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."