Tag: songwriting

My Line

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Yesterday I had a show. It was outdoors, a mild and windy fall day, with most of the audience seated many yards away, gathered around fire tables or under umbrellas. Not the best place to share nuanced music without the metronomic assistance and high-end sonic clarity of a guitar. But thankfully, at this point – now two years into my experiences performing as a singer-songwriter – I have come to expect the unexpected, and I’m able to make my thing work in spite of minor challenges and less-than-ideal performance situations.

So I did my job. I made the older women in the front row cry, I sent ripples of laughter through the crowd, and even had a mountain biker take a break from his ride to stop, listen and then wait to say hello afterwards. I also shared a song about my discontent with the nation’s politics, and although I could see the women in front squirming with discomfort as they disengaged from me, checked their phones and avoided eye contact, bless their MAGA hearts, they didn’t get up and leave. In fact, they came up later and told me how much they’d enjoyed my set. A win in my book. Message heard, if not received.

As I wrapped cables and loaded up my car, I was feeling content, and had a smidge of that post-show energy. Not quite ready to go home. I checked the Caffe Lena site and saw there was a singer-songwriter there, starting in just a few minutes. It would mean a chunk out of the money I’d just made, so I hesitated at first. Then, as I did a bit more research on my phone, I learned that this fellow had a congenital eye disorder. Like my son. Actually, just the opposite – this guy’s losing his rod cell function, and my son has no cone cell function. Either way, low vision and the diminishment of it has been a main theme of my son’s life, and at the forefront of my concerns as a mother. Easy decision. Let’s go hear this guy.

Being on a budget, I don’t often go out to hear what’s going on in the musical world. There are world-class musicians at Caffe Lena numerous times each week (I knew Lena Spencer as a child; the room has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember), yet I simply can’t afford to attend. A couple of years ago I took a chance and just decided to go there on one random, unplanned night. I had no idea who was playing, but I had a bit of cash and felt like splurging. I sat in the audience, mesmerized. Was that what a real singer-songwriter sounded like? Could you really tell stories in between your songs like this? People listened? Where the hell had I been all of my life? How was I only just getting this now? Having spent my musical life as a sideman in pop and rock bands, this folk world hadn’t appeared on my radar as an adult. And since I had just written my first handful of songs at that point, Grace Pettis got me thinking… This looked so satisfying, so gratifying. Seems strange that it was all so new to me at the age of 60. Ignorant old newbie.

Once, a year ago or so, an old friend of mine in LA texted and said that a fellow who he’d produced was playing in my town – did I know the venue? – and if I did, he’d get me a comp. It was Caffe Lena. So of course I went. The singer I heard was Chris Pierce. It was the second big step in the expansion of my songwriter’s mind. By that time I’d written over 30 songs, and I’d begun to do solo shows, so I had a different perspective from the year before. Meeting him afterward was also enlightening. Me, I’m often a bit short with folks after I play; I kinda want to get my car loaded and just go home after a show. But that’s no way to build relationships. Honestly, it’s just not being very nice. From Chris I learned the importance of warmth and connection. He was patient and unrushed, listening to folks telling their stories of when they’d heard him before, or how much a song had meant to them. It was a beautiful thing watching him hang afterwards. It was a lesson in humility for me. A huge gift.

And then there was last night. The fellow I went to see was Mark Erelli. I wish I could say that it was inspiring, but actually, it had me feeling like a clodding fool of a writer. I’ve come to be a little jaded about songs; even though I myself employ all the standard conventions and forms, I’ll sometimes think to myself, when hearing a songwriter, “here comes the bridge”, or “here comes the six minor” or some such nod to the next likely move. Last night, as I struggled to convey my feelings about the show, I blurted out that the fellow’s bridges were somehow “bridgier”. Seriously. Every one of this man’s songs was a profoundly beautiful surprise. Though I’ll admit that I still don’t listen to a lot of songwriters even now (most of those who I do listen to have me checking out after the first chorus), last night I was enraptured (as was everyone in the room). Plus, his duo partner James Rohr played not only the most sonically gorgeous piano sound (from a keyboard) I’ve yet heard, but he supported Mark with just the loveliest and most economic comping, fills and solos. The composite sound of the two of them was a warm bath of rich, deep, pure sound. What a lucky thing I decided to go out last night.

This morning, in an attempt to feel a bit less disheartened about my abilities as a songwriter, I turned my attention to the song I’d written most recently. The ideas had been in the back of my mind for a few months already, and I’d just been waiting for the right moment to try and get them all together in the same song. I sat on the couch in the warm morning sunshine last week and scanned through a couple of notebooks, reviewing the lines and ideas I’d written down. Somehow (as it often does for me) the song came together within a couple of hours as I sat down at the piano began to play and sing. And, as with most songs, it wouldn’t leave me alone for the next two days. This earworm of a song on repeat sometimes convinces me that I’ve just written something really good. But then today I had to remind myself that “good” is relative. Yeah, my songs are mostly good, a few are great, but many are (maybe they feel even more so now in the wake of hearing Mark) just placeholders. Experiments, moments in time caught on paper and in my memo app. And while it’s tempting to feel down about my lack of subtlety or ingenuity, I’m going to choose instead to remember that I’m new to this. That I am expressing myself in my own voice. Hell, I suppose it’s a minor success that I’m even writing. I’m not disappointed in my work so much as I am aware of how much room for improvement there is.

I’ll never be Nashville slick. But I have so much more on board than I did at the start of this new chapter. It may well be the main endeavor that sees me to the end of my turn on this plane. When Elihu left home I didn’t know how I’d make it through or what I was even waking up for, but now I think I have a better idea. And after hearing some truly great songs, I am humbled, but not deterred. Writing and playing songs has been a fine use of time. My ending became a beginning.

And I’m happy it turned out this way. (Hey – now there’s a good line for the notebook…)

Music Monster

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Melissa Ferrick at Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs, New York

The size and complexity of the musical world blows my mind.

Genres and styles seem to be as numerous and varied as snowflakes. Just when I think I have a handle on things – at least within the parameters of the current, western culture in which I reside, and that I can organize in some satisfactory way the musical world as I know it today – I’ll learn something new about a subgenre, a style or a trend, and I realize it’s not possible. The musical world – even my tiny corner of it – is too big to fully understand.

In addition to my amazement at the boundless forms in which music exists, I am also fascinated by what people seek to get from music. It serves so many functions, and within those functions, so many aspects of music are valued in such different ways. I am endlessly curious about people’s motivations for listening to music. What on earth moves them?

Last night my own feelings about what’s musically important to me became clearer, and as soon as I got home, I began to digest my thoughts…

This evening I went to hear songwriter Melissa Ferrick at Caffe Lena, the iconic local venue here in Saratoga Springs, New York. My former husband produced what I believe to have been her first EP demo – the recording that came before her successful career began (starting on Atlantic Records), now over thirty years ago.

As I listened to her set, I observed the audience with care, as I do at all shows. I always note the reactions, whether folks nod or sway to the time, whether they mouth the lyrics, whether they sit stock still, whether or not they applaud or shout. It was fascinating to me how many folks didn’t move an inch as they listened. I’d say maybe five percent moved visibly. Melissa’s stuff is, as one would expect from a songwriter, mostly about the story, the choice of words. As I listened, I couldn’t help but think that the folks there present – as with folks who gravitate to singer/songwriters in general – didn’t seem to care so much about the groove or the harmony. Maybe even the melodies weren’t of top priority. They seemed to care primarily about the sentiments expressed. I imagined that they were listening for the language and the poetry. Listening for connection through story.

For me, that’s secondary. A clever lyric always impresses, but I don’t really want all that storytelling. (Says the woman who’s penned nearly 700,000 words of her story over the past decade.) And as for the nuance, the poetry? There’s a deficiency in my character, I fully admit it, because I don’t have a need nor the patience to listen for it. (I do enjoy reading poetry, however.) When I’m listening to music I’m wanting primarily to be soothed, to be taken to a place of ease and deep comfort. My objectives cannot be met by an evening of music consisting of essentially the same four chords with very similar voicings. For me, the story alone is never enough to carry the same predictable harmony, over and over. If I want a story, I’ll go hear someone read one. (I usually get a lot more enjoyment from the stories that come in between the songs than come from the songs themselves.)

Please understand that I know Melissa is a super-talented showman and songwriter, and her relationship with the crowd is beautiful. She’s top tier stuff. And her rhythm, her time? Her style of playing is built on it. Her groove is rock solid. Melissa is an all-around stellar human and badass musician. (But in light of how few in the audience were nodding in response to her time, it seems to confirm once again that for them, groove still takes a back seat to story.) Yet somehow – and I cannot quantify exactly how – it didn’t move me the way it did all those people there. Maybe it’s because I have no history with her material. I don’t know. Her set was a great thing to behold, and what she possesses is rare – and I’m glad I went, for sure – but on the whole, I don’t need a lot of solo singer/songwriters in my life. A few shows a year by great talents like Melissa will do me just fine.

There, I’ve said it. It’s been on my mind for decades. I’ve always known it, but I’ve never shouted it from the rooftops before. But now I am ready to declare that I am, musically speaking, a snob. Perhaps I’m even a bit of a simpleton. I want music to wrap around me like a warm blanket or tease me like a lover. I want to feel about a groove the way I do about a fresh, hot slice of thin crust pizza with just the perfect amount of char on the bottom. Oh dear God. That’s the good stuff I’m after.

I like things the way I like them, and at this point in my life I don’t wish to spend too much time trying to like things I pretty much know that I won’t. I’m always up for listening to something new, and I’ve probably spent more time critically listening to a far wider variety of music than most folks I know (thanks to my father, former husband and son and their huge combined musical orbits), but I no longer wish to give over hours of my time to music that I don’t really love.

Instead, I’ll take any form of Bach you have, I’ll take harmonically and sonically rich tracks of any genre, a few clever lyrics – then add in a handful of impeccably tasty sessions at Daryl’s House and I’ll be good. On the drive home I might want some hair bands to push me through those long, dark highway miles, and when I’m driving into New York City I’m gonna need my Cuban grooves on the way down and some deep R&B cuts on the way back. And when I can’t be soothed by tasty and tidy pop tunes, give me some straight-ahead jazz, the stuff that scratches the itch like no other musical form. On a fine fall day I might need to hear the sweeping expanse of a Mahler symphony. And on that first warm day of spring, I’ll definitely need some vintage Allman Brothers playing (with all the windows down) when I’m driving through Greenfield.

Metaphorically speaking, I listen the way I eat; the meat isn’t important to me, the sauce is. All I’m after is the bread and those sexy flavors. Actually, forget the bread. Brother, just hand me a spoon.

I don’t need a sophisticated story – just something I can identify with. Mostly, I just want a rich sound and a great feel. And please. When you’re sharing those lyrics, please… get to the point already. I’m here to witness your story, but do you really need nine verses to tell me about it? Give me a hook or a melody that I’ll go away singing, share a curiously clever lyric. Let me hear the kind of arrangement or performance that will make me laugh out loud because it’s that good.

As I see it, music and food provide the highest order of pure pleasure I’ll ever know at this point in my life. So this shit all better be pretty compelling. Music should sound as good as the best barbecue tastes.

After Melissa’s show I walked around the tourist town to hear the many lives acts whose music spilled out into the street. I paused at each, wondering what it was that appealed to the patrons. It was easy to see what all the cover bands offered; folks waved their beer bottles in the air and sang along with every line. Humans have enjoyed this sort of camaraderie for centuries. The jazz club was different, very few seemed to be listening, the music served more as an energetic bed behind the conversation. I moved on to the large venue in town and could feel the bass pushing my organs around inside my body before I reached the main room. It felt like a physical assault. Yeah, but this was a young person’s scene. Once I too had the energy – and desire – for a full immersion like this. But not now, it seemed almost violent. I didn’t finish out my tour of the town; I’m not a fan of electrified Irish bands; loud, midrangey and often on top of the beat, they usually just make me anxious. Kinda like Zumba classes. (Seriously guys, what’s with the crappy music at the Y? Someone, please, figure it out. Produce some compelling tracks already.)

These days I need the good stuff; I need the medicinal forms of music. Please, do your best to play and sing in tune. Bury the click or lay just a bit behind it. Let your string quartets and symphonies breathe and sway like great undersea plants. Give me a sonic profile that is balanced, lush, and just loud enough. Time is running low; I need to get to the good stuff now. I need to get to those tasty, salty crumbs at the bottom of the bag. Got no time for the filler these days.

Ok, so having just unloaded my uber-honest feelings about music, I feel I must make a confession: I do not find my own music to check many of my own requisite boxes. I’ve written songs that fit my current and limited purview; I write for me and a piano, not for a band. And it’s really more like therapy than songwriting. (Kinda like this collection of writings. So. Who knows how my songwriting might evolve?)

This songwriting thing is completely new to me, and I’m a tad disappointed that my process is confined to keyboards. Guitar players carry an arsenal of critical elements that serve to drive songs. I don’t have the built-in drummer of the strum patterns, I don’t enjoy the complex harmonic profile that strings create, and then there’s the portability issue. I have always been deeply jealous of guitar players, and it’s only getting worse as I realize all the components my one measly instrument is missing. I have begun to dream about having a band, of hearing how my songs might sound if they could only be fully animated. Who can I enlist? Fantasies of moving back to Chicago filter into my thoughts… At least there, I know musicians. I’m odd man out here, and it feels acute these days.

My efforts to find a duo partner have failed, so I’m skeptical that I can find anyone to help me animate my music. I dunno. I feel stopped. I’m such a critic, and yet I myself am worlds away from any sonic success. I began writing songs only to discover there are so many more layers to the process than I’d realized, to say nothing of what’s involved in producing it and bringing it to life. (I wish to add that I do know well about the production process, it’s just that I didn’t expect to get sucked in and wish for anything more advanced than simply writing a song and documenting it on my ancient iPhone 7.) With the skills and tools I have presently, I don’t have the ability to achieve a product that comes close to what I think might be satisfactory. Holding standards that I myself cannot live up to makes me feel a bit foolish, but there it is.

In writing my own music, I have created a monster. Kinda looks like my next project will be learning how to train the beast.

Postscript: Since publishing this post, it has been brought to my attention that a primary element of Melissa’s show is simply her incredible energy. Seems silly that I missed such an obvious thing; it appears that in my analysis of her performance and music, I missed the forest for the trees. Yes, Melissa exudes energy. She also exudes humanity and honesty. There’s much to be said for her and what she gives to this world.

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