The story behind the song: Desperate Mama

Desperate Mama began when I was asked to write a song in which I borrowed some of the lyrics from a conversation I overheard. After eavesdropping on all types of locations I heard one woman (with a Texas accent) say to her friend, “Well, as we say down in Texas, ‘Have a good day and don’t you kill anyone.’” After digesting the strangeness of that thought, I grabbed onto the gist as a suitable phrase for the song. In the meantime, I had been working on a tune already in which the chorus was “Desperate Mama, Desperate Mama, she don’t worry about a thing no more.” As often happens to me in the songwriting process, the lyrics of the chorus came to me first, before I had any sense of what I was writing about. It’s like picking up a novel and reading from a random page in the middle. Then I backup and decide where and how to begin the song, given what I know is happening later. I am fond of this song for several reasons. First, I like the country/bluegrass feel that it has. It’s a happy sounding chord progression, which belies the rather unhappy subject matter. Second, my favorite line in the song is “I never even learned his Christian name / But I heard him calling Jesus just the same.” A little sexual innuendo mixed with religious fervor never hurts. Third, if you pay close enough attention you will learn that over the course of the song, a decision has been made and acted upon, one which shifts the tense of the person doing the talking, permanently. And lastly, I love that Tim O’Brien plays and sings on the recording. Not only is it cool to play with a Grammy winner, but he adds the right type of plaintive qualities to the track. Then again, what’s not to love about a song that touches on pregnancy, abortion, and suicide?

The story behind the song: Golden Some Day

In 2010 I began working with producer Jamie Mefford on my new album. As we sorted through the possible songs, I referenced another friend of mine with whom I trade songwriting assignments. Jamie smiled slyly and said, “I want to give you a songwriting assignment.” Great, I thought. This should be interesting. And I was right. Over the years of listening to the likes of Jerry Garcia, Neil Young, and Doc Watson-style bluegrass, I had developed a playing style that kept my right picking hand very busy. I had grown accustomed to playing a lot of notes most of the time, a habit which was not lost on Jamie. And being the producer/sage/therapist that he is, Jamie was interested in what else I could do. He then explained that he wanted me to write a song in which I was allowed to strum the guitar using only my thumb. No pick, no other fingers, just my thumb. My first thought was, “shit.” I was certain that this approach could only lead to an insanely boring song. And the more I thought about the assignment, the more intimidated I became. No fancy picking? No pull-offs and hammer-ons? But that means that people will really listen to the lyrics. I hadn’t even worked on the assignment and I felt like I was standing before a judgmental crowd wearing nothing but my birthday suit. When it comes to writing about certain topics, I tend to write about whatever is occupying my heart and mind at the time. This was December 2010, and my wife and I were in the middle of contentious discussions regarding our relationship, discussions which would eventually lead to a sincerely amicable divorce the following year. As I began strumming my guitar with my thumb one night, this beautifully simple chord progression emerged, and I quickly began to feel thankful for Jamie’s challenge. Then the lyrics started flowing, and that sentiment grew. This song developed rapidly and was completed in a matter of days. When the song was done Jamie and I fell in love with it, and decided to name the album after it. For me it is a beautiful song, a painful song, a loving song. Vocalist Anne Sibley adds to the atmosphere, and so far, this track tends to be a favorite of listeners, as well as the players who helped record it. Here is the song: http://soundcloud.com/jeremydion/01-golden-some-day/s-vSuR8 It can also be heard at my website, where the CD is for sale for a mere $10. www.jeremydion.com GOLDEN SOME DAY This time baby one of us will end up down One hits the runway one is sticking around Lonely sleeps here too There's no helping if the walls ain't talking to you Yours is the girl I never quite remember her name Mine is the child who always gets left with the blame Slowly grew too hot to hold Theirs is the kind that always gets left in the cold Oh tell me the lies Tell me you'll stay Oh I know if we try We'll be golden some day Golden some day The knots we tied won't come undone You just smiled and said there's only one Hear those feet dance across the floor Leave this table like it's never been set before Oh tell me the lies Tell me you'll stay Oh I know if we try We'll be golden some day Golden some day Fall like a shadow gone with the flick of the light Lead with the left and I'm left holding the right Words come clean nothing left to say Sheets of rain fall they wash it away Oh tell me the lies Tell me you'll stay Oh I know if we try We'll be golden some day Golden some day

How much are you willing to feel?

Let’s start with a blanket over-generalization: Western approaches to mental health (and medicine in general) often focus on symptom-reduction. Rather than attending to the underlying causes of anxiety (for example), we take medication to simply avoid these feelings. And while I support the use of pharmaceuticals in many cases of mental health, I also see our tendency to go for the band-aid fix first, and many times singularly. A quick glance at the pharmaceutical industry will attest to the popularity of this approach. Pfizer alone made nearly 60 billion dollars in 2010. That’s $60,000,000,000.00! In contrast, traditional Eastern approaches to health and wellness encourage us to lean into our pain and fear, befriending them, feeling their intensity, and eventually transforming them. This is the approach I adopt as a therapist and songwriter. I create music principally because if I didn’t have this outlet of expression, I may spontaneously combust. After spending my days breathing in the struggles of others in my private practice, this is my chance to breathe out. I also suspect that I write songs the way I do because I have a deeper agenda: I want you, the listener, to feel something. I want you to feel those things that you typically spend a good portion of your existence defending against. I want you to lean into your own feelings of pain, struggle, loss, love, and joy because I know a secret: The painful places are where the most valuable gifts are hidden. The more we are willing to feel our pain, the more we are able to experience our joy. Shut one side down, the other side shrinks with it. But as we breathe into the intensity of the pain, we are rewarded equally. How much are you willing to feel?

Sheer Determination

You know that insatiable feeling when you want something so badly that you are willing to endure nearly anything to get it? I was reminded of that intensity last week as I taught my 6 year-old daughter to ride her bike. When you commit to learning a new skill like bike riding, you realize the learning process will be painful. You know you will crash, and you know it will hurt. And you can expect to routinely question whether or not it’s worth it. For my daughter, her sheer determination to succeed outweighed the fear of pain. She kept at it until she was able to ride - tears streaming, legs pumping and finally bike riding. It was a major moment for us both. This experience inspired me, as I saw in her a gritty toughness that I deeply admire. Please let me be so determined that I will carry on pursuing my dreams, even with skinned knees and wounded pride.

Something Else

For all its frustrations, having automated customer service options has added at least one benefit to life: Something Else.

Usually tucked at the end of an exhaustive string of prompts, the "Something Else" option provides hope of moving from frustrated to empowered.

This has led to a running joke with my friend, as we frequently attempt to select the Something Else option in our lives, instead of dealing with the current predicament. Of course the attempt at circumventing what is is futile, but it does provide momentary relief in the form of laughter. Perhaps this is the Something Else - Levity. Perspective. Respite. Something Else is my simple two word protest to the universe letting her know that I'm not fond of her at this moment. Got a phone call that a loved one is sick? Choose Something else. Got an overdraft fee from your beloved banking institution? Something else. Flat tire? You get the point.

At the end of the day, if I choose to continue to enjoy the freedoms of adulthood, I am also choosing the responsibilities that comes with those freedoms. Being a grown up is hard. But it's somehow a shade easier and more fun when I take a moment to acknowledge that I would occasionally like something else.

Fighting Over Feelings

My kindergartener came home from school the other day and said, "Daddy, I think I'm stupid." I quickly reacted to this absurdity by launching headlong into a counterattack of mythic proportions. "Stupid?! Are you kidding? You are the smartest, most amazing child in the world! Here, let me give you a few examples of your brilliance…"

Confident in my ability to craft a compelling argument, I was sure my little dumpling would soon see the error in her logic. I also knew that she would then experience a gigantic boost in self-esteem once she saw the light.

But instead of being swayed by the brilliance of my reasoning she simply redoubled her efforts to convince me otherwise. We were soon in a tug-o-war over her limited intelligence, and I wasn't going to win. I could feel the rope slipping.

Then I got smart, and set down the rope. I stopped trying to talk her out of her feelings. I took a breath, felt the sadness that comes with feeling stupid, and I joined her. "Oh honey, that's hard," I began. "What's going on that you're feeling that way?" And she told me. It was a cute story and I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I took another breath and stayed with her.

I left space. I let her feel sad. I felt sad with her. Soon something both ordinary and magical happened. As kids do with such ease and grace, she moved through the feelings, and was quickly on to something else.

Funny how I was still feeling sad long after she had moved on. Thankfully, there was plenty of time later for me to tell her what a genius I thought she was.

Committing To The Line

By my best estimates I have put thousands of hours into learning how to play the guitar. But when it comes to the crafting of lyrics, I have traditionally flown by the seat of my proverbial pants.

Then I met my record producer/therapist, Jamie Mefford. Through his approach to making records, he has taught me the art of listening to the song, of leaving space, and of diving into each and every word on the page.

I have since discovered a new method to the songwriting madness. When I devote time to the discovery process, I set up my home studio, slip on the headphones, grab my guitar, hit "record," and start playing. As I play through a particular song I try to free up my heart-mind to sing whatever words seek to come through. As I listen to the song and breathe into her, I aim to temporarily quiet my judgmental mind that wants to critique each aspect of the lyrical output.

This creative approach has unleashed something in me, and I am writing on a more prolific level than ever before. The other night, while working on a song about San Francisco, I wrote (sang) more 40 verses. I then listened back to the recording, and transcribed every word. Picking out my favorite lines, words, and concepts, I wove them into the finished product.

As a result, I have two new songs that are close to done. Really close, as in one line away. But that line…it's not there yet. I have written a number of options for this particular lyric, and even thought I had it. But each time I sing the line, I'm not totally buying it. I'm having trouble committing to it and believing in it. As I learn to listen to my visceral reaction to singing, I can tell when my body contracts, and I'll know that if I perform the song with the line I have now, I will regret it. I will sing that line but blur the words, mildly embarrassed by them because I know they could be better.

It set me to wondering, where else do I do this? Where else in my life am I not buying my own lines? Are there places where I feel incongruent with what I am saying and doing, but I disregard my own visceral integrity?

I now know the embodied sense of purpose that grows from singing/living the lines I believe in and I aim to embrace this in all aspects of my life. I am a musician. And also a psychotherapist. In that order.

Space In The Song

In the process of recording my new album (which is about 80% done), my producer Jamie Mefford has brought several things to my attention. One of them is my tendency - developed through years of playing and performing as a solo singer/songwriter - to take up lots of space with my guitar playing. My style has evolved into an often busy network of Dave Matthews / Neil Young-style hammer-ons and pull-offs that sound fancy. I like playing that way and it has now become a comfortable groove.

As a solo artist this style is strategically understandable. But as I play more and more with the new trio, and record this new album, I have become acutely aware of the need to leave space for others. This of course brings up interesting things to ponder for me as I examine anew my personality outside of music. How much space am I leaving for others? As a therapist, husband, father, friend, and son I am certain I could leave more.

Musically, I am remembering that when space is left in the song, the listener can enter into the conversation. As a listener myself, I find that my mind/heart/soul fills the void - I hear overtones, echoes, other instruments and voices in the space - and I can take a breath. Denver Children's Hospital Music Therapist Tony Edelblute has writing succinctly about the topics of musical space and silence.

I contrast this with the music of bluegrass jam band Trampled By Turtles for example, whom I saw at Telluride this year. Their gig seems to be this: play as frenetically as possible for as long as possible and let the people dance. And no doubt they have devoted followers. But I'm not one of them. Listening to their music, I literally had to fight to breathe. There was no space. So like Elvis, I quickly left the building.

As I continue to write, record, and perform, my goal is to listen as much as I play - if not more. I enjoy the richness of sitting back and breathing into the song as the song breathes into me. Imagine if our world leaders left more space in their songs. How much space to you leave?

Telluride

I attended the Telluride Bluegrass Festival this past weekend for the first time, and I will be disappointed if I ever miss it again. It was, quite simply, that good.

The music itself was so indescribably amazing that I will save my thoughts on the performances for a later diatribe. Add to that the scenic wonders that brought people to Telluride in the first place (ok, it was the pursuit of silver, but they stayed for the scenery), and we're only half way to explaining the magnitude of this blissful experience. The other half was comprised mostly of the people - happy, smiling, beautiful, diverse, interesting and (for the most part) conscientious people.

I have been to a number of music festivals in my life, and realized this time around that Planet Bluegrass knows how to throw a spectacular (and eco-friendly, carbon-neutral) festival, and this is the place where our inner children come out and play in full force. Adults and kids alike were hula hooping, playing bean-bag toss games, walking around on stilts, dressing up in costumes, dancing, smiling, skipping, laughing, and playing on a gigantic 4 foot tall Connect Four board. I'm surprised we didn't finger paint and play freeze tag.

Some disbelievers respond with ignorance and think this ecstatically happy adult/inner child experience was purely the result of everyone being drunk and high. Those more seasoned festevarians realize that while there were some among us who ingested their fair share of dopamine-enhancing substances, the overall vibe of happiness, joy, creativity and love was more than enough to produce the desired result.

During this amazing weekend my heart was opened repeatedly, I was moved to tears by the music more times than I could count, and I danced with a joyful abandon I had not known since childhood. All of this happened in the midst of ten thousand others who appeared to be having similar experiences.

I returned home exhausted and exhilarated, grateful to be alive, and thankful to Planet Bluegrass for making it happen.

The Flow

Many of us have experienced "writer's block," and any bookstore is replete with writings on the topic, which of course is ironic in and of itself.

As a guitar player, piano player, singer and songwriter, the music itself often comes easily. Whether I like what comes through is a separate topic, but the general flow of the music tends to remain steady. Historically, all this changes when I pick up a pen.

I used to believe that the great songwriting masters - from Mozart to Dylan, Simon to Newman - could write an epic tale while simultaneously making a sandwich because they had something I so clearly did not. Yet as I have lately begun doing my homework to learn more about them and their respective songwriting processes I have become aware of how damn hard they all work at the craft. This information brings me great joy, and has helped me learn something important about myself: Not only do I need to work at this writing endeavor, but I need to learn how I work best.

As I mentioned before, nothing quite stops the creative juices from flowing as sitting with a pen in hand, staring at a blank piece of paper. I'm not sure what it is about this arrangement, but I feel intimidated by the space on the page, I try to hard to write something brilliant instead of just writing, and I end up writing very little or nothing at all.

Recently, I've discovered a new way of getting into the flow - the creative energy that seems to be in the surrounding all the time, waiting for me to tap into it. Since I know the music tends to come more naturally, I have started using what works. It might be sort of a DUH! moment, but I find that when I turn on my recording platform (Garage Band on my mac), and just start playing, the words start fumbling out of me if I can stay out of the way (read: keep my mind quiet). I was working with this format the other night and now I have literally hours of tape to roll back through, transcribing the lyrics and separating the usable phrases from the gibberish.

Some may accuse me of outright blasphemy, but as I learn to work hard at my writing, I see less and less separation between myself and Paul Simon, Michael Hedges, Bruce Springsteen, and Bob Dylan. And that makes me happy.

The Head and the Heart

There's a band called The Head and The Heart and they're currently on tour with Iron & Wine. I haven't listened to them much, but I like what I hear. And what's more, I like their name and it has set me to thinking.

I've had a pocketful of intensity in my life lately, and as a strategy for navigating through it, I have been playing a lot of guitar. New songs, old songs, spontaneous songs, it doesn't matter. I have become increasingly aware of how much energy moves through my being when I play the guitar, and it feels good. After one particularly visceral guitar session recently, I had to stop, put the guitar down, and move about the room while my body shook out the residual energy. Almost like Peter Levine talks about regarding our body's inherent healing mechanism that kicks in as a response to trauma.

The head and the heart. We are told they are connected, yet the times I actually feel this truth are far too seldom. But lately, I have become aware of something. As I'm playing guitar, my head swims with various thoughts. Some of the thoughts are about the music itself: the chord changes, the strumming, the picking, the tempo, and more chord changes. Sometimes I am able to simply observe this, and other times I judge what's happening. "That wasn't a clean chord," or "There's nothing original here," or "So and so is better." I have noticed something interesting with this judgmental part of my head jumps into the music - I start to miss. I miss chords, I miss the tempo, I make mistakes.

Then I remember to breathe, and breathe, and feel. And the music flows through again, typically with ease, simplicity, beauty, and without the heady mistakes listed before. I am reminded of a line from one of my favorite movies, "American Beauty."

"It's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it. And then it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."

The head and the heart. The breath and the judgment. I judge and I am ejected from the flow of universal energy. I breathe, relax, and I'm back in.

My ONE SONG this week is "Rambling Man" by Laura Marling. Listen and you'll thank yourself.

One Song

To blog or not to blog - a common conundrum for me. There are times I enjoy writing, and other times I write because I feel like I owe it to…to…

Well, I'm not sure. Many days I think I am the only one reading this thing anyway. And while I envision throngs of fans clamoring for my next blog as they glimpse whatever insight they can into the man behind the songs….well, for now it is simply not the case.

At any rate, I am writing again, and aim to someday make good on my personal commitment to blog every other week. Regardless of who does or does not read it, may there be purpose and meaning in the process.

I rediscovered something last night as my 5 year old daughter and I were having a dance party in the house: My love of the Grateful Dead. It's not that I had actually forgotten about them and their music. But listening last night (Franklin's Tower, live) sharing that music with my daughter, and attempting to explain to her (or rather, help her feel it directly) what I love so much about the music was a powerful experience. And it dawned on me: My goodness, she is already 5 years old and I've never really shared this with her. Not just the music, she's probably heard it. But I hadn't shared the ME-ness of it - why that music is so vital to my very being.

Caveat: Deadheads - you already know what I'm talking about, and I need to say nothing more. Non-believers - I'll never convince you no matter how much I type. Let's just leave it at that.

Music is my favorite thing and making it is a large part of my purpose on this planet. The reason I make it is that I love it - with every ounce of me I love it. I love to dance, to play guitar, to sing, to play percussion, to listen, to perform, to write and record - I love it. And not sharing deep aspects of this love with my already 5 year old? What else of myself have I not been sharing? And why?

I think I have a guess about the why. We were riding in the car the other day when she introduced me to her pet invisible dinosaur named "Busy." That was a clue. A sad cold slap of reality about how my daughter sees me. Busy. Hmmm…

So I come back to the music. I am thinking about writing a blog series about ONE SONG, and I will pick the song that is doing it for me the most lately. The "IT" varies of course, but you all know what I mean.

Tonight's song is Roll Away the Stone by Mumford and Sons. Listen to it if you can, many times. Especially the tail end of the song, when it changes tempo to 6/8 (or 3/4, I never really know the difference). And even more specifically when the lead singer goes for it. If you listen closely you'll know what I mean. Turn it up, listen again, and feel what happens in your body and your soul when you hear this. Then do it again and be glad you are alive.

Finding A Voice

I went and saw one of my favorite artists and Toad The Wet Sprocket frontman Glen Phillips last night. The show at Denver's Soiled Dove Underground was sold out, for what I think are three reasons. First, it's Glen and he has a lot of fans. Second, he was playing a solo acoustic show, which brings out the formidable Colorado singer-songwriter crowd. Third, the opening act was Vienna Teng.

Prior to last night, I thought that was a band, not a person. I was wrong. Turns out she is a classically trained pianist with a decent voice, charming personality, and knack for writing captivating songs.

Vienna was great, and played a nice long hour plus set. Glen was wonderful, and easily won over the crowd despite dropping no fewer than five F-Bombs. Capping the evening with Paul Simon's "American Tune" was a surprising and spectacular choice. Yet without a doubt, the evening belonged to a performer I have yet to mention: percussionist Alex Wong.

He plays with Vienna, and labeling him a percussionist is like calling DaVinci a painter. In the course of one song, Alex would commonly play the cajon with his hands and his feet, while expertly playing a metallophone (left handed) and managing both snare and cymbal with his right. He didn't miss a beat or a note, his sensitivity to sonic dynamics was other-worldly, and I couldn't stop watching him. He also played the piano and guitar, various other percussion instruments, and sang original songs.

It is nights like these when I find myself equally energized to work on my own music, and shut it down because, well, I'm no Alex Wong.

This is a common experience for me after seeing my idols. I know from experience that eventually inspiration trumps the desire to shut-down, but I am keenly aware of both energies and their various narratives.

Try as I might, I will never groove like Alex Wong, write like Paul Simon, or play like Stevie Ray Vaughn. And the more I try to be like them, the more I lose who I am.

Finding a voice as a songwriter (and as a human being, I suppose), is an endless process. Allowing myself to be inspired by another, and integrating that inspiration into my own being is a gift. Yet at times I lose myself and try to write songs like so-and-so, instead of coming back home, going within, and seeing what emerges. I try to remember that I have a service to provide that is of value to some. Many, I'm hoping. And that as I continue to tap into my own authentic voice, the path will be revealed and the money will follow.

Persistence

I have competing voices in my head. One of them sounds like this: "You can be as successful as you dream with your music. You can and will make a living with your craft; your songs will be played on the radio and in the movies; You're good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, people like you." I find having Stuart Smalley as an internal guide is helpful. At least as far as self esteem goes.

The other voice is the counterpoint, and sounds like this: "Music is a nice hobby. You've written some good songs, had a good run, but the odds of you making it are slim to none. You are too old, not a good enough writer, and seeing as how there are some thirteen billion really good singer songwriters on the planet, well, don't quit your day job."

I hear the former voice when I'm centered, feeling clear, eating well, reading something inspirational, or exercising regularly. Or when I've just played a really good show at a nice venue. I hear the other voice when I'm stressed, overwhelmed, tired, hungry, or played another coffeehouse gig for 3 people.

On one hand, it's always easier to give up and give in to the inertia of being sedentary. It's easier to watch TV than to work at writing a song; it's easier to sleep in than to exercise. And it's certainly easier to stop putting energy into booking gigs than it is to hear 8 "No's" for every "Yes."

Yet every time I get rejected by a venue, artist, or booking agent, I try to use it as a gut check, a test to my resolve. It begs the questions, "How serious am I about attaining my goals, and how much am I willing to endure to get there?"

Because on the other hand, to give up on what I think about and dream about the most propels me into an alternate universe that feels very disconcerting.

When I find myself listening to the internalized "small" voice, the one that begs me to give it up, I remember those who have gone before: Sly Stallone was rejected 1,500 times before Rocky was picked up. Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team. Babe Ruth also led the league in strikeouts.

And I trudge on, preparing to book more shows, make more albums, write more songs, and hear many more "No's" along the way.

Making It Happen

I was told that by the time the record label finally said yes to Smoky Robinson's "Tears of a Clown," he had been rejected the prior 68 times. Similarly many sports teams and literary publishers took passes on Tom Brady, Julia Child and J.K. Rowling, all of whom have gone on to not only succeed but in many ways define their generation in their chosen field. I think of them when I get yet another "thanks but no thanks" from promoters, booking agents, talent buyers, bands, managers, contest judges and others who seem to hold the keys to the music industry kingdom.

I recently opened for the Paperboys at Seattle's wonderful Triple Door, and with our combined draw we sold out the show. I have been asked a number of times how I was able to get my foot in the door with this great band and stellar venue. Quite simply it boils down to persistence. Through sheer diligence I had gotten to the point where the talent buyer at the Triple Door was willing to consider me as an opener (after I had given him my sales pitch as an artist with a Seattle-area fanbase) if the right gig came along. Yet as I have reached this stage a number of times with similar venues, it often happens that by the time I see the name of a band appear on the calendar, the evening's lineup is already set. I am still learning about how to involve myself in these earlier discussions. But this time, I went straight to the Paperboys (nearly every band has contact info on their website, and some will even respond), gave them my sales pitch, and we made it happen.

I remain convicted that writing songs, playing the guitar, singing, and performing are among the things I do best in the world. As a result, I strive to remain clear that my pursuit of life as a professional musician is a key component to my life's larger purpose. With that in mind, receiving another "thanks but no thanks" can be viewed as yet another test, encouraging me to look within and ponder, "How badly to I really want this? What am I willing to give to make it happen?"

I believe in dreaming, in writing down goals, in manifesting what I wish to create in the world. Every day I take at least a few steps in this direction, with this aim. And I am doggedly making it happen.

Painting With Words

I have come to realize lately that in the 29 years I have been playing instruments and 18 years that I have been writing lyrics, I have worked far harder on the former than the latter.

Creating lyrics is a tricky process for me, and the public expression of them is far more intimidating than playing an instrumental piece. There is obviously something quite vulnerable (and therefore valuable) in using one's voice as an instrument, but going one large step further and using it as a vehicle for the disseminations of particular ideas, thoughts and feelings can be the penultimate challenge…for me.

What I realized recently is that I have spent many hours learning how to play the guitar. This includes learning cover songs, rehearsing scales, nailing chord changes and building up the callouses on my fingers. In other words, I have meticulously studied the craft of playing the guitar.

Yet when I examined my process around writing lyrics, I found that I had grown content with whatever first made it onto the page, believing that in order to land on the paper, these words first passed through enough of an internal filter to render them worthy. Granted, I may tweak or re-write certain sections until they were "good enough." Then, if I still liked the song I would begin performing it live, and over time decide whether or not it would stick in my live repertoire. Not much more would happen from that point on, and the song would go into the ever-expanding catalog of possible songs to play or record.

In short, I've never worked very hard on my songwriting, at least as far as the lyrical content is concerned. But this summer I had an epiphany. I was, for the first time, being recognized as an award-winning songwriter and finalist in a few big songwriting contests. But I didn't win. And when it came down to it I didn't make the top 5. So it led to me question, what is it exactly (other than the tastes and sensibilities of the judges) that is separating me from the winners?

Thankfully, I wisely chose a great producer (Jamie Mefford) for the album I am currently working on, and he was able to offer some possible ideas.

One idea, he taught me, is that when one picks up a piece of paper with poetry (or song lyrics) on it, one should be able to shake the paper and have literal things fall off of it. Nouns, like bottle caps, scrap books, dusty work boots, and the like. These things give the listener something to hold, while also helping them to conjure their own emotional connection to the thing, the image, the song.

There are a million ways to say "I'm sad" without spoon feeding it to someone, a tendency which has become so commonplace in popular country music. The other extreme of course is that a song can be so lyrically nebulous that it gives the listener nothing to grab onto. The balance is magical, and we already know this. Think of your favorite songs and ask yourself which lyrical lines stick with you, and why? Often times (though certainly not always) there are things in the line to which we have our own emotional connection. We all tend to have some emotional reaction to the thought of a high school yearbook, for example. And it will mean as many different things as there are people having reactions.

Long story short: I am learning how to work on my writing. It is a process that at once is exciting, painful, frustrating, and sublime. All I ask is that it continue.

Talented Americans

I arrived at Denver's downtown Sheraton at 7:15am this past Saturday full of coffee and contained optimism. Along with what appeared to be a couple thousand others, I was resigned to waiting in one very long, serpentine line for a chance to try out for the blockbuster television show, America's Got Talent.

In line I was initially amused to find that I was standing next to a trio of twelve year old girls who were dressed in an amazing display of mismatched skirts, tights, shoes, and various hair accessories, all finished off with multi-colored bands on their braces. My amusement slowly grew to a quiet rage when, for what must have been the 300th time, they rehearsed their version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I used to like that song.

After a 4 hour wait in line, I was given a number and ushered into the "holding room," a ballroom-sized monstrosity full of chairs and various groupings of people who woke up earlier than I did that day. It was here that I got a glimpse of those souls who, like me, thirsted for some combination of fame, stardom, wealth, acceptance, adoration, and attention. The room held innumerable dancers, musicians, singers, jugglers, strange-looking outfit wearers, and one guy with the world's most obvious toupee and I couldn't tell if that was part of his schtick. I hoped so, but was doubtful.

I waited another three hours in the holding pen, listening to people rehearsing, making conversation, and dreaming of life in the bright lights. I found myself feeling rather maudlin, wondering how many lives were counting on the instant fame that so surely lurked around the next corner. I wondered if I was no different.

Finally it was my turn, and after another hour of waiting, I was standing in front of three very young looking "producers." They strongly suggested ahead of time that all singers perform a well-known cover song, so I played Ray Lamontagne's "Trouble." It went well, I thought, and I was later told that they liked me enough to have me to stick around and perform for another group of "higher up" producers.

After another three hours of waiting, 120 seconds of playing and singing I was thanked, told that I would hear from them in March if I made the cut, which I think means a trip to LA.

Any bitterness I feel is of my own doing. In my naivete I forgot that this was, first and foremost, a television show. Talent second, television first. This hierarchy explains the "producers only" bathrooms, and the repeated calls from the camera crew to "look excited, go crazy, scream and yell."

All in all I'm glad I went and stuck it out. It was a very long day with a slim chance at a tangible upside. I give myself a .001% chance of winning the million dollars, and about a 30% chance of getting the call in March. But there are at least 6 industry types who have now heard of me and my music that wouldn't have otherwise.

I am an American and I have talent. And I am still wondering what to make of the bizarre glimpse into the making of "reality television."

FOLKS FEST

Songwriting contests inherently bring up something strange in me. What I often esteem as an organic, creative, painful, beautiful, spirit-generated process of songwriting and performing becomes a bit distorted. Instead, it moves towards being a competitive, anxiety-ridden, heady process that challenges me to stay present.

And so it was, this past Friday when I got to perform on the Big Stage - that is, the main stage at the Rocky Mountain Folks Festival. We ten finalists (out of over 700 they said) were invited to perform two songs in the showcase. We were performing for cash, exposure, and a chance to be invited back to perform a full set at next year's festival.

We drew lots to determine the order, and as luck would have it, I drew #1. Lucky? Unlucky? Who can say. I was happy to get my anxiety over with quickly, but was less than thrilled about having to warm up the crowd.

At any rate, I did my thing, felt pretty good about how I sang and performed. As I then sat through the next 9 performances the evaluation began: are they better than me? What does that even mean? Ooh, I don't like this song - so I must be better than them. So many ways to evaluate this occurrence: vocal performance, guitar chops, stage presence, lyrical content, phrasing, melody, likability of each tune. What a bizarre exercise to be placed in a pecking order and determine a "winner."

OK, so I didn't win. Didn't even crack the top 5. I found myself disappointed and envious of my friend Megan Burtt, who did take home the title (and a nice custom guitar). My malaise lasted an hour or two, until I decided to spend the rest of the day backstage taking in the VIP treatment afforded to us finalists.

There, my fog quickly lifted as I found myself having dinner with, chumming with, laughing with, and telling stories with Ani DiFranco, David Wilcox, and Jonatha Brooke. Pinch me! This went on for hours.

As I was talking to another musician friend (Amy Speace) and relating her my joy at talking with these folks, she looked me in the eye and said, "You belong at the table."

So moving forward I am trying to integrate that, to fully believe and embody that. I am so exceedingly grateful for the experience, and hope to be back again. More contests of course to enter next year, to see how "good" they think I am. How strange.

Desperate Mama

DESPERATE MAMA

I originally intended this blog to be accompanied by my first video recording of me playing one of my new songs, but I am momentarily technically challenged, and have not yet found a suitable time to sit down with the flip camera. Soon, dear readers.

I do, however, have happy news to report, and that is this:

I am one of 10 finalists (out of nearly 600) for the Folks Fest Songwriting Competition here in Lyons, CO this year. So on August 13th (Friday the 13th of all days), I get to play two songs on the main stage to kick off the festival which later includes sets by Ani DiFranco, John Prine, David Wilcox, and more. I am giddy. The better I do in the contest the more money I make, and the winner gets: cash, a custom guitar, and an invitation to perform a full set at next year's festival.

In lieu of the aforementioned video recording, I have decided to post the lyrics to one of the two songs I submitted for the competition. The story behind the song is this: My assignment was to write a song with some lyrics that were stolen from a conversation had by others. In other words, I had to eavesdrop and steal lyrics.

After a few weeks of not overhearing anything of interest, I heard one woman remark to another, "As we say down in Texas, 'have a good day and don't kill anyone.'" My first thought was, "weird." My second thought was, "interesting." And the song was born. A dark song, to be sure, but it helped get me into the finals.

Desperate Mama

Round about here in the Texas sun
We say "One day at a time and don't kill anyone"
But I got a little problem and it's growing inside
Way down yonder underneath my pride

I sold that away so long ago
In the back of a truck down in El Paso
I never even learned his Christian name
But I heard him calling Jesus just the same

Now I'm in a pickle and I'm in a bad way
Can't keep the thing could never give it away
Me and that boy shoulda never been
I wanna get it done, but I know it's a sin

Desperate mama, desperate mama
Got a lot of worries not a whole lot more

I'm praying to God but I swear he's blind
Got me looking for a reason or a simple sign
Can't be living with myself now either way
It ain't what you have it's what you're giving away

Now I'm in a pickle and I'm in a bad way
Can't keep the thing could never give it away
Me and that boy shoulda never been
I wanna get it done, but I know it's a sin

Desperate mama, desperate mama
Got a lot of worries not a whole lot more

I found a way it won't hurt I'm told
Gonna meet my maker before I grow old
I love you Papa and to all my friends:
Don't you do what I done this is how it ends

I was in a pickle I was in a bad way
Couldn't keep the thing and couldn't give it away
Me and that boy shoulda never been
I had to get it done but I know it's a sin

Desperate mama, desperate mama
She don't worry 'bout a thing no more
Desperate mama, desperate mama
She don't worry 'bout a thing no more

MONEY

MONEY

When I was 7 years old I was over at my best friend’s house. We were discussing riding our bikes to the local general store to spend the entirety of our allowance on candy. As I asked him how much money he had to spend, his mother yelled from the back room, “You don’t ask that question of someone! It’s none of your business how much money someone has.” I was stunned, felt shamed, and the lesson stuck with me: Money is taboo. Make it, save it. But don’t you dare talk about it. The original Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

As human beings we place weight on numbers. How much do you weigh? How much money do you make? What version of the iPhone do you have? And the subsequent evaluation begins. How do you measure up to me? Am I skinnier? Am I wealthier? I hope so. If I make more than you I might feel better, more able, more resourced, more accomplished. If I make less I may feel envious, seeing you as luckier, smarter, more fortunate and I grow resentful – putting you on a pedestal and me in the pit. My thoughts and expectations about you and how much of the dinner tab you pick up are influenced by the information I have about your numbers. These are the things we don’t talk about, acknowledge, and own.

This is the backdrop to my recent fund raising campaign through which I aim to raise the money to record, mix, master, press, and release my next album. With this knowledge of societal mores I am blatantly and shamelessly asking people to invest in me, to contribute their hard-earned cash to my dream, to support my musical career with money that could otherwise go to non-profits, family vacations, and IRAs. I am offering things in return, however - $50 gets 2 autographed copies of the album, $100 gets those + a Jeremy Dion T-Shirt, etc. Still, in deciding to proceed along these lines, I was keenly aware that this proposition would ruffle some feathers.

I have consciously embarked on a campaign that has been called “tacky” and “gutsy,” “inappropriate” and “inspiring.” Some are eager to contribute while others are philosophically opposed. We have unspoken rules about money and some will perceive that I have broken them.

There is no question that there are many in this world more needy than I. I do not have a disability, a disease, or life-threatening situation. I simply have a dream, and a vision. I create music that draws upon my experiences, and seeks to help you know yourself more fully, so that you may realize your inherent perfection. As a musician and psychotherapist, this is my mission.

I know a number of musicians who have created similar fund raising campaigns, and I am following in their footsteps. I trust that those who feel inspired to invest will do so, and those who do not will still be able to understand why I was willing to challenge our unspoken rules about money and self-sufficiency.

Thank you to those who have been willing to invest, and to those who have not for their honesty. I rest in the knowledge that we grow the most at the border of support and challenge.