Creating "Simplicity"

Speaking to a friend on the phone the other day, I mentioned my new CD, "Simplicity".

He said, "Let me guess...just you and your guitar, right?"

Hmm...so much for suspense and intrigue.

But he went on to say that he's looking forward to hearing this new collection. He didn't say, "Really? That's weird" or "Risky move on your part".

He said, "That's great".

Simple.

A few months ago, before I knew I was going to release this bunch of songs as a new record, I sent six of the songs to a friend/fan of mine in England. He wrote back:

"I love the collection, and just like Ron Sexsmith they sound so much more intimate with just you and an acoustic."

Thanks, Mark.

It means a lot, because "Simplicity" is difficult. It's hard to let go of the band, the bed tracks, the tweaks, the endless fixes. It takes practice to call it a record.

"Simplicity" is unfamiliar territory for me...and at times it feels a little scary.

It's more about subtracting than adding. What can I live without? What can I not afford?

(I can't afford those imaginary policemen for one thing...so out they go!)

Still Minding the Gap

Back when I was writing about busking in the Toronto subways, I wrote a post called "Mind the Gap". It was about coming to terms with the difference between how I hoped to sound in my recordings and how I actually do...the difference between fantasy and reality.

Several years later, I'm still dancing with that gap. Just when I think I've achieved some new level of skill, something happens to remind me that I'm still learning and growing. That sounds like a good thing of course (we all want to learn and grow, don't we?) but in the moment it can be terribly uncomfortable. Self-acceptance is pleasant and natural when everything is going well, but when we fall short of our goals, it's not so easy.

A few days ago, I led a songwriting workshop with a group of high school students. I quoted Miles Davis who famously said "do not fear mistakes, there are none". And then, a few days later, when I made what I felt was a mistake as part of a creative project, I got completely stuck. I couldn't stop wishing things had gone differently, instead of focusing on right now and how to move forward gracefully.

Would the experience have gone differently if I had approached it with a spirit of playful experimentation instead of goal-directed perfectionism? Can I re-frame my attitude right now, viewing the results as unexpected new ideas rather than mistakes? Will a gentle acceptance of the ever-present "gap" help me pick up and move on? Often it seems that so much rests on our ability to get it exactly "right". Maybe those goals are less important than they seem.

The real prize is the growth we achieve when we stretch, simply as far as we can.

Happy New

January seems a good time to update the blog, doesn't it?

I'd like to do that without the heavy sense of "resolution" that's so often associated with New Year's.

Instead, I'd like to think of gentle, small steps...the space of a blank page...the relief of dropping off three bags of clothes and toys at Value Village tonight. That's the "happy new" for me...happy new openness...contented letting-go.

I'll write another song this week for "Take5" . It'll be my 50th song for the program this week! When I think of all those songs piling up, sometimes I feel regret that I can't somehow elevate them all or promote each one. When I'm in that frame of mind I feel claustrophobic, and no new songs come.

But when I feel free to let them go, one at a time, I find the creative space I need to write another one.

Creative Lift-Off

To write a good song, you need the kind of energy that comes with what I call “creative lift-off”. It’s the elevated forward motion that takes place when a song seems to be supported by something other than itself, in the same way that a plane naturally rises on a current of air once it’s reached a certain speed.

It’s possible to keep writing—even to complete a whole song—without creative lift-off. But just because it's possible doesn't mean it's ideal. Think of it this way: a plane speeding along the runway still goes forward, but it doesn’t go nearly as far, fast or high. The Wright Brothers weren’t trying to build an interesting new sort of car, they were trying to build a flying machine. That’s what we want too: a new thing that will seem to defy gravity…something that will travel a long way and be lofty and inspiring.

So, how do you know you’ve achieved creative lift-off? Watch for the moment when:

- You’re suddenly not comparing this song to any others, written by you or anybody else;
- You forget you’re “writing”;
- Magical-seeming, coincidental gifts fall into place in your lyrics;
- Your hand unconsciously goes to a new chord, and it’s the right one;
- You write something you didn’t know you knew how to write;
- You lose track of time;
- You can correct flaws easily, or ignore them comfortably;
- You have a knowing feeling that the song already exists, even though it’s not finished;
- You don’t have the frustrated feeling that something supposed to happen isn’t happening (as you would in a plane that never took off).

It’s a relief to notice creative lift-off when it happens. And, once it’s happened, we enjoy a sense of relaxation. It's as if the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, and we're free to enjoy the creative ride.

Creative Abandon

I've been reading a lot of Pema Chodron lately, a spiritual teacher in the Buddhist Lojong tradition. She recommends using a number of simple slogans during everyday activities, to stay rooted in the present moment. Over the next couple of weeks, for an e-course I'm taking, I'll be working with the slogan "abandon all hope of fruition".

It's a useful slogan for anyone striving in the difficult career path of the arts.

Just yesterday, I found myself "hoping for fruition" as I sent a song to an influential music promoter. Although I told myself that I wasn't expecting a response, I was disappointed when I didn't receive a return email immediately. (Another Lojong slogan that is closely related is "Don't expect applause".)

Unconsciously, I also hope for fruition when I send an email out to my list of supporters and when I write a blog entry. What will people think, I wonder? Will they come out to the show? Will they think more highly of me? I often hold some expectation of result in my mind while I'm creating something new.

When I'm actually writing a song, the hope of fruition can be a real roadblock to success.

Thinking ahead, while writing, to the response of potential audiences diverts my attention from the song. If I think "ahah, this is going to be a masterpiece", I'm disappointed in myself and creatively blocked when, a few minutes later, it seems not to be fulfilling its potential. And if I think "oh no, this won't work for such-and-such audience or industry person" I start to fiddle with the song, worrying it into a mutant version of what it was originally meant to be.

In order to write something true, I have to honour my subject with my full attention.

When I simply let the song carry itself forward without all that weight on it, it generally comes out fine.

"Abandoning all hope of fruition" turns into "creative abandon", which is freeing and joyful.

Wanting Great, Getting Good

Each time I write a song, I want it to be better than the last one.

I imagine my growing body of work as being a steadily improving thing...a smooth ascending hill. But in fact, it's more like the jagged line that illustrates an investment in the stock market. One day it's up, the next it's down...but gradually, over time, the investment's value increases in a series of peaks and valleys. (And isn't artistic practice a lifelong investment?)

Each time that little line dips, I feel queasy. I'm disappointed when a new song doesn't "pay off" the way I want it to. Why didn't it? Was it the idea, the execution, the presentation? It seemed pretty good when I was writing it... Why isn't it lifting off? There's a note of fear there.

Although some analysis is useful, it's important for me to stop judging and let go. Simply let the work be--present it, let it breathe, and let it go--and know that it's serving its purpose in the bigger picture of my creative life. Trust the mystery.

I'll probably always want "great". Through that stretching, I'm developing as an artist. Many times, despite my best efforts, I'll just get "good". Although it seems like a disappointment at the time, it leaves room for growth, and reminds me to practice the art of self-acceptance.

I Don't Like Middles

This morning as I was working on a new song, I had the familiar urge to quit. It came at the usual point: after the initial excitement had waned, but before I could tell the song would be successfully completed.

It's always the middle period that's hard. Much like the middle of the day, too, I realize...as the clock says 2:56 and I'm tempted to stop writing now and go have a nap. Not to mention the middle of life, the middle of career...no wonder middles lead to crises.

Anyway, in this particular middle, I almost gave up on the song altogether. The song just didn't seem worth the effort. I saw it as unnecessarily complicated, challenging and serious. Oh, and the melody was terrible. These seemed to be perfectly valid concerns. Facts, even! So...

I ignored them and kept writing anyway.

There's a part of me that mistrusts the middle. It imagines that the creative process should be inspiration followed immediately by satisfaction. All magic, all joy, all the time! I avoid the middle at the beginning ("This song idea is brilliant! It will write itself!) , the middle ("This is too difficult. The song must be bad") and the end ("It was fun and easy to write such a great song!").

This time, I kept working during the middle, even though I wasn't enjoying myself and I didn't believe I was necessarily doing anything of value. I simply showed up and stayed put. To my surprise, only a few minutes later I saw that the song was nearly finished...and it was good!

It was good in the middle too. It was just not yet what I wanted it to become. It was still unformed...somewhat muddled...in the middle.

(Side note: did J.K. Rowling pull that brilliant name for humans, 'Muggles', out of a hat or what?!)

More on Chords

Also...

I think there's a longing to be part of a "chord"...a family or community...and that we naturally move toward that unity, even as we proudly define our separateness.

The deep satisfaction that comes from resonating with others, of creating a more powerful and resounding expression of life, is what keeps us returning to our relationships and adjusting ourselves.

We slip out of tune, but it's others that remind us that we're "out". And when we're aligned with others, we may notice that someone else has wandered off a little.

At those times, maybe we need to sound our note more clearly, so that others can hear us and use us to help them re-tune.

Chords

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. That's one way to think about chords.

They're groups of notes that create a unified "something-else" when played together. For guitar players, chords are often the starting point of a lifelong musical journey. Once you learn an "A" chord, you're off and running. Just by itself, an A chord sounds like Something Important. And it's pretty easy to play too, by playing the notes E, A and C# together, as you arrange your fingers into a little ladder in the middle of the neck of the guitar. (I'm naming the notes here just for fun, but you don't have to know what the notes are called to play them.) Once you've learned "A" ("Square Ladder in Middle of 2nd Fret") you put your fingers in a different shape to make another chord ("Ascending Hill Shape on 3 Frets"...that's a "C")...and so on, and so on.

Chords have solidity and weight and presence. Played under a melody, they create a foundation that supports the whole piece.

I like to think of my family as a chord, each note complementing the other and forming a unit. My family of origin is another chord; related, but distinct. Other groups come to mind too: my husband's group of buddies from university, my friend's consistent group of exercisers at her fitness class. They both talk about these groups with a sense of pride and comfort. They know that they're balanced and complimentary groups that will endure and support them as their lives proceed.

When one note is out-of-tune, the whole chord suffers. Guitars often go out-of-tune, and sometimes you find yourself realizing in the middle of a song that something's not quite right about a certain note. You can play the chord anyway, and it might sound "close enough", but really it's not. That out-of-tune note makes a big difference. To correct the tuning, we compare it to the others, to bring the relationships into balance with each other. Sometimes a note is a little too close to another...other times it's too far apart. Chords are created by the distance between notes.

Sometimes the note doesn't belong in the chord at all, much like the Sesame Street song "One of these things is not like the others". How unlike can we be from each other to still fit within a group? When is it necessary to adjust ourselves to bring our relationships into harmony, and when do we say, this note just isn't right for this chord?

Yesterday I was fooling around on the guitar when I found a new note combination that at first sounded too weird, too dissonant to my ear. But I remembered what our children's music teacher said the other day: sometimes when you insert a wrong-sounding note into a chord, just hang out with it awhile. Play it several times and experiment with new notes around it. After several minutes of playing with the new "ugly" chord, I found that it sounded pleasing. The new chord isn't exactly pretty, but it's useful and intriguing, and it's strong enough to become the heart of a new song.

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.