and verve. Sometimes it’s an act. But “acting as if” is a powerful technique in many situations, and it usually contributes to successful stage performances.
I have to play the songs to the best of my ability and carry on to the end of the song, whether I’m completely happy with my performance or not. I have to show up fully, and at whatever “stage” I happen to be at, right now.
In life, I have to show up as well, whether I feel like it or not. I have to sing my song, play my part, to the best of my ability. I have to keep it up for the duration of the song, without quitting in the middle of the verse.
When I’m feeling tired or anxious, when I don’t really want to show up at the next challenge life is handing to me, I can do the same thing I’ve done at performance after performance: I can listen for my cue, step up onto the stage, and give each song everything I’ve got.
As a performing songwriter, I find the “needing-to-show-up” a very challenging part of the experience.
Like other introverted performers, I often experience anxiety before the show, thinking at times that the feelings of discomfort are so intense, they outweigh my love of songs. If nobody was expecting me at the venue, I might just not show up, choosing instead to remain comfortably cocooned at home.
But people are expecting me at the venue. The show must go on, so I do.
During the concert, and afterwards, I usually feel so energized and positive, I wonder what all the fuss was about. Why was I so nervous beforehand?
Actually, I think there are good reasons to feel that way. Showing up on stage requires openness, vulnerability and an extending of myself. When I present my songs (my self, really) to others, I’m inviting acceptance and rejection, praise and criticism. I’m sticking my neck out. Everyone who shares her deepest self, expressed in any form, does so. It’s a necessary thing to do, and it’s risky.
Once I’m up on stage, I’m required to present my songs confidently, with energy and verve. Sometimes it’s an act. But “acting as if” is a powerful technique in many situations, and it usually contributes to successful stage performances.
I have to play the songs to the best of my ability and carry on to the end of the song, whether I’m completely happy with my performance or not. I have to show up fully, and at whatever “stage” I happen to be at, right now.
In life, I have to show up as well, whether I feel like it or not. I have to sing my song, play my part, to the best of my ability. I have to keep it up for the duration of the song, without quitting in the middle of the verse.
When I’m feeling tired or anxious, when I don’t really want to show up at the next challenge life is handing to me, I can do the same thing I’ve done at performance after performance: I can listen for my cue, step up onto the stage, and give each song everything I’ve got.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Life is a Song: The Main Idea
Songwriters know how important the “title line” or “hook line” of a song is. It’s the thing people remember. The thing a song is “about”.
What am I “about”? What do I believe?
If you don’t know what your song’s about, it’s not going to make sense, to you or anybody else. You keep jumping from one topic to the next in verse to verse, often changing point-of-view, telling several stories at once. Many sections will seem vague and unfocused. It’s not clear what the title is. The song is therefore not memorable. It meanders along for a period of time, somewhat purposelessly, until it comes to an unsatisfying stop.
Do I want my life to be like that?
Or do I want my life to have shape, structure, meaning? A prevailing belief system?
Beginning songwriters generally write songs that go in many directions at once or have no clear direction—just as young people often lack clear direction at an early point in life. Eventually, through trial and error and exploration, a direction emerges and many successful projects, such as a career or an education, can get underway.
Because I write songs all the time, and I know how important it is to have one clear idea to guide my song, I can look at my life and ask myself what the main idea might be at this time in my life. Is my main idea: “I put my family first”? Or is it “I follow my heart”? Or, “I can change the world?”
I know that great songs can be written based on each of those ideas. But, they have to be separate songs. Those major themes can’t all be mushed in together without some separation, which is easy to do when you’re writing new songs, each of which is just four minutes long.
Life often seems not quite so clear…and yet, if we view it in a multi-dimensional way, perhaps it’s possible to “hear” more than one song playing concurrently in a life, or discern several main themes that are distinct and come and go within the framework of a symphony.
For example, it’s not that I have to choose between my work and my family, but that I have to see them as distinct songs, and attend to them separately.
I often work on several songs at once. I’m sure many painters and writers work on their creative works concurrently too. I find that when I do, the songs sometimes inform each other, or are so different that they create a complementary pair, like a yin and yang. I need to attend to each one of them individually to make them each come to fruition. I don’t have to drop one or the other, and they don’t need to compete.
What am I “about”? What do I believe?
If you don’t know what your song’s about, it’s not going to make sense, to you or anybody else. You keep jumping from one topic to the next in verse to verse, often changing point-of-view, telling several stories at once. Many sections will seem vague and unfocused. It’s not clear what the title is. The song is therefore not memorable. It meanders along for a period of time, somewhat purposelessly, until it comes to an unsatisfying stop.
Do I want my life to be like that?
Or do I want my life to have shape, structure, meaning? A prevailing belief system?
Beginning songwriters generally write songs that go in many directions at once or have no clear direction—just as young people often lack clear direction at an early point in life. Eventually, through trial and error and exploration, a direction emerges and many successful projects, such as a career or an education, can get underway.
Because I write songs all the time, and I know how important it is to have one clear idea to guide my song, I can look at my life and ask myself what the main idea might be at this time in my life. Is my main idea: “I put my family first”? Or is it “I follow my heart”? Or, “I can change the world?”
I know that great songs can be written based on each of those ideas. But, they have to be separate songs. Those major themes can’t all be mushed in together without some separation, which is easy to do when you’re writing new songs, each of which is just four minutes long.
Life often seems not quite so clear…and yet, if we view it in a multi-dimensional way, perhaps it’s possible to “hear” more than one song playing concurrently in a life, or discern several main themes that are distinct and come and go within the framework of a symphony.
For example, it’s not that I have to choose between my work and my family, but that I have to see them as distinct songs, and attend to them separately.
I often work on several songs at once. I’m sure many painters and writers work on their creative works concurrently too. I find that when I do, the songs sometimes inform each other, or are so different that they create a complementary pair, like a yin and yang. I need to attend to each one of them individually to make them each come to fruition. I don’t have to drop one or the other, and they don’t need to compete.
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Introverted Singer-Songwriter
I'm reading a book right now called The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney.
It's shedding some light on not only my personality, but the traits of my parents, brother, husband and children. It's also making me notice some interesting things about my singer-songwriter life.
Laney explains that many introverts think there's something "wrong" with them, when they're simply exhibiting normal traits of introverted people--needing to take time away from a party to recharge, for example. (Has anybody hidden out in the bathroom? I have.)
I scored quite high on Laney's introversion scale (23 out of 30). As I've been reading, I've been noticing how my introversion doesn't fit well with parts of my songwriting life.
Here's one example that really stands out. I remember telling a publicist (who was considering working with me) that I am uncomfortable with publicity. I can still hear the baffled silence on the other end of the phone! As the conversation ended awkwardly, I worried (and wondered if she then thought) that perhaps I didn't want to be successful after all.
Indie musicians are supposed to love MySpace. I don't. And I feel pretty uncomfortable on most discussion forums. I prefer the solitude of a blog.
Music conferences? A special kind of hell for the introverted singer-songwriter.
When I was researching this subject just now, I discovered an interview with Ray Davies from The Kinks, who said he believed virtually all performers are introverts. That makes sense to me, because as a performer (who chooses if not writes all of her material) I have a lot of control over how I express myself. A performance is scripted; life is not.
In regular life, people I know have been surprised to learn I'm a singer-songwriter, because I come across as quiet and reserved in many social situations. They're often surprised to see me confident and self-assured on stage (but they may be hesitant to come see me, thinking that I'll be awful!)
Of course, I'm probably a good songwriter because I AM an introvert. Some of my best reviews describe how I "focus on the small details of life". One of the introverted traits Laney identifies is "I tend to notice details many people don't see".
How to get the songs themselves noticed, now, that's a challenge for the introvert.
I'll keep reading.
It's shedding some light on not only my personality, but the traits of my parents, brother, husband and children. It's also making me notice some interesting things about my singer-songwriter life.
Laney explains that many introverts think there's something "wrong" with them, when they're simply exhibiting normal traits of introverted people--needing to take time away from a party to recharge, for example. (Has anybody hidden out in the bathroom? I have.)
I scored quite high on Laney's introversion scale (23 out of 30). As I've been reading, I've been noticing how my introversion doesn't fit well with parts of my songwriting life.
Here's one example that really stands out. I remember telling a publicist (who was considering working with me) that I am uncomfortable with publicity. I can still hear the baffled silence on the other end of the phone! As the conversation ended awkwardly, I worried (and wondered if she then thought) that perhaps I didn't want to be successful after all.
Indie musicians are supposed to love MySpace. I don't. And I feel pretty uncomfortable on most discussion forums. I prefer the solitude of a blog.
Music conferences? A special kind of hell for the introverted singer-songwriter.
When I was researching this subject just now, I discovered an interview with Ray Davies from The Kinks, who said he believed virtually all performers are introverts. That makes sense to me, because as a performer (who chooses if not writes all of her material) I have a lot of control over how I express myself. A performance is scripted; life is not.
In regular life, people I know have been surprised to learn I'm a singer-songwriter, because I come across as quiet and reserved in many social situations. They're often surprised to see me confident and self-assured on stage (but they may be hesitant to come see me, thinking that I'll be awful!)
Of course, I'm probably a good songwriter because I AM an introvert. Some of my best reviews describe how I "focus on the small details of life". One of the introverted traits Laney identifies is "I tend to notice details many people don't see".
How to get the songs themselves noticed, now, that's a challenge for the introvert.
I'll keep reading.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Life is a Song: Melody
(Recently I've been writing a series of essays exploring the ways that life might follow the principles of songwriting. Here's a sample! Let me know what you think.)
How can life be seen as a melody?
Well, to start with, melodies repeat.
In particular, the pleasing parts of melodies in songs repeat themselves. I tell beginning songwriters that if they find a melodic phrase they like, they should repeat it to satisfying effect. Sometimes they're reluctant to do this, thinking that they should always be novel, constantly reinventing their tune.
Not so. Once a pleasing melody is discovered, it's almost always a good idea to repeat it. Not over and over until it becomes boring, but often enough that it keeps someone (the songwriter at least) engaged and listening.
Melodies are made up of repeating patterns of notes. Their symmetry is pleasing to the ear and the emotions. They create a mood and shape when put together.
What are some of the repeating notes in my life?
Daily walks to and from school with my daughter...
Waking up and going to sleep in the same room...
Using a special greeting to say hello to my husband...
These are a few.
There are meals, habits, daily routines, family holiday traditions, birthdays, seasonal observances, weekly work schedules, the Monday morning meeting.
All of these form combinations, and they have additional repeating notes attached to them: the daily hello to the crossing guard on the morning walk, for example.
The melodies may be played a little differently each time, depending on the timing or emphasis of particular events for particular reasons. But they form specific melodies that belong to each of us.
By choosing those activities (notes) that are meaningful and pleasurable, and repeating them at regular intervals of days and weeks, we create balanced and interesting lives that have the same inspiring, engaging and sustaining qualities of musical melodies.
Sometimes, though, we do not choose the notes that make up the melody of life. Sudden unpleasant events strike a jarring note, sending the melody off into a different direction.
(...more on that later!)
How can life be seen as a melody?
Well, to start with, melodies repeat.
In particular, the pleasing parts of melodies in songs repeat themselves. I tell beginning songwriters that if they find a melodic phrase they like, they should repeat it to satisfying effect. Sometimes they're reluctant to do this, thinking that they should always be novel, constantly reinventing their tune.
Not so. Once a pleasing melody is discovered, it's almost always a good idea to repeat it. Not over and over until it becomes boring, but often enough that it keeps someone (the songwriter at least) engaged and listening.
Melodies are made up of repeating patterns of notes. Their symmetry is pleasing to the ear and the emotions. They create a mood and shape when put together.
What are some of the repeating notes in my life?
Daily walks to and from school with my daughter...
Waking up and going to sleep in the same room...
Using a special greeting to say hello to my husband...
These are a few.
There are meals, habits, daily routines, family holiday traditions, birthdays, seasonal observances, weekly work schedules, the Monday morning meeting.
All of these form combinations, and they have additional repeating notes attached to them: the daily hello to the crossing guard on the morning walk, for example.
The melodies may be played a little differently each time, depending on the timing or emphasis of particular events for particular reasons. But they form specific melodies that belong to each of us.
By choosing those activities (notes) that are meaningful and pleasurable, and repeating them at regular intervals of days and weeks, we create balanced and interesting lives that have the same inspiring, engaging and sustaining qualities of musical melodies.
Sometimes, though, we do not choose the notes that make up the melody of life. Sudden unpleasant events strike a jarring note, sending the melody off into a different direction.
(...more on that later!)
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Great Crossword Puzzle
One technique that I find helpful in songwriting is to imagine, especially when the work is not flowing easily, that the perfectly constructed song already exists. It’s like a crossword puzzle already devised, but with the answers not yet revealed.
During the creation of every song, there are many points at which I feel completely stumped. I tend to forget those moments later on, when the song is finished. It looks so right then, so simple in its completed form. How could it have been so hard to write?
But when I’m actually writing, I hit many roadblocks along the way. A melody I liked yesterday seems trite today. A lyric line doesn’t make sense, or seems clunky and unconversational. As I’m trying to solve the puzzle of the song, I often have to erase my previous attempts at solutions, because they’re so obviously wrong. I start over, again and again. As I do, I believe in the as-yet-unfound solution, the true song that’s yet to emerge.
But what am I’m believing in, anyway? Unlike a crossword puzzle in the newspaper, an unfinished song has no actual, pre-written solution. So, is it foolish to act as if there is one? One might think so, except that the technique seems to work. By visualizing a solution that already exists, I bring it into existence. Perhaps this is a songwriter’s take on the “law of attraction” recently popularized in “The Secret”, but expressed in many wisdom throughout the ages. Ask, and you shall receive. If you build it (believe in it) they (the answers) will come.
I do wonder, during times of creative difficulty, whether the technique will finally fail. Perhaps this song, finally, is the one that's unsolveable. But my experience as an artist has taught me otherwise.
Again and again, I find that the intended song always does exist, even if it's temporarily beyond my field of vision. When I am patient and let the words and music unfold naturally, eventually they fall into a harmonious order, which seems perfectly natural. The completed work has the sort of internal logic I associate with things like Rubik’s cubes and mathematical equations. This leads me to believe that works of art are somehow mirrors of the many other perfect and beautiful structures that also exist in the universe. As artists, we may bring about a new interpretation of that greater harmony, but it already existed before we came along. Our works of art come from us, but are independent of us.
This principle can apply to my life as well. Even if I don’t understand or fully believe that my life will ultimately grow to take on some complete and meaningful shape, I can believe that it will...and that it already does. I can consider this at times when my life seems nothing more than a tangle of disorganized scribbles on the page.
Slowly but surely, just as I grope for the right lyric or chord, I move toward my life’s destiny, in assurance that it already is fully formed and complete…and that it needs my part to fulfill its promise.
During the creation of every song, there are many points at which I feel completely stumped. I tend to forget those moments later on, when the song is finished. It looks so right then, so simple in its completed form. How could it have been so hard to write?
But when I’m actually writing, I hit many roadblocks along the way. A melody I liked yesterday seems trite today. A lyric line doesn’t make sense, or seems clunky and unconversational. As I’m trying to solve the puzzle of the song, I often have to erase my previous attempts at solutions, because they’re so obviously wrong. I start over, again and again. As I do, I believe in the as-yet-unfound solution, the true song that’s yet to emerge.
But what am I’m believing in, anyway? Unlike a crossword puzzle in the newspaper, an unfinished song has no actual, pre-written solution. So, is it foolish to act as if there is one? One might think so, except that the technique seems to work. By visualizing a solution that already exists, I bring it into existence. Perhaps this is a songwriter’s take on the “law of attraction” recently popularized in “The Secret”, but expressed in many wisdom throughout the ages. Ask, and you shall receive. If you build it (believe in it) they (the answers) will come.
I do wonder, during times of creative difficulty, whether the technique will finally fail. Perhaps this song, finally, is the one that's unsolveable. But my experience as an artist has taught me otherwise.
Again and again, I find that the intended song always does exist, even if it's temporarily beyond my field of vision. When I am patient and let the words and music unfold naturally, eventually they fall into a harmonious order, which seems perfectly natural. The completed work has the sort of internal logic I associate with things like Rubik’s cubes and mathematical equations. This leads me to believe that works of art are somehow mirrors of the many other perfect and beautiful structures that also exist in the universe. As artists, we may bring about a new interpretation of that greater harmony, but it already existed before we came along. Our works of art come from us, but are independent of us.
This principle can apply to my life as well. Even if I don’t understand or fully believe that my life will ultimately grow to take on some complete and meaningful shape, I can believe that it will...and that it already does. I can consider this at times when my life seems nothing more than a tangle of disorganized scribbles on the page.
Slowly but surely, just as I grope for the right lyric or chord, I move toward my life’s destiny, in assurance that it already is fully formed and complete…and that it needs my part to fulfill its promise.
Friday, April 13, 2007
On Context and Joshua Bell
This week, I heard about an article in The Washington Post from several sources, including Bob Baker’s and Kat’s blogs. The story described an experiment in which virtuoso violinist Joshua Bell fails to attract any attention while busking at a busy subway station.
I'm interested in this subject, having written extensively (in the earlier version of this blog ) about my own busking experience on the Toronto subway system.
Lots of details in the really excellent article resonated with me. I'll admit to feeling validated when I learned that even Joshua Bell was ignored by the passing crowds (“It’s not just me!”). I noticed that our experiences were very similar. Every child responded to the music. It felt strange when songs ended and no one applauded (or even noticed).
I was glad that the writer, Gene Weingarten, raised the philosophical question: “If beautiful music reaches no one, is it still beautiful?” I maintain that it is. I thought so when I was busking, and my opinion hasn't changed. But I would rephrase the question to make it reflect the experience more accurately. “If art reaches only a few …?” For it usually does reach a few. And to those people, art is not only beautiful, it is truly rare and precious: perhaps more precious than a mass-distributed product that reaches millions.
Is the lesson of the Joshua Bell Experiment that musicians need to ensure they get good gigs? Or is the lesson that as a culture, we're losing (or have already lost) our ability to recognize and nurture beauty? In such a market-driven, popularity-contest culture, how can artists respond?
Bob writes that “it's all about context” and that independent musicians need to do everything we can to create the context in which people will see us in a positive light. But in a world dominated by high-priced entertainment products, the price of the “right context” can be high.
In Toronto, an aspiring singer named Chantal Chamandy recently paid $500,000 to put her CDs in Dollarama stores and put big advertisements all over the city. She’s also planning a big concert at the Pyramids of Egypt—fantastic context—and I’ll bet she’s paying for that. About a year ago, a guy whose name I can't remember (!) rented Roy Thomson Hall for his first gig. On a smaller scale, musicians routinely lose money to pay side musicians and book prestigious venues, and pay $20,000 or more each time to produce professional CDs. Context, context, context. We're hooked on it.
A legitimate, if unusual and even radical, approach—one in line with a more slowed-down, sustainable, community-based and earth-centred approach to life and art—is to think less about context and more about content, less about celebrity and more about service.
To consciously aim to reach fewer people more deeply.
Ideally, that happens in a place that benefits both the sender and the receiver. Maybe not a subway corridor, maybe someone's home.
When such a connection occurs, playing on the margins isn't so bad.
I'm interested in this subject, having written extensively (in the earlier version of this blog ) about my own busking experience on the Toronto subway system.
Lots of details in the really excellent article resonated with me. I'll admit to feeling validated when I learned that even Joshua Bell was ignored by the passing crowds (“It’s not just me!”). I noticed that our experiences were very similar. Every child responded to the music. It felt strange when songs ended and no one applauded (or even noticed).
I was glad that the writer, Gene Weingarten, raised the philosophical question: “If beautiful music reaches no one, is it still beautiful?” I maintain that it is. I thought so when I was busking, and my opinion hasn't changed. But I would rephrase the question to make it reflect the experience more accurately. “If art reaches only a few …?” For it usually does reach a few. And to those people, art is not only beautiful, it is truly rare and precious: perhaps more precious than a mass-distributed product that reaches millions.
Is the lesson of the Joshua Bell Experiment that musicians need to ensure they get good gigs? Or is the lesson that as a culture, we're losing (or have already lost) our ability to recognize and nurture beauty? In such a market-driven, popularity-contest culture, how can artists respond?
Bob writes that “it's all about context” and that independent musicians need to do everything we can to create the context in which people will see us in a positive light. But in a world dominated by high-priced entertainment products, the price of the “right context” can be high.
In Toronto, an aspiring singer named Chantal Chamandy recently paid $500,000 to put her CDs in Dollarama stores and put big advertisements all over the city. She’s also planning a big concert at the Pyramids of Egypt—fantastic context—and I’ll bet she’s paying for that. About a year ago, a guy whose name I can't remember (!) rented Roy Thomson Hall for his first gig. On a smaller scale, musicians routinely lose money to pay side musicians and book prestigious venues, and pay $20,000 or more each time to produce professional CDs. Context, context, context. We're hooked on it.
A legitimate, if unusual and even radical, approach—one in line with a more slowed-down, sustainable, community-based and earth-centred approach to life and art—is to think less about context and more about content, less about celebrity and more about service.
To consciously aim to reach fewer people more deeply.
Ideally, that happens in a place that benefits both the sender and the receiver. Maybe not a subway corridor, maybe someone's home.
When such a connection occurs, playing on the margins isn't so bad.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Big Songs for Small Spaces
Recently I found myself feeling jealous of a very successful blogging songwriter who has a lot in common with me. We're about the same age, experienced performers who write thoughtful, catchy and often inspiring songs in a folk-roots-rock vein. In our blogs, we write about spirituality and personal growth. We're "seeker-songwriters". (Wow! I just made that up!) And at the moment we have similar hair.
Career and lifestyle-wise, that's where the comparisons end. Christine Kane's audience and tour schedule is about a zillion times bigger than mine. Her career is focused and intentional, and not divided up between music and Everything Else, such as a family or parallel career. In my life, there's a lot of the Everything Else these days. Make no mistake: I admire Christine, find her inspiring and recommend both her music and her blog. I'm sure she'd be the first to remind me--in her honest, funny and spiritual way--that comparing myself to others is always a bad idea!
So, now that we've gotten that out of the way...back to the life I have chosen.
A friend asked me recently what folk festivals I'll be playing this summer. I said none, which is true. My freelance writing work is active right now, and my family doesn't particularly want to traipse around the festival circuit with me. My music, for now, is staying close to home.
In fact, just the other day we were reminiscing about the "hilarious" time we all spent camping in the fog at my first and only Major Festival Appearance, at the Stan Rogers Folk Festival in Canso, Nova Scotia. I have to admit now, three years on, that the highlight of the experience for me was probably seeing my name on a t-shirt on a long list alongside Bruce Cockburn and Ron Sexsmith . The highlight certainly was not spending two uncomfortable nights with children and husband in tents while "in-their-element" touring musicians jammed until 4:00 in the morning! During the long drive home, I developed lower back problems that lasted six months. All in all, not a net gain.
So...back to the life I've chosen. (I notice that this "coming back" to my own life, after I've been derailed by comparisons, is actually like returning to the breath during meditation.)
My life is a good one...no, a great one! I am grateful for my wonderful husband, our two fantastic children (now 10 and 12, growing up fast) and well-paying writing work for socially-responsible clients. I continue to write songs prolifically and play them regularly, at a community radio station , a local cafe, our Unitarian Church and an open mic. Immediately after the Stanfest tour, I enjoyed singing part-time as a subway musician for a couple of seasons.
I try to write big songs. I find myself singing them in small spaces. Sometimes I struggle with that, even though I believe that small spaces (such as human lives), with all their constraints and compromises, are where all good songs go . No matter what size the stage, ultimately a song finds a home in one human heart at a time. While I see the need for people on big stages who inspire and motivate large numbers of people (Oprah, Al Gore), I also hope that all artists can affirm the lives we have as vehicles for beauty and growth. We long for bigger and better stages...we take a breath...we return to the place we are.
At the open mic last night, a dishevelled man shuffled in, muttering to himself as he took a handful of free cookies. I was standing beside him getting coffee when I heard him mumble, "you can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes...". I wondered if I had heard him right, and he repeated it. "You can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes." I didn't know if he was talking to himself, to me (was he quoting this blog?) or to the artists' sign-up sheet.
Part of me hoped he wasn't talking to me. A bigger part knew that he was.
Career and lifestyle-wise, that's where the comparisons end. Christine Kane's audience and tour schedule is about a zillion times bigger than mine. Her career is focused and intentional, and not divided up between music and Everything Else, such as a family or parallel career. In my life, there's a lot of the Everything Else these days. Make no mistake: I admire Christine, find her inspiring and recommend both her music and her blog. I'm sure she'd be the first to remind me--in her honest, funny and spiritual way--that comparing myself to others is always a bad idea!
So, now that we've gotten that out of the way...back to the life I have chosen.
A friend asked me recently what folk festivals I'll be playing this summer. I said none, which is true. My freelance writing work is active right now, and my family doesn't particularly want to traipse around the festival circuit with me. My music, for now, is staying close to home.
In fact, just the other day we were reminiscing about the "hilarious" time we all spent camping in the fog at my first and only Major Festival Appearance, at the Stan Rogers Folk Festival in Canso, Nova Scotia. I have to admit now, three years on, that the highlight of the experience for me was probably seeing my name on a t-shirt on a long list alongside Bruce Cockburn and Ron Sexsmith . The highlight certainly was not spending two uncomfortable nights with children and husband in tents while "in-their-element" touring musicians jammed until 4:00 in the morning! During the long drive home, I developed lower back problems that lasted six months. All in all, not a net gain.
So...back to the life I've chosen. (I notice that this "coming back" to my own life, after I've been derailed by comparisons, is actually like returning to the breath during meditation.)
My life is a good one...no, a great one! I am grateful for my wonderful husband, our two fantastic children (now 10 and 12, growing up fast) and well-paying writing work for socially-responsible clients. I continue to write songs prolifically and play them regularly, at a community radio station , a local cafe, our Unitarian Church and an open mic. Immediately after the Stanfest tour, I enjoyed singing part-time as a subway musician for a couple of seasons.
I try to write big songs. I find myself singing them in small spaces. Sometimes I struggle with that, even though I believe that small spaces (such as human lives), with all their constraints and compromises, are where all good songs go . No matter what size the stage, ultimately a song finds a home in one human heart at a time. While I see the need for people on big stages who inspire and motivate large numbers of people (Oprah, Al Gore), I also hope that all artists can affirm the lives we have as vehicles for beauty and growth. We long for bigger and better stages...we take a breath...we return to the place we are.
At the open mic last night, a dishevelled man shuffled in, muttering to himself as he took a handful of free cookies. I was standing beside him getting coffee when I heard him mumble, "you can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes...". I wondered if I had heard him right, and he repeated it. "You can sing at community centres...churches...seniors' homes." I didn't know if he was talking to himself, to me (was he quoting this blog?) or to the artists' sign-up sheet.
Part of me hoped he wasn't talking to me. A bigger part knew that he was.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
One Less Verse
When I write my weekly song for Take5 on CIUT 89.5 FM, I notice something interesting.
As I approach the end of the writing process, I can usually successfully complete the song by lopping off one verse. Sometimes I have to tweak the remaining verses to ensure that the song makes sense, but usually I don't have to change very much. I've now done this with many songs in a row. Just let a verse go, and voila, I'm done.
I realize that because I can do this each time, I must be doing a little more than necessary when I'm writing. I'm going a little overboard...even trying too hard, perhaps. But maybe it's important to do so.
I can't achieve the lightness and economy I'm looking for by simply under-writing. That approach feels withholding and tentative. It's better to start from too much, and then cut back, than to start with too little.
This awareness helps me with the rest of my life. I can appreciate the abundance of my life, even when it seems overly busy or somewhat cluttered, if I take the time to consciously let go of the things that don't fit.
I notice that in my life, I often "edit" without being conscious of it, and realizing only after the fact that I've chosen not to attend an event or follow up on a particular project. Sometimes when I realize I've left something unattended, I feel a twinge of guilt or panic.
Perhaps, in the same way I consciously let go of the unneeded (though interesting and clever!) verse in a song, I can honour the "task-let-go" as I release it, letting go of guilt and regret at the same time.
The stuff that stays is always what's necessary.
As I approach the end of the writing process, I can usually successfully complete the song by lopping off one verse. Sometimes I have to tweak the remaining verses to ensure that the song makes sense, but usually I don't have to change very much. I've now done this with many songs in a row. Just let a verse go, and voila, I'm done.
I realize that because I can do this each time, I must be doing a little more than necessary when I'm writing. I'm going a little overboard...even trying too hard, perhaps. But maybe it's important to do so.
I can't achieve the lightness and economy I'm looking for by simply under-writing. That approach feels withholding and tentative. It's better to start from too much, and then cut back, than to start with too little.
This awareness helps me with the rest of my life. I can appreciate the abundance of my life, even when it seems overly busy or somewhat cluttered, if I take the time to consciously let go of the things that don't fit.
I notice that in my life, I often "edit" without being conscious of it, and realizing only after the fact that I've chosen not to attend an event or follow up on a particular project. Sometimes when I realize I've left something unattended, I feel a twinge of guilt or panic.
Perhaps, in the same way I consciously let go of the unneeded (though interesting and clever!) verse in a song, I can honour the "task-let-go" as I release it, letting go of guilt and regret at the same time.
The stuff that stays is always what's necessary.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Rehearsing
Today I spent some time rehearsing for an upcoming show. I went through a whole set in order, which I confess is something I often don't do. It's more common for me to play a song or two...take time away for another activity...then do a couple of other songs. I can keep the songs fresh that way, but I don't experience the full flow and rhythm and shape of a whole show, which I need to do to be fully prepared. Over the last few days, I've been taking that time to rehearse the show completely.
I think of the word "rehearsing" as looking ahead to the future: preparing for a show, visualizing it in advance. But when I'm actually singing the songs on my own, today, the experience feels more like reminding or reconnecting...a referring back to songs I love and the feelings I had when I wrote them.
Just now I wondered what the origins of the word "rehearse" are. I found out something interesting. The word is said to mean "to repeat" (that's true: we repeat the songs over and over to improve our performance) but the origin of the word comes from "re" plus "hercier" which means "to strike" or (here's the interesting part) "to harrow".
"Harrow", a word I wasn't familiar with, is an agricultural term referring to a tool with spikelike teeth which is drawn over plowed land to level it, or break up clods, root up weeds and so on.
So...to rehearse, then, is to re-disturb the earth...to unearth again..to stir up deep-rooted feelings that have perhaps been smoothed over or tamped down under the pressure of our daily walk.
Now that's more like it...that's what rehearsal feels like to me.
It feels like digging in the ground and finding something new again.
I think of the word "rehearsing" as looking ahead to the future: preparing for a show, visualizing it in advance. But when I'm actually singing the songs on my own, today, the experience feels more like reminding or reconnecting...a referring back to songs I love and the feelings I had when I wrote them.
Just now I wondered what the origins of the word "rehearse" are. I found out something interesting. The word is said to mean "to repeat" (that's true: we repeat the songs over and over to improve our performance) but the origin of the word comes from "re" plus "hercier" which means "to strike" or (here's the interesting part) "to harrow".
"Harrow", a word I wasn't familiar with, is an agricultural term referring to a tool with spikelike teeth which is drawn over plowed land to level it, or break up clods, root up weeds and so on.
So...to rehearse, then, is to re-disturb the earth...to unearth again..to stir up deep-rooted feelings that have perhaps been smoothed over or tamped down under the pressure of our daily walk.
Now that's more like it...that's what rehearsal feels like to me.
It feels like digging in the ground and finding something new again.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Delegating to the Unconscious Mind
I notice that when I wake up in the morning, I often have lyrics clear and ready to go, ones that I might have been fruitlessly working on the night before. When I wake up, my mind is refreshed and clear, my ideas lucid and flowing.
On any given day, I'll be working on a variety of diverse tasks--everything from writing a song to planning dinner to researching an article. I like being busy. Also, I like the fact that cross-pollination occurs between projects and even across disciplines. For example, the newsletter story I'm writing for the YMCA may give me an idea for whatever song is underway.
But on the other hand, sometimes this bubbling-over of creativity can turn into a sort of "idea clutter" that backfires. It tends to happen when I start to worry about whether I can handle many tasks at once. That fearful thought has nothing to do with whether or not such complexity and creativity is possible (because it usually is) but it certainly can get in the way of bringing it to fruition.
Starting from that worried "how will I do this?" place, I often start to unconciously "multi-task". Even as I'm congratulating myself for being so all-powerful and creative, I'm grabbing onto more and more threads of interest and concern, instead of gently noticing each task and stepping lightly from one to another. Before I know it, I'm feeling overstretched, inadequate and anxious...a big unproductive ball of fear.
If I find ways to clear my mind periodically, through a brief meditation, a walk, or simply noticing the thought and letting it go, I allow my unconscious mind to do the work for me. Pema Chodron recommends that we notice a thought and label it, "thinking". My worry ("I need a rhyming line for the bridge!" or "Oh no, I have to finish this article by Wednesday!") is not a real and scary thing. It's a thought. I can notice it and let it go.
Noticing the natural, unthinking abundance of the natural world helps me trust that my unconscious mind does know how to create. If I work with it, in a playful dance of conscious and unconscious awareness, I find myself being more productive and more calm.
On any given day, I'll be working on a variety of diverse tasks--everything from writing a song to planning dinner to researching an article. I like being busy. Also, I like the fact that cross-pollination occurs between projects and even across disciplines. For example, the newsletter story I'm writing for the YMCA may give me an idea for whatever song is underway.
But on the other hand, sometimes this bubbling-over of creativity can turn into a sort of "idea clutter" that backfires. It tends to happen when I start to worry about whether I can handle many tasks at once. That fearful thought has nothing to do with whether or not such complexity and creativity is possible (because it usually is) but it certainly can get in the way of bringing it to fruition.
Starting from that worried "how will I do this?" place, I often start to unconciously "multi-task". Even as I'm congratulating myself for being so all-powerful and creative, I'm grabbing onto more and more threads of interest and concern, instead of gently noticing each task and stepping lightly from one to another. Before I know it, I'm feeling overstretched, inadequate and anxious...a big unproductive ball of fear.
If I find ways to clear my mind periodically, through a brief meditation, a walk, or simply noticing the thought and letting it go, I allow my unconscious mind to do the work for me. Pema Chodron recommends that we notice a thought and label it, "thinking". My worry ("I need a rhyming line for the bridge!" or "Oh no, I have to finish this article by Wednesday!") is not a real and scary thing. It's a thought. I can notice it and let it go.
Noticing the natural, unthinking abundance of the natural world helps me trust that my unconscious mind does know how to create. If I work with it, in a playful dance of conscious and unconscious awareness, I find myself being more productive and more calm.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The Next Level
A few days ago I was in a roomful of musicians, listening to the brilliantly engaging Derek Sivers of CD Baby share what he knows about the independent music business (which is to say, a whole lot). While candidly sharing his wealth of knowledge, he invited the people in the room to introduce themselves and connect with others who might be able to help them in their careers.
So, people started introducing themselves to the warm, supportive and very crowded room. Some said they wanted to take their careers "to the next level".
I just searched the phrase "take your music career to the next level" on Google. It returned 5,510,000 entries.
Even if we didn't hear that phrase so often in independent music, it would be natural for us to think in terms of "levels". From the time we're kids, we focus on grades of achievement and levels of status, income and success.
Unfortunately, most creative careers don't ascend those levels in predictable ways. Even the most highly-skilled musicians find themselves in a fragmented marketplace that cannot financially support them. Today, the commercial music industry is in decline, at the same time more independent musicians are in business.
So, what if there's no "next level"?
For many of us, there will not be. Our audience will remain more or less the size it is now. We will not receive the critical praise we seek or feel we deserve. We will not be able to support ourselves on our creative work. Some of this may be our own doing, as we fail to achieve certain artistic or business skills, or choose to spend time raising a family or maintaining another source of income. Other factors may be completely beyond our control, such as the current state of the music industry.
Needless to say, if we're unable to rise to "the next level", we're not alone among artists, either today or throughout history.
But if there is no next level, there may be a silver lining. In fact, as Thomas Moore writes in his book Care of the Soul, "failure is a mystery, not a problem". As a mystery, it can deepen the heart and soul...strengthening our song and preventing us from wallowing in self-pity or clinging to fantasies.
Once out of the picture, perhaps "the next level" can be replaced with a deeper commitment to artistic practice itself, to service to others, to the present moment, to life itself.
A technique I often use in performance is to imagine that the song I'm singing is the last I will ever sing. I find that that perspective gives me renewed energy and focus, and I often use it when I feel I am losing ground...not quite hitting the mark.
It allows me to let go of the next level--even the next moment--and simply give what I have. Now. And without expectation.
So, people started introducing themselves to the warm, supportive and very crowded room. Some said they wanted to take their careers "to the next level".
I just searched the phrase "take your music career to the next level" on Google. It returned 5,510,000 entries.
Even if we didn't hear that phrase so often in independent music, it would be natural for us to think in terms of "levels". From the time we're kids, we focus on grades of achievement and levels of status, income and success.
Unfortunately, most creative careers don't ascend those levels in predictable ways. Even the most highly-skilled musicians find themselves in a fragmented marketplace that cannot financially support them. Today, the commercial music industry is in decline, at the same time more independent musicians are in business.
So, what if there's no "next level"?
For many of us, there will not be. Our audience will remain more or less the size it is now. We will not receive the critical praise we seek or feel we deserve. We will not be able to support ourselves on our creative work. Some of this may be our own doing, as we fail to achieve certain artistic or business skills, or choose to spend time raising a family or maintaining another source of income. Other factors may be completely beyond our control, such as the current state of the music industry.
Needless to say, if we're unable to rise to "the next level", we're not alone among artists, either today or throughout history.
But if there is no next level, there may be a silver lining. In fact, as Thomas Moore writes in his book Care of the Soul, "failure is a mystery, not a problem". As a mystery, it can deepen the heart and soul...strengthening our song and preventing us from wallowing in self-pity or clinging to fantasies.
Once out of the picture, perhaps "the next level" can be replaced with a deeper commitment to artistic practice itself, to service to others, to the present moment, to life itself.
A technique I often use in performance is to imagine that the song I'm singing is the last I will ever sing. I find that that perspective gives me renewed energy and focus, and I often use it when I feel I am losing ground...not quite hitting the mark.
It allows me to let go of the next level--even the next moment--and simply give what I have. Now. And without expectation.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Embracing Limitation
At a songwriting workshop recently, I found myself telling the students that sometimes the “problems” that arise in songs actually turn out to be blessings. The length of phrases can be challenging, for instance, as I try to fit a complicated idea into only 12 syllables. (Maybe the idea’s too complicated.) Or perhaps there’s a line I’m hooked on that ends in a word like “orange”. (When I rewrite the line, I find my meaning is clearer—and a rhyme is there.)
Songs can be maddeningly confining structures at times, especially when we feel like letting our emotions hang out and telling our life stories in song. Songs don’t let us do that in an undisciplined way. If we ignore the demands of structure, we end up with sprawling, unfocused writing that no one (not even we) want to listen to again. The process might be cathartic, but the results will not be inspiring.
I’ve come to appreciate the limitations offered by songs; it’s the limitations of life that sometimes get me down. I sometimes feel frustrated that I don’t have more time to create, and complain that it’s impossible to meet multiple demands of work, family and art at the same time. It reminds me of being stuck on a lyric. How can I possibility fit everything into one short lyric phrase (that is my life)? Where’s the rhyme (and the source of harmony in my day)? What’s this song really about?
I’ve heard it said that art is a microcosm of life: we re-create the universe in miniature each time we paint a picture or write a song. The structures of art mirror those of the natural world—and perhaps one reason we are so moved by art is that it reminds us of the infinite amount of creative possibility contained within the limitations we all share. We all have limited time, limited resources. But, listen…so does this song. But, look…so does this painting.
By appreciating the blessings contained in the constraints of my art form, I can begin to appreciate that perhaps the structures of my life (work, family, marriage…) are not limitations, but blessings. By understanding that my life is “framed” in certain ways, I can make better use of the space within it.
Songs can be maddeningly confining structures at times, especially when we feel like letting our emotions hang out and telling our life stories in song. Songs don’t let us do that in an undisciplined way. If we ignore the demands of structure, we end up with sprawling, unfocused writing that no one (not even we) want to listen to again. The process might be cathartic, but the results will not be inspiring.
I’ve come to appreciate the limitations offered by songs; it’s the limitations of life that sometimes get me down. I sometimes feel frustrated that I don’t have more time to create, and complain that it’s impossible to meet multiple demands of work, family and art at the same time. It reminds me of being stuck on a lyric. How can I possibility fit everything into one short lyric phrase (that is my life)? Where’s the rhyme (and the source of harmony in my day)? What’s this song really about?
I’ve heard it said that art is a microcosm of life: we re-create the universe in miniature each time we paint a picture or write a song. The structures of art mirror those of the natural world—and perhaps one reason we are so moved by art is that it reminds us of the infinite amount of creative possibility contained within the limitations we all share. We all have limited time, limited resources. But, listen…so does this song. But, look…so does this painting.
By appreciating the blessings contained in the constraints of my art form, I can begin to appreciate that perhaps the structures of my life (work, family, marriage…) are not limitations, but blessings. By understanding that my life is “framed” in certain ways, I can make better use of the space within it.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Performance Anxiety
Some time ago, a friend turned to me warmly and said "I'm sure you don't get nervous before shows anymore."
Of course I smiled confidently back and said, "Well, no, not really." Inwardly, though, I knew it wasn't true.
I do suffer from performance anxiety. I do even though I have the tools not to, when I've done my reading, when I'm approaching the show from a good and generous place, when I'm reasonably well-rested. In the twelve hours or so leading up to a performance, I feel queasy, jumpy and generally on edge. I find it difficult to eat. So there. I've admitted it.
And that's a good thing to do. It's helpful to admit it, accept it, acknowledge the feelings. Yes, I am nervous about tonight's show. It's not right or wrong, and it doesn't say a thing about my skill or experience or mental health. It simply is.
That's the first thing to do. Admit it.
Next, once I've stopped trying to deny the anxiety, I pause and breathe. I reframe. I am well in this moment. When an anxious thought crosses my mind, I notice it and let it go. If possible, I take 15 minutes or so to actually meditate, with a candle and calming music.
During the day of the show, I tend to rehearse a bit, not to learn to play the songs better (that's what the rehearsals leading up to today were for) but to remind myself that I love the songs. I do love them. When I sing them, I feel great...not anxious in the least. And when I'm singing them for others I feel even better. So I rehearse to get in tune with what I love.
Once I've reconnected with what I love about what I do, I decide to simply serve others tonight, to the best of my ability. That's what the songs are for: to make people feel better. Once I've decided to serve, I let go of my expectations, and simply show up and play my part.
It turns out that the theme of tonight's show is Love. As I was preparing for it, I came across this prayer in Marianne Williamson's book "A Return to Love":
"Dear God, please give my life some sense of purpose. Use me as an instrument of your peace. Use my talents and abilities to spread love. I surrender my job to you. Help me to remember that my real job is to love the world back to health. Thank you very much. Amen."
Of course I smiled confidently back and said, "Well, no, not really." Inwardly, though, I knew it wasn't true.
I do suffer from performance anxiety. I do even though I have the tools not to, when I've done my reading, when I'm approaching the show from a good and generous place, when I'm reasonably well-rested. In the twelve hours or so leading up to a performance, I feel queasy, jumpy and generally on edge. I find it difficult to eat. So there. I've admitted it.
And that's a good thing to do. It's helpful to admit it, accept it, acknowledge the feelings. Yes, I am nervous about tonight's show. It's not right or wrong, and it doesn't say a thing about my skill or experience or mental health. It simply is.
That's the first thing to do. Admit it.
Next, once I've stopped trying to deny the anxiety, I pause and breathe. I reframe. I am well in this moment. When an anxious thought crosses my mind, I notice it and let it go. If possible, I take 15 minutes or so to actually meditate, with a candle and calming music.
During the day of the show, I tend to rehearse a bit, not to learn to play the songs better (that's what the rehearsals leading up to today were for) but to remind myself that I love the songs. I do love them. When I sing them, I feel great...not anxious in the least. And when I'm singing them for others I feel even better. So I rehearse to get in tune with what I love.
Once I've reconnected with what I love about what I do, I decide to simply serve others tonight, to the best of my ability. That's what the songs are for: to make people feel better. Once I've decided to serve, I let go of my expectations, and simply show up and play my part.
It turns out that the theme of tonight's show is Love. As I was preparing for it, I came across this prayer in Marianne Williamson's book "A Return to Love":
"Dear God, please give my life some sense of purpose. Use me as an instrument of your peace. Use my talents and abilities to spread love. I surrender my job to you. Help me to remember that my real job is to love the world back to health. Thank you very much. Amen."
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
World View in a Set List
When songs are put together in a grouping, such as a set list, it's possible to see patterns emerge. Certain themes come up again and again. Particular chords are favoured. Melody lines are related. Sometimes songs seem to comment or refer to other songs. Recently the painter Robert Genn suggested in a letter that the same thing happens in painting. Artists are constantly "filling in the blanks" of a cohesive body of work or individual way of seeing the world.
I imagine this as if it's a jigsaw puzzle, but without the handy box-top that shows us the ultimate finished design. We don't know what the end is going to be. Is the puzzle going to be "solved", the picture "finished", the body of work complete by the time our life ends? Is the unfinishedness part of the picture? Are the gaps part of the answer to the puzzle?
One of the beautiful paradoxes of creative expression is that it helps to pay attention to both the "big picture" and the "little picture", and that it's difficult to do these two things simultaneously. As one spiritual teacher I know might say, "It takes practice".
When I'm thinking too much on the big intentions, lofty visions of my body of work and so on, I lose sight of the individual song or for that matter the individual note or chord. Only by paying close attention to them, by serving them in fact, can I lovingly coax a beautiful song into being.
On the other hand, when I take time to contemplate what the bigger picture on the boxtop might be--what is my concept of God, for instance, and what missing piece of the Universe may I be able to provide--the songs are stronger individually, they fit beautifully into cohesive set lists, and they are more useful in my life and the lives of others.
I imagine this as if it's a jigsaw puzzle, but without the handy box-top that shows us the ultimate finished design. We don't know what the end is going to be. Is the puzzle going to be "solved", the picture "finished", the body of work complete by the time our life ends? Is the unfinishedness part of the picture? Are the gaps part of the answer to the puzzle?
One of the beautiful paradoxes of creative expression is that it helps to pay attention to both the "big picture" and the "little picture", and that it's difficult to do these two things simultaneously. As one spiritual teacher I know might say, "It takes practice".
When I'm thinking too much on the big intentions, lofty visions of my body of work and so on, I lose sight of the individual song or for that matter the individual note or chord. Only by paying close attention to them, by serving them in fact, can I lovingly coax a beautiful song into being.
On the other hand, when I take time to contemplate what the bigger picture on the boxtop might be--what is my concept of God, for instance, and what missing piece of the Universe may I be able to provide--the songs are stronger individually, they fit beautifully into cohesive set lists, and they are more useful in my life and the lives of others.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
How long it takes
There’s a theory among songwriters that the faster a song is written, the better it probably is. Great songs such as Amanda McBroom's “The Rose” and Shirley Eikhard's “Something to Talk About” were said to be written quickly, and many of my best songs were too. The song seems to arrive fully formed, often taking shape in under a half-hour, and then all you have to do is tweak! It’s wonderful when that happens.
But sometimes it doesn’t. If I don’t have a deadline or reason to finish a song, I often abandon it if it’s taking more than a few days. I simply lose interest in it or it slips my mind or a new idea arises that I like better.
This week, because I was writing to a deadline, I had to stick with the project and not abandon ship. The song wasn’t a “quickie”. It took perhaps 10 or 15 hours, compressed over two rather uncomfortable days. During the process, I threw out two half-written drafts before finally landing on a concept for the song I liked.
What was “wrong” about the drafts I threw out? On the surface, not much. One of them was bold and catchy, the other sweetly lyrical. But something didn't sit right with me...and while deep in creative mode that's all I knew. It took a few days to see clearly that one was written in a detached, objective and preachy-sounding tone…and the other one, though pretty, seemed to lack confidence. (No doubt because I was taking so long to finish the song.)
Confidence is everything. And sometimes it’s important to have the confidence to NOT create fast. To take the time you need to experiment, get it wrong, throw it out. On my third try, I had a much better understanding of what I was trying to accomplish and the song was written successfully.
But sometimes it doesn’t. If I don’t have a deadline or reason to finish a song, I often abandon it if it’s taking more than a few days. I simply lose interest in it or it slips my mind or a new idea arises that I like better.
This week, because I was writing to a deadline, I had to stick with the project and not abandon ship. The song wasn’t a “quickie”. It took perhaps 10 or 15 hours, compressed over two rather uncomfortable days. During the process, I threw out two half-written drafts before finally landing on a concept for the song I liked.
What was “wrong” about the drafts I threw out? On the surface, not much. One of them was bold and catchy, the other sweetly lyrical. But something didn't sit right with me...and while deep in creative mode that's all I knew. It took a few days to see clearly that one was written in a detached, objective and preachy-sounding tone…and the other one, though pretty, seemed to lack confidence. (No doubt because I was taking so long to finish the song.)
Confidence is everything. And sometimes it’s important to have the confidence to NOT create fast. To take the time you need to experiment, get it wrong, throw it out. On my third try, I had a much better understanding of what I was trying to accomplish and the song was written successfully.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Cure
This week was going to be tough for writing a song. My husband's grandmother, whom we dearly loved, died on Monday. We had the visitation and the funeral to deal with, and much of the week seemed to be covered over by a heavy blanket of loss.
I thought it might be impossible for me to write my weekly song, so I notified the producer who naturally let me off the hook.
Still, it nagged at me. Would I feel better NOT writing a song...or writing a song?
One of the topics this week was Emily Carr, the Canadian painter (d. 1945) known for dramatic depictions of the British Columbia wilderness and the art of the Haida First Nation. The Art Gallery of Ontario will host a retrospective exhibition of her work in March. I have always found her art and her life story inspiring. At one point, her art career was so unsuccessful she dropped painting altogether for 15 years and worked at a series of unrelated jobs. Lawren Harris of the Group of Seven encouraged her and she resumed painting and finally did receive critical recognition...but for many years she had to contend with doubt, failure and isolation. Despite this, or more likely because of it, her paintings have a powerful spiritual dimension, reflecting her fierce determination to share her passion for the land with others.
I figured I could write a song about that, so I started one called "Emily in the Big Woods".
But it couldn't be finished by Friday. Wrestling with the subject, I found inspiration in Emily Carr's writing too. (She wrote many books and constantly reflected on her creative life. She would have been a blogger.) "I thought my mountain was coming this morning. It was near to speaking when suddenly it shifted, sulked, and returned to smallness. It has eluded me again and sits there, puny and dull. Why? " So. She would understand that some subjects take more time than others.
Oregano, on the other hand, works fast.
Oregano, or oregano oil to be more precise, is a natural cure-all that probably is very good for you. I've never tried it...but I sure do like my Cold-FX. Oregano oil promises to do much the same thing...boost the immune system...ward off colds and flues.
The word "oregano" rhymes with lots of fun things, I discovered. And it was time for a fun song.
After many drafts, I ended up assembling the song while watching Calla's swimming lesson yesterday night. As always, the feeling of satisfaction was huge when I finally slotted all the rhyming couplets into their correct order, to form a song exactly 3:00 in length. It feels like solving a Rubik's cube or a crossword puzzle (neither of which I can do).
Oregano lifted the blanket of woe that had fallen over our week. Listen!
I thought it might be impossible for me to write my weekly song, so I notified the producer who naturally let me off the hook.
Still, it nagged at me. Would I feel better NOT writing a song...or writing a song?
One of the topics this week was Emily Carr, the Canadian painter (d. 1945) known for dramatic depictions of the British Columbia wilderness and the art of the Haida First Nation. The Art Gallery of Ontario will host a retrospective exhibition of her work in March. I have always found her art and her life story inspiring. At one point, her art career was so unsuccessful she dropped painting altogether for 15 years and worked at a series of unrelated jobs. Lawren Harris of the Group of Seven encouraged her and she resumed painting and finally did receive critical recognition...but for many years she had to contend with doubt, failure and isolation. Despite this, or more likely because of it, her paintings have a powerful spiritual dimension, reflecting her fierce determination to share her passion for the land with others.
I figured I could write a song about that, so I started one called "Emily in the Big Woods".
But it couldn't be finished by Friday. Wrestling with the subject, I found inspiration in Emily Carr's writing too. (She wrote many books and constantly reflected on her creative life. She would have been a blogger.) "I thought my mountain was coming this morning. It was near to speaking when suddenly it shifted, sulked, and returned to smallness. It has eluded me again and sits there, puny and dull. Why? " So. She would understand that some subjects take more time than others.
Oregano, on the other hand, works fast.
Oregano, or oregano oil to be more precise, is a natural cure-all that probably is very good for you. I've never tried it...but I sure do like my Cold-FX. Oregano oil promises to do much the same thing...boost the immune system...ward off colds and flues.
The word "oregano" rhymes with lots of fun things, I discovered. And it was time for a fun song.
After many drafts, I ended up assembling the song while watching Calla's swimming lesson yesterday night. As always, the feeling of satisfaction was huge when I finally slotted all the rhyming couplets into their correct order, to form a song exactly 3:00 in length. It feels like solving a Rubik's cube or a crossword puzzle (neither of which I can do).
Oregano lifted the blanket of woe that had fallen over our week. Listen!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Go Thistles!
Here's a confession. I've never written a historical song, and I've never written a song about hockey.
Two risky admissions for a Canadian roots music performer.
That all changed this week, when I had to write another song for Take5. I think this is week, uh, 14? No, it's 15. I'm starting to lose track.
This week the pickings were looking a little, well, serious. Should I write about Rumi, the ancient Persian mystic (who is being commemorated in a concert this weekend)? Does anything rhyme with Rumi? Hmmm...
Then I visited the classy and inviting website of the Kenora Thistles, the team of seven speedy sportsmanlike players who won the Stanley Cup in 1907. Could I (non-hockey playing person) write a good song about that?
Turned out, I could. And I had a great time doing it.
I enjoyed fitting the players' names into a verse.
I enjoyed singing the phrase "right here in Kenora". (That's a lovely, lyrical name for a town. Much better than the previous name, "Rat Portage", which would have killed the song right there. So, where did the name "Kenora" come from anyway? Here's what Wikipedia says: "Rat Portage transformed into Kenora after amalgamating with the two neighbouring townships of Keewatin and Norman in 1904. A name change was in order for the new town; something encompassing all three of the new areas. Kenora formed from the first two letters of each area: KEewatin, NOrman, and RAt Portage: Kenora." I did not know that.)
And I enjoyed linking that 100-year old event with today in the song, by suggesting that the singer could possibly be the child of a player on the original team, now a grandparent of a young hockey player. The circle of life...the circle of hockey.
Here's something I meant to say in the interview which we pre-taped tonight.
"Go Thistles!!"
Because on Saturday, January 20th, 2007, they'll hold a commemorative game, with special guest players including Bryan Trottier, Dale Hawerchuck and Hayley Wickenheiser. Having lived and breathed this song for the past 36 hours, I am so there...
Here's the song.
Two risky admissions for a Canadian roots music performer.
That all changed this week, when I had to write another song for Take5. I think this is week, uh, 14? No, it's 15. I'm starting to lose track.
This week the pickings were looking a little, well, serious. Should I write about Rumi, the ancient Persian mystic (who is being commemorated in a concert this weekend)? Does anything rhyme with Rumi? Hmmm...
Then I visited the classy and inviting website of the Kenora Thistles, the team of seven speedy sportsmanlike players who won the Stanley Cup in 1907. Could I (non-hockey playing person) write a good song about that?
Turned out, I could. And I had a great time doing it.
I enjoyed fitting the players' names into a verse.
I enjoyed singing the phrase "right here in Kenora". (That's a lovely, lyrical name for a town. Much better than the previous name, "Rat Portage", which would have killed the song right there. So, where did the name "Kenora" come from anyway? Here's what Wikipedia says: "Rat Portage transformed into Kenora after amalgamating with the two neighbouring townships of Keewatin and Norman in 1904. A name change was in order for the new town; something encompassing all three of the new areas. Kenora formed from the first two letters of each area: KEewatin, NOrman, and RAt Portage: Kenora." I did not know that.)
And I enjoyed linking that 100-year old event with today in the song, by suggesting that the singer could possibly be the child of a player on the original team, now a grandparent of a young hockey player. The circle of life...the circle of hockey.
Here's something I meant to say in the interview which we pre-taped tonight.
"Go Thistles!!"
Because on Saturday, January 20th, 2007, they'll hold a commemorative game, with special guest players including Bryan Trottier, Dale Hawerchuck and Hayley Wickenheiser. Having lived and breathed this song for the past 36 hours, I am so there...
Here's the song.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Meltdown
This was the first week that I thought I might not be able to achieve my weekly song.
We took a break over the official holiday period (they ran the studio-recorded version of "Vessie Outshining the Moon") but this week was "business as usual"...for everyone but me it seemed.
This week, all of my responsibilities seemed to barge in at once like guests to a Christmas party: freelance writing work for the YMCA and a condominium developer, children home from school and parents visiting from Winnipeg, holiday parties to attend, gifts to buy and distribute, friends to host for dinner...and a song to write for Take 5.
I felt, as I always do when I host a party of any kind, that I couldn't give adequate attention to any of these. In addition, and putting my relatively minor stresses into perspective, we learned that a friend had died after living with AIDS for many years, and that a couple we know is divorcing.
When it came to song topics, the one most on my mind was International Polar Year and global warming, which had been covered in depth on Tuesday's show. As the icecaps melt, temperatures in Toronto continue to soar well above freezing. Ski hills remain closed. And we're all walking around in a state of low-level anxiety.
On Wednesday, all the pressure of everything became too much for me. I cracked, and started to write an email saying that I had to take the week off. I couldn't possibly write a song this week, because I was much too busy.
That's when it hit me. I was having a meltdown.
The only thing to do was stop, breathe, observe. Make the connection between the state of my life and the state of the planet's. Write the song.
We took a break over the official holiday period (they ran the studio-recorded version of "Vessie Outshining the Moon") but this week was "business as usual"...for everyone but me it seemed.
This week, all of my responsibilities seemed to barge in at once like guests to a Christmas party: freelance writing work for the YMCA and a condominium developer, children home from school and parents visiting from Winnipeg, holiday parties to attend, gifts to buy and distribute, friends to host for dinner...and a song to write for Take 5.
I felt, as I always do when I host a party of any kind, that I couldn't give adequate attention to any of these. In addition, and putting my relatively minor stresses into perspective, we learned that a friend had died after living with AIDS for many years, and that a couple we know is divorcing.
When it came to song topics, the one most on my mind was International Polar Year and global warming, which had been covered in depth on Tuesday's show. As the icecaps melt, temperatures in Toronto continue to soar well above freezing. Ski hills remain closed. And we're all walking around in a state of low-level anxiety.
On Wednesday, all the pressure of everything became too much for me. I cracked, and started to write an email saying that I had to take the week off. I couldn't possibly write a song this week, because I was much too busy.
That's when it hit me. I was having a meltdown.
The only thing to do was stop, breathe, observe. Make the connection between the state of my life and the state of the planet's. Write the song.
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