"Liking" vs Loving

Recently I heard a friend express dismay that he hadn't attracted enough "likes" for his band on Facebook.  He felt that he wasn't making enough progress with his music, despite the fact that he'd been working hard.  He sounded angry.

I have to confess, I hadn't "liked" the band myself, even though I do genuinely like him as a person.  I notice that that phrase "like him as a person" sounds like romantic rejection--which offers a clue as to what's going on here. "She's just not that into your song" closely resembles "she's just not that into you". They both hurt. 

But which matters more?  Hundreds of "likes"--which may be superficial or (worse) insincere--or a few genuine "loves"?

In life, we actually only need a few people who genuinely love, understand and support us.  Chances are those few people will love, understand and support our creative lives too. 

Sure, there will be variations along the way.  Nobody can connect with every song.  And listeners will be influenced by the musician's skill (which can change)--and by the listener's beliefs about artistic expression, financial security and their own creative work. 
 
And yet, there's often a correlation between the people who truly "get" us and the people who "get" our songs. When love is present, a deeper support for the whole person (including his or her songs) is felt and expressed.  It's not a question of being "liked" but about being loved--and about loving. 

When we love others, we offer our songs to them--but more importantly, we offer our whole, authentic selves.  When we are at our best, we offer our whole and authentic selves through our songs and through everything else we do. 

As we give of our wholeness, we may find that popularity becomes less important to us, but that serving an actual community (of any size) becomes more crucial.  The more we love, the more superficial "likes" seem irrelevant.  

We may find, then, that our songs deepen and mature...to the benefit of all.   

An opening act stays open

This Saturday night, I will be opening for James Keelaghan in a concert for the Greenbank Folk Music Society in the small town of Greenbank, Ontario. (Avid readers will notice that, by coincidence, I recently mentioned James Keelaghan in this blog. Funny how the universe works!)

In their bios, many singer-songwriters include impressive lists of artists they've opened for. My list is pretty short: not because I've moved rapidly into headliner status, but because my artistic life hasn't been a straight line up any kind of ladder. So...let's see...I opened for Jesse Winchester at Hugh's Room once. I opened for Cheryl Wheeler once (but with a few other artists, and as the result of a songwriting workshop the same day). Once, thanks to a supportive sound man at a huge county fair, I played a solo set on a stage made out of a flatbed truck before Prairie Oyster came on...but I don't think that counts as "opening".

And this Saturday I'm opening for James Keelaghan! Yay!

Truly, I am very excited about this. I've always admired his songwriting and singing. He covers a song I love (that I sometimes sing too) called Mirabeau Bridge by Sam Larkin. When I say "it's an honour" to open for Keelaghan, I mean it. And in order to truly honour myself, the headliner and the audience, it helps to keep a few things in mind.

For me, the key to making the most of an opening spot is, first, to NOT see it as a stepping-stone to anywhere else. (Stay with me now...) I think this is easier if you notice that instead of "getting somewhere" more prestigious or special through music, you've gotten to exactly where you are now, and you're okay with that. In other words, this is not a stepping-stone...it's the whole stone! It's solid and perfect just as it is.

Another essential awareness is that, as the opener, you're not "lesser than" the more-famous headliner. You're you. He's him. That's it.

The "opener/headliner" story is an example of the kind of dualistic thinking that can really trip us up. Similar dichotomies are "on the way up/on the way down", "famous/obscure", "professional/amateur" and of course "success/failure".

We're so busy labelling ourselves and each other, we miss the realness of the situation and the fact that we're on common ground. On Saturday night James Keelaghan will be singing some beautiful songs he wrote, for an audience of 70 or so people in a church, as will I. For that matter, so will thousands of other musicians around the world. When you look at it, even the dividing line between performer and audience is a false one. We're all breathing the same air and hearing the same melodies...it's just that one of us happens to be playing them at this moment.

As the opening act, it's easy to fall into the trap of thinking "I'm not quite there yet" or I'm not as valuable as the headliner. Certainly, the entertainment industry itself (and the difference in our fees) seems to support that illusion. But if we're really tuned in to the moment, those judgments fall away, allowing us to remain truly open: responding in the moment to the music and the audience, offering our gifts in a spirit of enthusiasm and kindness, and supporting the headliner without feelings of jealousy or inferiority.

As the opening act, we have a wonderful opportunity to remain truly open...to the beauty of our creative lives, wherever they have led us.

For a Singer-Songwriter on the Verge of Quitting

Recently I was asked to tell a fellow singer-songwriter not to quit. This request came from one of the artist's fans...someone who was quite mystified as to why this musician would consider taking his music out of the public eye. Although the artist and I have never met, I understood why he might feel discouraged. Even though I'm not as passionate a fan as the man who asked for my help, I recognize the value of this artist's work and hope he will continue. Here's the advice I gave him, which is pretty much the same advice I give myself.

• Perform locally as much as possible. Create gigs if you have to, even in unusual venues such as community centres, bookstores, friend's homes, wherever. Publicize these gigs through local media (community papers, community radio etc.) and inexpensive mailing lists, blogging etc. Connect your songs to a real-life community.

• Travel to play outside your local market as your schedule, inclination and budget allows.

• Become the best songwriter you can. (Which is to say, write a LOT of songs, over a LONG time.) But do so because you love to write songs and because it helps you make sense of your life and become a better person--not because you want to become better-known.

• Serve, serve, serve, serve, serve. Sing at church...community soup kitchens...schools. Become known as the songwriter who sings about... [whatever you know about and love].

• Record affordably, while showcasing your work appropriately. Develop an ability to see the work itself (the songs) outside the expensive frame.

• Listen to your own recordings and play your songs for your own enrichment and enjoyment.

• Keep your day job. It can provide a reliable source of income and validation.

• Keep your website...and any other online presence that is easy and cheap to maintain (ie MySpace, Facebook). Maintain a balance between online and offline life.

• If you want to, do one big concert once a year or so, by renting a venue, setting a ticket price and inviting people. Have somebody take great pictures. Write it up online and/or have someone interview you for the local paper etc. & spread the word about that.

• Connect your music to your spiritual life. Develop a spiritual practice, ie. meditation, yoga, prayer. See your personal musical expression as part of something much larger than yourself.

• Work out of a sense of love, joy, gratitude and generosity. But when you're angry and afraid, explore that too. Do your best to reflect what it is to be human (which is, all too often, to experience failure).

• Never compare yourself to others and resist the temptation to feel as if you’re in competition with other artists.

• Recognize that there are more artists creating today than there are money-making opportunities to support all of them (…a result of the “perfect storm” of inexpensive recording technology, the Internet, and popular movements toward creativity and purposeful living a la The Artist’s Way).

• Recognize that there is no system for success in the arts (particularly music) and that the ladders we sometimes seem to climb are largely illusory (ie. you may win a song contest, but find that your life and career stay virtually the same).

• Appreciate your fans, wherever you find them. Hear them when they tell you that you have changed their life. Do not measure the worth of your art by the size of your audience, but rather by the quality of connection you create with the people you serve.

Consult Your Inner Manager

As an independent artist, sometimes I wish I had a manager.

I imagine her as a kind, wise, competent and courageous person, who always has my best interests at heart. She'd be a whiz at the administrative tasks I hate, and she'd intuitively know which projects and decisions are most important right now.

Most of all, she'd believe in me and the value of my work, even when nothing particularly successful seems to be going on. My manager would be patient, hopeful and matter-of-fact. She'd definitely have a good sense of humour.

From time-to-time, I ask people to help out with various tasks...and I truly appreciate their assistance. Still, nobody has emerged yet as that perfect take-care-of-everything sort of person.

Fortunately, I already have an Inner Manager.

Lately I've been checking in with her more often. I find that she's highly reliable and always on-task...which is even more apparent when I've been worried and distracted. My Inner Manager is humming along, calm and smiling, unperturbed by my anxious thoughts.

My Inner Manager knows which gigs are most appropriate for me. She confidently lines those up, while gracefully turning others down.

My Inner Manager is unconcerned with competitions, ranking or status.

My Inner Manager celebrates achievements, large and small, and shrugs off setbacks.

My Inner Manager believes in the value of regular practice.

My Inner Manager knows which songs are most important that I sing, and when I should sing them, and why.

My Inner Manager is always listening.

When I listen to her, I find that I'm calmer about my music activities, and they seem to take on a more meaningful and cohesive shape.

Not every artist is fortunate enough to have an agent, but each of us has an Inner Manager.

She's always there, ready for our call.

The 100 Mile Artist

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the 100-Mile Diet: eating locally to make a positive change for the planet. It's an important idea. I'm really excited about reducing the amount of time and money I spend in big chain grocery stores, and walking instead to a farmer's market where I can buy locally grown food.

It got me thinking: how can songwriters apply the principles of "think globally, eat locally" to our music life? Is there value in being a 100-Mile Artist and writing a 100-Mile Song?

I think there is, even though we live in the Internet Age. Our music is now available at the touch of a button, as conveniently as our food and more cheaply than ever before. We consume music like we consume food and other products and entertainment: voraciously, often without any personal connection to how or where it's made.

As songwriters who want to be successful by our culture's standards, we tend to think that our music has to travel far in order to matter. We need to tour widely, or at least be heard beyond our local communities, via radio or the Net. We tend to believe (sometimes it's an unconscious thing) that a non-touring local musician, especially one who hasn't recorded his or her work, is less important than one whose product is shipped a greater distance.

But if we actually start living as environmental leaders recommend, getting more of our food closer to home, and choosing to buy and consume less, we might also start to value local artists in new ways. Local songwriters might feel more empowered to write songs grown organically in a real time and place...and we might not feel badly anymore if those songs (or if we as individuals) don't travel so much.

This re-framing might encourage songwriters to respond in a more particular, specific way about what's going on in their neighbourhoods, and to consciously sing the songs for the people there. The aim of writing a great song would be not to have it recorded by a big Nashville star, but to help actual people, right here and now. That kind of song, like that kind of great-tasting organic food, is nourishing to the soul. If songs are like food, maybe we can grow our own.

Of course, for anyone to buy the song (locally or otherwise), it had better be GOOD! Nobody, anywhere, wants a song that has no melody or whose lyrics are meaningless. Nobody will enjoy a tasteless or bland song that's supposed to be good for you just because it's local. That's why it's essential that those of us who are 100-Mile Songwriters create truly high-quality songs: songs that are on par with the widely-distributed "hits" of our times. There's no reason the next "Imagine" (or "The Rose" or "Blowing in the Wind" or "Heart of Gold", or...) couldn't be written in your town. It's just that in our commercially-driven culture, it's unlikely to be recognized. It's time we got better at that recognition process.

First of all, we can start appreciating the ways that excellent locally-grown entertainment enriches us. We can take pride in it, and be appreciative and grateful for it, without immediately thinking it should be exported. Instead of hearing a great song and saying "Wow, you should get Celebrity So-and-So to sing that" or "you should get it promoted to radio" or "get it used in a movie", we could learn to say, "Your song helped me get through my day" or "I always feel good when I hear you play" or simply, "thank you". That's enough. That, and a fair price to hear that musician perform, and a fair amount to purchase his or her recording--which was produced on a sustainable budget.

[As I write this, the rest of my family is hungrily devouring the MMVA's...the Much Music Video Awards...which features many celebrity artists who are the equivalent of the Oreo cookies in our cupboard. I find I often crave them, too. We are products of our culture. But as the priorities of our culture change, in response to urgent environmental and social needs, local artists could become valuable sources of direction, hope and wisdom. May we grow the best food we can.]

What Good Can a Song Do?

A few weeks ago, I played at a community event organized by an environmental group. I played several original songs on "green" themes, including "Bicycle Bell" and "Wind of Change" . They were very well-received by the multigenerational crowd, who were eating locally-made organic food while waiting for a talk from a well-known environmentalist.

After the talk, I gave that well-known speaker a CD. I cringe as I write this, and I'll bet you do, too.

The contact was predictably awkward. My timing was poor, and I knew it. I also knew that I'd likely never get another chance for a face-to-face connection, and this is a person who genuinely inspires me--whose work is, I feel, essential in the world today.

In the past few years, my goal in writing songs has increasingly become "to motivate and inspire" in addition to "to entertain". I genuinely hope that my songs might "do some good" in the world by raising awareness of important issues, by illuminating the human challenges we face and ultimately helping us transcend those challenges. On a personal level, I find that the songs do help me get over my fear and inertia...they energize me and help me find meaning. They seem to help others too, which gives me more reason to keep writing and singing.

It all sounds pretty earnest, I suppose, and that may be one reason why I haven't exactly had a breakthrough in the entertainment business!

But back to back to that awkward CD handoff.

On the one hand, my intentions were good. I wanted to contribute what I could to the cause, and share work that had, in part, been inspired by the ideas of the keynote speaker and others like him. On the other hand, I have to admit I was hoping for some kind of endorsement or validation. And, I felt that such an endorsement might help increase my audience. Good for me, good for the world. Maybe.

Or maybe, despite the content of the songs, there's no getting around the fact that I'm just another obscure singer-songwriter desperately seeking attention. Thank you, entertainment industry, for creating that monster (which we happily feed and care for, with our dreams of celebrity success).

Anyway, yesterday I got an e-mail from the event organizer, wondering where she could send my honorarium. After a moment's pause, I decided to donate it back to the keynote speaker's organization.

There. I did some good.

Maybe I did a small but significant amount of good, too, when I sang for the assembled grandmothers and parents and toddlers, as they ate their organic samosas while waiting for the eco-celebrity.

Maybe, in the end, that's the most our songs can do.

They can keep us going...to do what needs to be done.

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.

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.