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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Optimistic Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the World Coming To?

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

Now THIS is a song topic!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Student of the Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song of the Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's 47 songs to go.

The Way of the First Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garden Salad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tommy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My Sweet Lord..."

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

"My Sweet Lord..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



* I've changed the name.

Needed and Wanted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Think Globally, Art Locally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step aside, Mom!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weather today is sunny.

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

The spider walks happily on, and so do we.

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

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

Sounds Like Motherhood

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

This is part of my Canadian Dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Worry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to Broadview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting From Stuck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Wardrobe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, I go to Value Village.

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

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

I'll post a picture later.

--

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

Brooooce

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

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

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

This made this writing process rather difficult.

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

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

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

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

At least they were original.

(to be continued...)

----

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

The Tribute Project

It all started with Neil Young.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, why not! I plunged ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

I'll keep you posted.