A few days ago, I took delivery of several large cardboard boxes of new CDs. Inside, there are many shiny cellophane-wrapped copies of "Broadview", my latest collection of recorded songs. Inside each jewel case, there's an even more shiny thing, the disc itself.
Embedded in the shiny discs is the digital information that makes up recorded music...the science that allows people to play someone else's song in their home or car.
And deep inside each song is the shiniest thing of all: the desire to share an emotion, or to describe something beautiful or meaningful...the urge to write it down, to tell someone, to capture it.
As soon as it's "captured", we see how elusive it is: I look at the boxes in my living room and I think, that's not shiny. That's just big and heavy and challenging: inventory that must be moved.
So today, I spent most of the day addressing envelopes, sending CDs flying around the world, moving them in the hope that they will move people in turn, and that the shiny new songs of others will find their way back to me.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Six Songs, Minus Six
I really wanted to go sing in the subways today. I wanted to go display my new CD "Broadview" and see if anyone would notice that it has the same name as a subway station.
Nope.
But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.
Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.
I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.
Nope.
But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.
Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.
I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
What song would you sing?
In the movie "Walk the Line", Sam Phillips of Sun Records challenges the auditioning John R. Cash by asking him with a sneer: "If you only had one song to sing to be remembered by, what would you sing?"
I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.
The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.
Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.
Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.
When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?
In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.
I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.
I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.
The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.
Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.
Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.
When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?
In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.
I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
The Return of the Mexican Coin
Faithful readers will remember my lucky Mexican coin.
It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.
Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.
Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.
When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.
"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."
Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.
Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.
In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.
It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.
Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.
Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.
When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.
"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."
Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.
Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.
In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Friday Matinee
In Toronto Life magazine (I think, if memory serves), there's a feature that appears regularly called something like "The Perfect Day". In it, local celebrities describe what they'd do if they had all the time and the money in the world. Usually they end up spending, oh,$35,000 in their mind...imagining buying lots of expensive stuff and going to interesting hipster places. I could never do a piece like that; I wouldn't know any of the cool spots my imaginary self was supposed to go, and I probably couldn't bring myself to spend large amounts of even imaginary money.
Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.
(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)
So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.
Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.
Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.
(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)
So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.
Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Number 12, Number 12
I've just returned from the CD manufacturer's office, where I needed to approve the press proofs for my album cover. I've been feeling rather behind on all of this.
Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.
Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.
I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".
I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.
Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.
Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.
Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)
But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?
Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.
Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.
Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.
I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".
I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.
Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.
Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.
Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)
But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?
Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Fallen Poppies
I wore my bright red corduroy coat today. Beside the stylish subway-station buttons I wear (Dundas, Osgoode), I pinned a red poppy, which almost matches the coat exactly.
As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.
During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.
Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.
But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.
It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.
It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.
And then we pause to pick another one up.
As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.
During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.
Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.
But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.
It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.
It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.
And then we pause to pick another one up.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The Squeaky Escalator
I heard the noise before I started to descend the escalator at Queen's Park station. At first I wondered if a violinist was in the spot, tuning her instrument or (perhaps) playing something bravely avant-garde.
Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.
Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.
It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.
Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.
But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.
Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.
Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.
It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.
Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.
But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
I'm still here
Today I received two letters from friends who mentioned that they're still checking my blog...and meanwhile I haven't been posting very regularly. Well, here I am again. Thanks for reading!
Here's an update on my recent news. My third CD, called "Broadview", is now in manufacturing (whew!) and will be ready in about three weeks. I'm very proud of this collection of songs, all of which have been sung on the subway...and in other venues too of course.
The name of the CD refers to the subway station (there's a song called "Luminous Veil" on the record, paying tribute to the safety barrier on the Prince Edward Viaduct, and "Music Everywhere" which was inspired by the three-note "doors closing" signal) but it's also a way of saying "long-term perspective" and also, the "view" of one "broad" (which is to say, me). I'm very excited to be having the CD release party in the vestibule of Broadview station on...wait a sec, bad idea, middle of winter...never mind. The concert will be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 12th.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned in the blog that I was planning to pitch a few articles around. One article, which I started as a blog posting but then completed off-line and submitted, will appear as a Globe & Mail "Facts & Arguments" piece in the next few days or weeks. Another one, which was written a few months ago, will be published in the next issue of the Songwriters Association of Canada magazine. Coincidentally, a few other (paying!) writing jobs have come my way, which have kept me busier than usual. Also, I've been completing the book project based on my first year of subway busking. There's been lots of writing going on, but less blogging (and singing too).
But as you know, if you've been reading regularly, the regular singing (and writing) has helped me stay sane and creatively energized since this project began. So I'm sticking to it.
You may notice some changes soon. I'm planning to renovate the blog a little, to allow for the more natural inclusion of essays on a variety of topics. Chances are, most of them will have something to do with creativity, artistic expression and popular culture. (But don't worry, I'll still be busking. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to go out--though I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not sure have the nerve for Bloor & Yonge, where I'm scheduled!)
More to come...and thanks again for reading.
Here's an update on my recent news. My third CD, called "Broadview", is now in manufacturing (whew!) and will be ready in about three weeks. I'm very proud of this collection of songs, all of which have been sung on the subway...and in other venues too of course.
The name of the CD refers to the subway station (there's a song called "Luminous Veil" on the record, paying tribute to the safety barrier on the Prince Edward Viaduct, and "Music Everywhere" which was inspired by the three-note "doors closing" signal) but it's also a way of saying "long-term perspective" and also, the "view" of one "broad" (which is to say, me). I'm very excited to be having the CD release party in the vestibule of Broadview station on...wait a sec, bad idea, middle of winter...never mind. The concert will be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 12th.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned in the blog that I was planning to pitch a few articles around. One article, which I started as a blog posting but then completed off-line and submitted, will appear as a Globe & Mail "Facts & Arguments" piece in the next few days or weeks. Another one, which was written a few months ago, will be published in the next issue of the Songwriters Association of Canada magazine. Coincidentally, a few other (paying!) writing jobs have come my way, which have kept me busier than usual. Also, I've been completing the book project based on my first year of subway busking. There's been lots of writing going on, but less blogging (and singing too).
But as you know, if you've been reading regularly, the regular singing (and writing) has helped me stay sane and creatively energized since this project began. So I'm sticking to it.
You may notice some changes soon. I'm planning to renovate the blog a little, to allow for the more natural inclusion of essays on a variety of topics. Chances are, most of them will have something to do with creativity, artistic expression and popular culture. (But don't worry, I'll still be busking. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to go out--though I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not sure have the nerve for Bloor & Yonge, where I'm scheduled!)
More to come...and thanks again for reading.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Ears
Last week, the subway musicians who use amplifiers got together at Osgoode station to have our amps registered and approved. We needed to set the appropriate levels for our machines so we won't play too loudly on the TTC and annoy people or cause a safety hazard.
After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.
I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.
I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.
I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.
I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.
Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.
+++
Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.
I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.
Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.
The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.
When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.
The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.
After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.
I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.
I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.
I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.
I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.
Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.
+++
Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.
I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.
Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.
The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.
When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.
The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Crowded Field
This weekend, I'm heading to Kingston for the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals conference. This is a once-a-year event where folk festival organizers get together as a community. It's a chance for artists to meet the people who might book them, to drop off promo packages, shake hands, smile--and possibly play some music too.
I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.
But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?
"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.
Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".
In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)
It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)
We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.
I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.
But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?
"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.
Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".
In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)
It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)
We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Re-Orienting
Yesterday I headed for the TTC Head Office with the other newly-licensed musicians for this year's orientation session.
On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.
At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?
The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.
What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?
In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.
But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.
+++
At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.
"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."
It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)
When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.
In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?
At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.
As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.
And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.
On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.
At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?
The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.
What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?
In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.
But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.
+++
At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.
"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."
It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)
When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.
In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?
At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.
As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.
And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Gift Exchange
What do you like to do on your birthday?
Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".
This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.
One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.
This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.
The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.
Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.
Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".
This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.
One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.
This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.
The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.
Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Too Busy Writing to Blog
Sorry I haven't written for awhile.
I've been too busy writing.
It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.
At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.
Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?
I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.
I've been too busy writing.
It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.
At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.
Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?
I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.
Friday, September 23, 2005
My Mexican Coin
This morning as I was getting ready to go out busking, I found my lucky Mexican coin.
I had held onto it faithfully for many months, but sometime during the summer I lost track of it. Maybe I put it in my wallet and mixed it up with my other change. Maybe I accidentally spent it, leaving it as a worthless tip at a dimly-lit restaurant somewhere. I was annoyed with myself for losing the Mexican coin. I even considered going to the Currency Exchange to get another one, though I don't know how much it's actually worth.
I figured it was gone for good. But this morning, I found it in a Ziplock bag along with an ever-increasing mountain of uncounted change.
My Mexican coin looks just like a toonie, so it's perfect to put into my guitar case as "seed money". At the end of every busking shift, I have to subtract the seed money I put in at the beginning, but when I use the Mexican coin I don't have to subtract it. (It's a mind game, I know, but strangely it works for me.)
Earlier this week, I played a short set of songs at a local club, in front of an audience of about 25 people. I felt confident and enthusiastic about the music I was playing, and I was enjoying the physical space: a local restaurant painted a rich warm red, with cheerful paintings on the walls by local artists and a good sound system. I felt great, I sounded great...and the nice lighting probably made me look great too.
This morning at Osgoode station, I played the same songs, and didn't feel that way at all. The environment was cold and unflattering and I felt underconfident. When another musician came by and said hello, I immediately stopped playing, happy for the distraction. When a guitar string broke just after he left, I wasn't at all surprised (the guitar a mirror of my fragile state) and gratefully started to pack up.
Along with a few Canadian dollars, I collected the Mexican coin.
One of the songs I sang, in both performances, had recently prompted another musician to urge me to start shopping my songs around to publishers. This particular song, he thought, had strong commercial potential. The song went over very well on Wednesday night but attracted no notice this morning.
Like the Mexican coin, the song may indeed be worth money, but only if it's in the right hands, in the right setting. This morning at Osgoode Station, the coin sat in my case, dormant, waiting to be transported to Mexico where it could participate in the actual economy...and my songs were similarly square pegs looking for round holes.
It's all a question of fit, I thought, as I slipped my token into the turnstile and headed home.
I had held onto it faithfully for many months, but sometime during the summer I lost track of it. Maybe I put it in my wallet and mixed it up with my other change. Maybe I accidentally spent it, leaving it as a worthless tip at a dimly-lit restaurant somewhere. I was annoyed with myself for losing the Mexican coin. I even considered going to the Currency Exchange to get another one, though I don't know how much it's actually worth.
I figured it was gone for good. But this morning, I found it in a Ziplock bag along with an ever-increasing mountain of uncounted change.
My Mexican coin looks just like a toonie, so it's perfect to put into my guitar case as "seed money". At the end of every busking shift, I have to subtract the seed money I put in at the beginning, but when I use the Mexican coin I don't have to subtract it. (It's a mind game, I know, but strangely it works for me.)
Earlier this week, I played a short set of songs at a local club, in front of an audience of about 25 people. I felt confident and enthusiastic about the music I was playing, and I was enjoying the physical space: a local restaurant painted a rich warm red, with cheerful paintings on the walls by local artists and a good sound system. I felt great, I sounded great...and the nice lighting probably made me look great too.
This morning at Osgoode station, I played the same songs, and didn't feel that way at all. The environment was cold and unflattering and I felt underconfident. When another musician came by and said hello, I immediately stopped playing, happy for the distraction. When a guitar string broke just after he left, I wasn't at all surprised (the guitar a mirror of my fragile state) and gratefully started to pack up.
Along with a few Canadian dollars, I collected the Mexican coin.
One of the songs I sang, in both performances, had recently prompted another musician to urge me to start shopping my songs around to publishers. This particular song, he thought, had strong commercial potential. The song went over very well on Wednesday night but attracted no notice this morning.
Like the Mexican coin, the song may indeed be worth money, but only if it's in the right hands, in the right setting. This morning at Osgoode Station, the coin sat in my case, dormant, waiting to be transported to Mexico where it could participate in the actual economy...and my songs were similarly square pegs looking for round holes.
It's all a question of fit, I thought, as I slipped my token into the turnstile and headed home.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Bookishness
For the past few weeks, I've been editing my blog postings into something I will publish as a book.
I could capitalize the word ("Book") to emphasize its importance, but just using the word adds a sense of formality and legitimacy to my writing enterprise. So I say it straightforwardly. Book.
I could be cute and create a new word--"blook"--to describe the marriage of book and blog, but, predictably, that trivializes the upcoming work, making it seem an even less worthy project than it already seems. The project's worth, needless to say, is already somewhat in question because of its direct relationship to a blog...and to busking. (Sorry, Gestating Creative Offspring, your lineage does not bode well.)
+++
Two years ago, I heard the word "blog" for the first time, and I thought, "yuck".
It didn't sound like something I'd want to read at all. Plus, I didn't know what it was, and I felt embarrassed about being out of the technological loop. Unlike some people, who may find such embarrassment motivational, I found myself curling up with a good old-fashioned book and shutting off my computer. Then one day, my husband (in his free time at 2:30 in the morning) set me up with my own blog, allowing me to express myself and "publish" at will without having to trouble myself by actually submitting my work to publications.
Thinking about the awfulness of the word itself, it makes me wonder whether blogs were invented as part of an evil plot by the Corporate Media to entrap the hordes of eager would-be-published writers, or at least to keep them very, very busy. Hasn't anyone noticed how much "the blog" sounds like "The Blob"?
"Blogger" also sounds suspiciously like "gobbler"--a devourer of time--and could be an in-joke among published authors who no doubt consider us turkeys. (I know of at least one writer who has successfully published--and been paid for--two articles on busking since I've been writing this blog.)
Like the world of independent music, in which inexpensive recording technology made it suddenly easy for anyone to become a recording artist, blogging has facilitated the free expression of ideas. But it hasn't erased the boundaries between what's considered professional and what's not. While some newspaper columnists may be nervous that bloggers might steal their jobs, I think that's less likely than the other scenario: that capable thinkers and writers (including much better ones that me) will remain bogged down in the blog ghetto, buried under all that crackpot ranting and poor punctuation, unable to rise above the label "amateur".
Okay, personal challenge time. Along with getting my book (BOOK!!!!!) ready for the printed page, I will select and edit a few articles for publication, submit them, and keep you posted.
I could capitalize the word ("Book") to emphasize its importance, but just using the word adds a sense of formality and legitimacy to my writing enterprise. So I say it straightforwardly. Book.
I could be cute and create a new word--"blook"--to describe the marriage of book and blog, but, predictably, that trivializes the upcoming work, making it seem an even less worthy project than it already seems. The project's worth, needless to say, is already somewhat in question because of its direct relationship to a blog...and to busking. (Sorry, Gestating Creative Offspring, your lineage does not bode well.)
+++
Two years ago, I heard the word "blog" for the first time, and I thought, "yuck".
It didn't sound like something I'd want to read at all. Plus, I didn't know what it was, and I felt embarrassed about being out of the technological loop. Unlike some people, who may find such embarrassment motivational, I found myself curling up with a good old-fashioned book and shutting off my computer. Then one day, my husband (in his free time at 2:30 in the morning) set me up with my own blog, allowing me to express myself and "publish" at will without having to trouble myself by actually submitting my work to publications.
Thinking about the awfulness of the word itself, it makes me wonder whether blogs were invented as part of an evil plot by the Corporate Media to entrap the hordes of eager would-be-published writers, or at least to keep them very, very busy. Hasn't anyone noticed how much "the blog" sounds like "The Blob"?
"Blogger" also sounds suspiciously like "gobbler"--a devourer of time--and could be an in-joke among published authors who no doubt consider us turkeys. (I know of at least one writer who has successfully published--and been paid for--two articles on busking since I've been writing this blog.)
Like the world of independent music, in which inexpensive recording technology made it suddenly easy for anyone to become a recording artist, blogging has facilitated the free expression of ideas. But it hasn't erased the boundaries between what's considered professional and what's not. While some newspaper columnists may be nervous that bloggers might steal their jobs, I think that's less likely than the other scenario: that capable thinkers and writers (including much better ones that me) will remain bogged down in the blog ghetto, buried under all that crackpot ranting and poor punctuation, unable to rise above the label "amateur".
Okay, personal challenge time. Along with getting my book (BOOK!!!!!) ready for the printed page, I will select and edit a few articles for publication, submit them, and keep you posted.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Water Is Wide
In the days following Hurricane Katrina, I've picked up my guitar a few times and noodled with song ideas. Several ideas have come to me but been discarded. There is no shortage of subject matter to write about related to Katrina, from the wrenching human toll to the sudden migration to the bureaucratic incompetence to nature itself.
Like the onslaught of water, the images and words have come relentlessly, a torrent of "what nows" and "if onlys". There is so much to be done and so much to be said, yet I find myself mute in front of the television set, overwhelmed by the losses, not only of whole lives but of all the parts-of-lives, the parts that seem so hard to live without: the houses, the pets, the jobs.
After the initial shock of the event came the rapid rush of understanding of what Katrina means. Thousands of people are now permanently displaced, and their experience will ripple through the generations, as will the echoes of unheeded cries for help in a country where peace and security was thought to be a birthright.
Hundreds of songs will come from this. The best ones, I believe, will come from the people who lived through this disaster and still have strength to sing.
Instead of writing a new song of my own, I have been drawn to an old song that has been sung by many. I find myself singing the traditional folk song "The Water Is Wide" ("...I can't cross o'er. Nor do I have strong wings to fly...Give me a boat that will carry two...and I will sail, my love and I...") Today, that lyric seems to describe the gulf between what New Orleaneans expected from their country and what they received, between what was promised and what was delivered.
That water remains high today, between the shores of dream and reality, fiction and truth.
Like the onslaught of water, the images and words have come relentlessly, a torrent of "what nows" and "if onlys". There is so much to be done and so much to be said, yet I find myself mute in front of the television set, overwhelmed by the losses, not only of whole lives but of all the parts-of-lives, the parts that seem so hard to live without: the houses, the pets, the jobs.
After the initial shock of the event came the rapid rush of understanding of what Katrina means. Thousands of people are now permanently displaced, and their experience will ripple through the generations, as will the echoes of unheeded cries for help in a country where peace and security was thought to be a birthright.
Hundreds of songs will come from this. The best ones, I believe, will come from the people who lived through this disaster and still have strength to sing.
Instead of writing a new song of my own, I have been drawn to an old song that has been sung by many. I find myself singing the traditional folk song "The Water Is Wide" ("...I can't cross o'er. Nor do I have strong wings to fly...Give me a boat that will carry two...and I will sail, my love and I...") Today, that lyric seems to describe the gulf between what New Orleaneans expected from their country and what they received, between what was promised and what was delivered.
That water remains high today, between the shores of dream and reality, fiction and truth.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Where I Stand
With the mail was indeed a letter from the TTC, saying that yes, I did clear the bar to get a Subway Musicians' license for next year.
I didn't clear the bar by much.
It's funny how things turn out. You envision so many endings to the stories, answers to the questions...and sometimes the universe winks at you (as it did when last year my license number was 63 and the orientation session was October 4th) and sometimes it laughs at you.
Because I was ambivalent about continuing to sing on the subways, I thought it possible that I simply wouldn't get in...that the audition process would present an unlikely but unmistakable sign that I'm simply not meant to do this anymore. On the other hand, I felt pretty confident about my audition this year. Now that I "knew what I was doing" I felt sure that if I got in, I'd get in by a pretty wide margin...that my "ranking" would reflect all the fabulous learning I'd done over the past year, the personal growth, the improvement as a musician and performer, the new songs written during the experiene, and so on.
All of that would, I thought, count for something.
And of course, it does. It counts for me. It counts in my inner life and my personal journey, which is completely separate from my public career, in whatever form it takes.
That's a lesson I want to believe I've learned. In fact, it was a lesson I tried to learn over and over on the subway this year: the quality of my work and the value of my contribution cannot be measured simplistically in material and predictable ways. I must continue to stand up and sing even when it appears it's having no effect.
Even though I've spent most of the past year re-evaluating rankings and status--re-defining what I thought of as "success" in music--I was initially disappointed to discover that in the competition to get a subway musician's licence this year, I hadn't done as well as I had in last year's auditions.
After all this, have I really learned anything at all? Haven't I learned that rankings don't matter, and that art defies competitions? Maybe the fact that I was irked by the numbers shows me that I still have a lot to learn in this area...I'm still hung up on winning something and getting somewhere, instead of being content where I am.
I didn't clear the bar by much.
It's funny how things turn out. You envision so many endings to the stories, answers to the questions...and sometimes the universe winks at you (as it did when last year my license number was 63 and the orientation session was October 4th) and sometimes it laughs at you.
Because I was ambivalent about continuing to sing on the subways, I thought it possible that I simply wouldn't get in...that the audition process would present an unlikely but unmistakable sign that I'm simply not meant to do this anymore. On the other hand, I felt pretty confident about my audition this year. Now that I "knew what I was doing" I felt sure that if I got in, I'd get in by a pretty wide margin...that my "ranking" would reflect all the fabulous learning I'd done over the past year, the personal growth, the improvement as a musician and performer, the new songs written during the experiene, and so on.
All of that would, I thought, count for something.
And of course, it does. It counts for me. It counts in my inner life and my personal journey, which is completely separate from my public career, in whatever form it takes.
That's a lesson I want to believe I've learned. In fact, it was a lesson I tried to learn over and over on the subway this year: the quality of my work and the value of my contribution cannot be measured simplistically in material and predictable ways. I must continue to stand up and sing even when it appears it's having no effect.
Even though I've spent most of the past year re-evaluating rankings and status--re-defining what I thought of as "success" in music--I was initially disappointed to discover that in the competition to get a subway musician's licence this year, I hadn't done as well as I had in last year's auditions.
After all this, have I really learned anything at all? Haven't I learned that rankings don't matter, and that art defies competitions? Maybe the fact that I was irked by the numbers shows me that I still have a lot to learn in this area...I'm still hung up on winning something and getting somewhere, instead of being content where I am.
The Postman Always Rings Twice
This morning, I was walking down the street on my way to pick up Calla for lunch when a car pulled up beside me.
"Has the mail arrived on this street yet?" the woman asked.
"Nope, not yet", I replied knowledgeably.
"You see, I'm Patrick's mother," she said. "I was hoping to pick him up and take him for lunch."
I told her, as I told you yesterday, that I always look forward to seeing Patrick and that he's doing a very good job.
When he arrived just now (after respective lunches of both mothers and children), he seemed especially friendly when he gave me my mail.
"Has the mail arrived on this street yet?" the woman asked.
"Nope, not yet", I replied knowledgeably.
"You see, I'm Patrick's mother," she said. "I was hoping to pick him up and take him for lunch."
I told her, as I told you yesterday, that I always look forward to seeing Patrick and that he's doing a very good job.
When he arrived just now (after respective lunches of both mothers and children), he seemed especially friendly when he gave me my mail.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Please Mr. Postman
No, I haven't received my letter yet, so I don't know whether or not I'll be a subway musician next year.
I haven't been singing very much in the subway either. Rather than considering myself stalled, I'd prefer to think I've just briefly pulled off to the shoulder.
Last week I had a bad cold, making singing a challenge (although I did play a show at the City Roots/City Wide festival in Toronto's historic Distillery District). In the three days leading up to the festival, I exhausted our household's supply of ginger tea, which seemed to help. If nothing else, it made me need to pee so often it must have flushed the virus out of my system, thus allowing a dense cloud of ragweed pollen to invade and keep me in the sniffles.
For the last few days, even though I haven't quite admitted it to myself, I've been watching expectantly for the arrival of Patrick, our postman. (Yes, his name really is Postman Pat.)
Like other letter carriers I have met over the years, Pat is a perpetually cheerful guy. He always says hello and smiles and he always has a spring in his step, even when it's fall outside and his mailbag must weigh a ton with the various catalogues and reports he's delivering. Today we received both a Staples and a Lee Valley catalogue, giving me more excuses than usual to procrastinate as I think about all the office supplies and woodworking tools I suddenly may need.
I may not need them after all. But the perception or possibility of need is there. It's printed on all the ink-on-paper communication that comes through my mail-slot. Even if I toss them immediately into the recycling bin, the envelopes lying on my vestibule floor always appear to me, at least for a few seconds before I pick them up, potentially essential.
That's worth something.
And that must be why Postman Pat seems so happy all the time. Many people wait for him with a happy expectancy. If occasionally the waiting is also accompanied by a shadow of suspense (for the mail could also bring unhappy news) it always, also, holds the possibility of a surprise twist that could change everything.
That moment of anticipation, when we're really not sure what is around the corner but even if it might be bad we can't resist finding out, makes Pat a pretty popular guy. No wonder he's always smiling.
I haven't been singing very much in the subway either. Rather than considering myself stalled, I'd prefer to think I've just briefly pulled off to the shoulder.
Last week I had a bad cold, making singing a challenge (although I did play a show at the City Roots/City Wide festival in Toronto's historic Distillery District). In the three days leading up to the festival, I exhausted our household's supply of ginger tea, which seemed to help. If nothing else, it made me need to pee so often it must have flushed the virus out of my system, thus allowing a dense cloud of ragweed pollen to invade and keep me in the sniffles.
For the last few days, even though I haven't quite admitted it to myself, I've been watching expectantly for the arrival of Patrick, our postman. (Yes, his name really is Postman Pat.)
Like other letter carriers I have met over the years, Pat is a perpetually cheerful guy. He always says hello and smiles and he always has a spring in his step, even when it's fall outside and his mailbag must weigh a ton with the various catalogues and reports he's delivering. Today we received both a Staples and a Lee Valley catalogue, giving me more excuses than usual to procrastinate as I think about all the office supplies and woodworking tools I suddenly may need.
I may not need them after all. But the perception or possibility of need is there. It's printed on all the ink-on-paper communication that comes through my mail-slot. Even if I toss them immediately into the recycling bin, the envelopes lying on my vestibule floor always appear to me, at least for a few seconds before I pick them up, potentially essential.
That's worth something.
And that must be why Postman Pat seems so happy all the time. Many people wait for him with a happy expectancy. If occasionally the waiting is also accompanied by a shadow of suspense (for the mail could also bring unhappy news) it always, also, holds the possibility of a surprise twist that could change everything.
That moment of anticipation, when we're really not sure what is around the corner but even if it might be bad we can't resist finding out, makes Pat a pretty popular guy. No wonder he's always smiling.
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