Electrify My Soul: Songwriters and the Spiritual Source

Electrify My Soul: Songwriters and the Spiritual Source Dan Kimpel

# 2008 Dan Kimpel. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission from Thomson Course Technology PTR, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

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For Nick Yuji Nishimoto and my family in Ohio

Preface The genesis for this book began with my visit to Anaheim, California, for the annual Winter National Association of Music Merchandisers (NAMM) Show, where I met up with a friend, songwriter/producer David Choi, who suggested that we check out the John Lennon Songwriting Contest’s magnificently appointed tour bus. While perusing Come Together: The Official John Lennon Educational Tour Bus Guide to Music and Video at the booth, I noted that the book’s author, Mark Garvey, had been the editor of my very first book. Better yet, Mark was there in person. In conversation, I discovered that he was now an editor with Thomson Course Technology PTR, the company that had released my book Networking Strategies for the New Music Business. Mark encouraged me to contact him with any new book concepts. Three months later, Senior Editor Mark Nardone of Music Connection magazine asked me to contribute a cover feature on the connection between spirituality and the creation of music. Floored by the responses from the songwriters and artists who were eager to speak on this subject, I contacted Mark Garvey about turning this concept into a book. Within days, a contract was finalized. If I have learned anything in my time on this good earth, it is that very few of life’s significant milestones are the results of chance. The connection between David Choi, an ascending songwriter for whom the John Lennon Songwriting Contest was a major career boost, to Mark Garvey—who literally changed my life when he convinced me I was an author—to John Lennon, whose spirit is immortalized in his words and music and his connection to Sir Paul McCartney, who founded a school in Liverpool, England, where I taught five years of master classes. Will the circle be unbroken? This is the through line that leads me to interview these songwriters and share their words in these pages. I hope that the spirit of this book leads you to the treasures of your own truths. Dan Kimpel Los Angeles, California

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Acknowledgments First off, warmest appreciation to the songwriters who told their stories and to the publicists and managers who made it possible. This book was inspired by a cover feature I was assigned for Music Connection magazine; thank you Mark Nardone, E. Eric Bettelli, J. Michael Dolan, and Michael Mollura at the publication. I also appreciate the support from my friends and colleagues at ASCAP, BMI, and SESAC for introductions to remarkable songwriters; Ronny Schiff for amazing interview gigs, and for her ongoing guidance, Karan Longbrake. Additional appreciation is extended to Tena Clark, Andy French, and everyone at DMI Music and Media Solutions; Denise Bradley and Mike Bundlie, Poet’s Road, Inc.; Kenny Kerner, Chris Fletcher, Kevin Hardy, and my students, past, present, and future, at Musicians Institute in Hollywood, California; from Citrus College, Joe Barerra, Alan Waddington, and Joanne Ledesma. From Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts (LIPA), warm wishes to Arthur Bernstein, Mark Featherstone-Witty, Martin Isherwood, and my graduated students, especially Simon Barber. Friends and associates David Quan, Nina Rung, Helen Yu, Esq., Keo Woolford, Lindsay Tomasic, Armando Soria, Luis Villegas, and Ricky Zhang; John and JoAnn Braheny, Lisa Shively, Cary Baker, Marta Woodhull, Martin Cervantes, Bobbi Marcus and Dan DeSouza; Michael Laskow and the crew at TAXI; Ian and Joanie Crombie, West Coast Songwriters Association; Jim Attebery, Durango Songwriters Association; friends and neighbors Scott and Denise Davis, Richard Moll and Susan Wong, David Edward Byrd and Jolino Beserra, Kimberly Cleveland and Ray Bravo. And Jeffrey Tennyson, from somewhere beyond. Very special thanks to Mark Garvey at Thomson Course Technology PTR whose support for this project was immediate and intuitive, and Kim Benbow, the editor who polished the text. Deanna Powell contributed immensely in helping me maintain focus, transcribing interviews and securing the elusive photos and releases. My sincere gratitude to David Choi, whose energy and creativity sparked a magical chain of events.

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About the Author Acknowledged as one of the American media’s foremost authorities on popular music and songwriters, Dan Kimpel contributes to a dizzying variety of print and electronic mediums: interactive CDs, magazines, web sites, podcasts, documentary films, videos, and new media. As an author, his best-selling titles include How They Made It: True Stories of How Music’s Biggest Stars Went from Start to Stardom, Networking Strategies for the New Music Business, and Networking in the Music Business. A noted music business educator, Dan conducted a week-long master seminar for five years at Sir Paul McCartney’s Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts (LIPA) in the UK. Stateside, he lectures at colleges, universities, and conferences across the U.S. and Canada, and he is a faculty member at the Musicians Institute in Hollywood, California, where he was recently named MBP Teacher of the Year. Dan began his career as a musician in his hometown, Lima, Ohio, and has lived and worked in Nashville, New York, and Los Angeles, where he currently resides. Visit Dan online at www.dankimpel.com.

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Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii

Chapter 1 Rituals and Realities

1

John and JoAnn Braheny: A Creative Couple’s Brain Trust . . . . . . . . . . 2 A Billion People: The Audience Is Listening. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Creative Currents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Meet the Inner Critic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 De´ja` Vu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Ritual Revealed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Zoning Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Chapter 2 Finding the Path

9

Bill Miller: Sacred Trust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Drums along the Waters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 12 Steps Forward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 On the Trail of the Truth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Honoring the King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Mission of the Maker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Craig Wiseman: Angels over Hattiesburg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Forever Young . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Fountains of Faith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Precious Moments in a Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Scribes Behind the Curtain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Faith and Fortitude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Wherever Two or More Are Gathered . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 David Nichtern: Ballads for the Buddha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26

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The Buddha at Berklee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Auspicious Coincidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Final Thoughts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Mark T. Jordan: A Compass for Many Roads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 Demons and Eggshells. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Musical Maternity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Illuminating Co-writers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Pathways and Pitfalls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Sacred Sounds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Chapter 3 The Promise and the Process

39

Beth Nielsen Chapman: The Angels Lend Us Shoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 Chorus in the Classroom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Songs That Sense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Deeper Still . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Rigors of the Row . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Fresh Towels and Liquid Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Steve Seskin: Someday We’ll All Have Perfect Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47 The Song God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Collaborative Chemistry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Relevant Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Miracles And Messages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Marcus Hummon: Travels on the Broken Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53 Mosquitoes, MacArthur, and the Muse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 To the Row He Will Go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Monks and the Muse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Nails for the Carpenter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Here Is the Church, Here Is the Steeple. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Healing Harmonics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Sterling Songs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Chapter 4 Moments of Change

63

Christine Kane: Learning from the Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .63 Raising Kane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Rituals and Rhymes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

Contents

Sam Baker: Divining the Details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67 Compression and Color. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 The Gift of Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Lazarus Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Stages of Strength . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Picture This . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

Chapter 5 Music for Healing

73

Melissa Etheridge: Songwriting Alchemy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73 Hormonal Honesty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Waiting for the Ship to Come In . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Sleepwalking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Chemotherapy Chorus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Foretelling the Future . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 The Deep End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Waking Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Paul Williams: Connected to the Creative Rainbow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80 Jamaica Farewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Self-Medicating the Muse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 The Subconscious Center. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Random Patters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 For Whom the Song Tolls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Gratitude Dude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Gary Malkin: Composing to the Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86 The Sound Takes Flight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Transformation and Transition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 The God of Media . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Commercial Concerns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Grace in the Cathedral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Into the Mystic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

Chapter 6 Through Lines: Songs and the Source

93

Daniel Moore: How Does Your Light Shine?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .93 Many Moore Songs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 The View from the Pulpit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Jason Blume: The Flowering of the Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .98

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Soul Evolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 The Pontiff and the Parthenon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Numerology in Twos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 A Century of Progress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 The Breakthrough. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 Craft and Communication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Co-writing Chemistry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Coda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Pamela Phillips Oland: The Moment Is Its Own Reward . . . . . . . . . . 106 Writing on the Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 Synagogues to Sin City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 Change Is Constant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 Waking Hours and Creative Powers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Eyes of the Creator . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Sophie B. Hawkins: Drums of the Divine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 The Search Inside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Child of the Drum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Passing the Knowledge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Trading the Truck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Patterns and Purpose. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 A Face of the Spirit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

Chapter 7 Meditations and the Muse

121

Charles John Quarto: A Song Is Like a Bright, Strange Bird . . . . . . . . 122 Poetic Pentameter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 Divinity Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 Texas Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 The Poet’s Particulars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Silence, Sound, and Sense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Tone, Truth, Texture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Visions Retained. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Angels We Have Heard on High . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 The Muse of Music Row. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 Peter Case: A Sage on the Street. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Living the Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 Shattering the Senses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 Father Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Martyrs and Missions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

Contents

The Dream of the Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Transformations and Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Spiritual Bondage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rodney Crowell: Pentecostal Preachers and Music City Stars Chipping Away the Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Words of Faith and Tongues of Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Walking the Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Flow on the Row . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dreams of the Divine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silence and the Legacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chapter 8 Give Me That Old Time Religion

. . . . . . . 134 . . . . . . . 135 . . . . . . . 136 . . . . . . . 138 . . . . . . . 139 . . . . . . . 140 . . . . . . . 141 . . . . . . . 142 . . . . . . . 143 . . . . . . . 144

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Susan Werner: There Must Be a Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Maps and Ministers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Complex Creations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 Hallelujah and Halftime . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 Jesus and the Jihad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 The Light from the Levee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 Say Amen Somebody. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 Deities and Dan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Inspired in Spirit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Billy Joe Shaver: A Texas Troubadour’s Fire and Brimstone . . . . . . . . 153 Hours of Honesty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Native Knowledge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 The Gift of the Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 Michelle Shocked: White Girl, Black Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 Sanctified Sound . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 Idolatry and the Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 Songs and Scriptures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 On the Rock Where Moses Stood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 The Gift of the Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 Answered Prayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Chapter 9 The Power of Positive Music

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Harold Payne: Spiritual Grease and Elbow Grease . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Positive Payne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Recycled Reverence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

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Peter Himmelman: The Deepest Parts Remain Unchanged . . . . . . . . . 168 Outside the Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 Black Belts and Balladry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 Orthodox Origins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 Historical Hysteria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Stage Dives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Michael Silversher: The Hand of God Is on Your Head . . . . . . . . . . . 174 The View Through the Tent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 Songs in the Spirit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Laws, Light, and the Sabbath. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

Chapter 10 Dreams, the Subconscious, and Creativity

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Jeffrey Steele: Love, Loss, and the Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 The Gift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 Trials and Airs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 The Mechanics of the Muse. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 Healing the Heart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Karen Taylor-Good: Good Things Come to Those Who Wait . . . . . . . 186 Lone Star States . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 Passages Past and Present . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Rising On Angel’s Wings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 Epiphanies at the Waffle House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 A Father’s Journey Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Answered Prayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Inside the Voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

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Introduction Despite every stylistic trend in the past hundred years or so of popular music, one standard has remained constant: the absolute necessity of the song. Pop, R&B, rock, hip-hop, jazz, country, Latin, contemporary Christian, or choral: all are balanced on the fine emotional thread that connects words to music. Songwriters possess a singular gift: the ability to create something from nothing. And with their words and music, something small and personal can reach literally billions of people across epochs of time and continents of space. Songwriting alchemy depends on a fragile axis of craft and consciousness. Without well-formulated and practiced mechanics, a song will emerge as imprecise and quite often unlistenable. Conversely, too much craft might make for a calculated and cold match of words and music. Certainly computer programs can assemble songs, but like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, they will certainly lack heart. And heart is what moves listeners. Consumers of popular music respond emotionally to stories and situations to which they can relate.

The Reformed Songwriter Yes, I sometimes jokingly refer to myself as a “reformed songwriter.” I first began writing songs for my bands back in Ohio and spent years in Nashville, New York, and Los Angeles, primarily as a singer/songwriter. While I no longer choose to pen words and music (but instead write about those who do), the truth is that one can never stop being a songwriter. And as I create prose, I am keenly aware of matching my words to the structure of songs: intros, verses, choruses, and bridges. When I’m in my prose writing flow, utterly tapped into the music, I feel like I’m back in the band. In my current career as an author and a journalist, I estimate that I have probably interviewed well over 500 songwriters. Each of the stories is individual, but they have key similarities. What many songwriters share with me is that early on in their lives, they discovered a way of creating some sense of order by an arrangement and creation of words and music. And it is this gift that helps them to answer the unanswerable questions in their lives.

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In an interview with Leonard Cohen for the United Entertainment Network, the bard told me, “Writing is more than a habit, more than a vice. It’s a place where you discover your self-respect. It’s your work, and at a certain point in one’s life, one’s work becomes important because all the other features of one’s life, all of the other structures that we so diligently, with such expectations, try to erect, generally collapse, and we’re left with kind of a human mess, like everyone else’s human mess. So in the writing world, and in the world of work, regardless of what one’s work is, one can address it and come to it with a certain kind of cleanliness and a certain kind of beginner’s mind that you can’t bring to the rest of your life because of the complications that you’ve created.” While it may be surmised that songwriters can use their ability to craft melodies and pen lyrics to make sense of the chaotic and incomprehensible world around them, within the essence of an inspired song glows a sense of reprieve. And at the heart of the spiritually appointed song is a celebration of cardinal virtues: justice, courage, wisdom, and reverence. Electrify My Soul is not a treatise upon gods and religions, which are essentially unrelated in any sense to the concept of creative virtue. Since spiritually informed music is a universal truth, it is often celebrated within the structure of organized religions. And practitioners and devotees of specific religious orders certainly use time-honored rituals to reach a source of spiritual fulfillment.

World Order In my travels, I often marvel how spiritually connected music crosses borders, continents, and cultures at will. Greeting the morning sun with chanting or meditating is a practice common to many faiths, from the Tarahumara and Navajo people of North America to the ancient Jewish, Hindu, and Christian traditions of morning prayer. Certain Shinto sects accompany the rising of the sun with chanting to raise it into the sky. Yes, they know it might come up anyhow, but they don’t want to take any chances. One of my most vivid musical experiences was awakening in Istanbul to the call of the muezzin echoing through the deserted 5 a.m. streets of the Sultanahmet district summoning the faithful to prayer. Also in Turkey, I witnessed the disciples improvising complex, spiraling melodies over the beard hairs of the prophet Mohammed in a continuous chanting of the Koran in the chambers of the Topkapi Palace Museum. The sonorous chants of Buddhist monks echoing in the timbers as wafts of incense drift over centuries-old temples in Kyoto, Japan; hymns of celebration from a New Year’s morning at a mass at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris; and the choir singing “Just As I Am” at the Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church on the corner of Wayne and Elizabeth Streets in Lima, Ohio—all contribute to significant moments in my musical life.

Introduction

These magical episodes have even come in recording studios: watching Patti LaBelle record her Grammy winning performance of “Way Up There” (written and produced by Tena Clark) or witnessing an illuminated vision of epic magnitude when Dr. Maya Angelou broke into a gospel song while narrating her text in a studio in Greensboro, North Carolina. The solemn, Germanic hymns of my forebears form my earliest memories of melody and harmony. My great-grandfather, Christian Eckhardt, preached at St. Matthew church in Cridersville, Ohio, near my hometown of Lima, and my brother, Dr. Jeffrey Kimpel, is a minister in the faith currently serving his congregation in Perrysburg, Ohio. Although inspired and nurtured by the sense of musical community in which I was raised—a faithful chorister and fairly punctual acolyte—the late-night revelry of Saturday night gigs with my teenage rock bands eventually made attending Sunday services unfeasible. But I became aware of the same spirit in popular music. I heard it everywhere. Raised Christian, I chafed when exclamatory rewriters of morality attempted to kidnap The Lord. I recalled that Jesus—a close friend to prostitutes, lepers, and outcasts—was condemned for his inclusion, not his exclusion. As I’ve examined and selected the songwriters to be included in these pages, I’ve been very careful not to give ink to those who declare that they have The Truth and we’d better listen up so we’ll have it, too. For me, the most spiritually anointed songs don’t have to have the words “God,” “spirit,” or “salvation” anywhere within them. And they could come from any spiritual culture: from the Orthodox Jewish faith to Wicca. In Japan, the ancient traditions of Shinto exist with Buddhism. A belief in the sanctity of one religion does not preclude beliefs in the validity of another. One spirit: many names. To formulate this book, I put together a preliminary hit list of songwriters across multiple genres. As the book evolved, while some writers were inaccessible, others took their places, and the interview subjects made additional suggestions. In many ways, the very existence of this book became substantive proof of its inspiration. As I related in the Preface, I didn’t sit down and scheme what type of book I could create to find a ready market, but the idea was so overwhelming that I was inspired to act upon it in a balance of inspiration and opportunity. The process of spiritually appointed songwriting is tied together with the creative notion of revitalization and the recognition that creativity is a gift. A songwriter cannot expect after months or years of emotional barrenness to be instantly elevated beyond the realm of the ordinary simply because the desire is keen and constant. Understanding the axis of craft and inspiration, therefore, becomes even more crucial. Rare blazes of intuition have to be cultivated and subsequently acted upon. Inspiration in any form often comes upon us when we least expect it to. Best yet, it’s free. The songwriters in this book have all been willing to receive it.

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s I write these words, I am looking at a picture above my desk of myself with my mentor, John Braheny, taken at the Northern California Songwriters Association Conference in Palo Alto, California. We both look a bit self-satisfied, or possibly just overly caffeinated, as we’re holding copious cups of morning brew. Behind us is a group of people in animated conversation, led by JoAnn Braheny. The psychologist Carl Jung speaks of the importance for all of us to get in touch with our own truth: by being true to our inner being, we will automatically become more creative. But of course, creativity without an outlet becomes an exercise in frustration, and mere creativity, no matter how illuminating, is rarely its own reward. “Follow that will and the way that experience confirms to be your own, that is, the true expression of your individuality,” Jung said. Creativity, the expression of these inherent truths, can also express a universal truth. As I put together the interviews for this book, I needed to find my own comfort level with the questions, and so I warmed up, so to speak, with close friends who I knew would help me pave the way for the more difficult interviews that were yet to come. The Brahenys were the first key to discovering the truth in the text.

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John and JoAnn Braheny: A Creative Couple’s Brain Trust John Braheny is a towering presence in the songwriting community. The author of The Craft and Business of Songwriting, a bestselling book now in its third printing, John has been crowned as “the songwriter’s best friend” for his tireless efforts to create education and discovery opportunities for songwriters, to help bring public attention to songwriting as an art form, and to champion songwriters’ rights, John co-founded the Los Angeles Songwriters Showcase, an organization that for 20 years connected songwriters to the music industry through events, classes, panels, and—the first-ever national convention designed exclusively for songwriters: The Songwriters Expo. Along with over 600 interviews with music industry professionals and hit songwriters at the weekly Songwriters Showcase sessions and Songwriters Expo panels, Braheny conducted and edited more than 150 interviews for the Songwriters Musepaper, the monthly magazine of the Los Angeles Songwriters Showcase. For several years John co-hosted Samm Brown’s For The Record, a weekly music industry interview and call-in show on KPFK (90.7 FM) in Los Angeles. As an outgrowth of his interviewing empathy, Braheny was commissioned to conduct an ongoing series of 55 interviews with

John and JoAnn Braheny

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both legendary and contemporary hit songwriters, including Kris Kristofferson and Melissa Etheridge, for United Airlines’ in-flight audio Salute to Songwriters Channel heard worldwide on the United Entertainment Network. As an educator, Braheny conducts songwriting and music business seminars for colleges, universities, and organizations throughout the U.S. and Canada. JoAnn Braheny’s career in the entertainment business first transported her from a receptionist at a classical music station to Atlanta’s first fulltime female deejay for an FM “underground” rock station where she conducted on-air interviews with Dennis Hopper, Peter Max, Harry Chapin, Otto Preminger, Senator Ted Kennedy, and others. JoAnn was lured from broadcasting to Top-40 promotion for GRC Records, but she was soon drafted into organizing and developing GRC’s music publishing department. Assisting songwriters in their career development became a passion, so much so that when GRC closed, JoAnn opened her own consulting and music publishing company where she provided ongoing career direction to new and veteran songwriters, screened and critiqued original songs, and worked with record producers and recording artists on behalf of writers. During that time she also became a founding officer in the Atlanta Songwriters Association. When JoAnn met her husband, John Braheny, she moved to Los Angeles and continued to broaden her experience in the entertainment industry through freelance stints with Billboard magazine, CBS Records, Arista Records, Warner Bros. Records and Pictures, ATV Music Publishing, Island Music, ABC-TV, NBC-TV, Dick Clark Productions, The Burbank Studios, the Playboy Mansion, and various entertainment law firms. She worked for five years at Rogers & Cowan, the world’s largest entertainment public relations firm, whose music clients included Olivia Newton-John, the Bee Gees, Paul McCartney, Barry Manilow, Al Jarreau, Henry Mancini, B.B. King, the Beach Boys, Rod Stewart, Julio Iglesias, Peter, Paul & Mary, Anne Murray, Bette Midler and many others. JoAnn coordinated press/media activities and edited press releases, bios, stories, and script treatments. From Rogers & Cowan, she moved to Jensen Communications, serving as liaison

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between the entertainment press/media and music clients, including Ozzy Osbourne, Iron Maiden, Wasp, Manhattan Transfer, and David Foster, in addition to booking and coordinating the national press/media corps for the CMJ Music Marathon in New York City. JoAnn’s history of working with creative people took a new turn when she was hired by the Talent Development department of Walt Disney Imagineering (WDI), the famed think tank that creates Disney’s theme parks. There she designed and implemented a custom computer tracking system that provides instant access to the myriad of creative skills found at WDI. Also called “the skills bank,” this database (created via one-on-one interviews with hundreds of Disney artists, cataloging their skills, preferences, and work styles) is still utilized in the areas of career-path work and team building. At WDI, she had the opportunity to work with and learn from the top experts in the field of creativity. Currently, she does career consulting, by phone and in person, for creative people in songwriting and all artistic disciplines. JoAnn has presented her “Goosing Your Muse” seminars and workshops on music industry publicity and the creative process for songwriter/music organizations. Last year, John and JoAnn Braheny were on the road for three months presenting workshops, retreats, and private consults in Shaw Island (Washington), Vancouver and Hornby Island (British Columbia), San Francisco, Indianapolis, Nashville, Shreveport, Austin, and Phoenix. On a personal note, I met John when I moved to Los Angeles from New York City. As he did with so many songwriters before and after—and continues to do to this day—John became a wise mentor who taught many valuable lessons: that it’s possible to be successful in this music biz and be a nice guy is among them. John gave me my first position in the industry (hiring me to work at the Los Angeles Songwriters Showcase), and I trace virtually every thread in my subsequent career to that experience. I conducted this joint interview with John and JoAnn over a spirited breakfast at a cafe´ in Sherman Oaks, California. A Billion People: The Audience Is Listening John believes that giving back through the art of the song is not a prerequisite for songwriters, but rather a decidedly personal choice. “I don’t think I should teach that you have a responsibility to your art; I think everyone is an individual, and you have to come to your own

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conclusions,” he confirms. “Sometimes when I’m doing seminars I get into a little rant about ‘You have an incredible audience.’ I use as an example singer/songwriter David Wilcox who had a song ‘Eye of a Hurricane,’ one of his most wonderful and commercial songs, and a true a work of art, in the Olympics. They announced that there were a billion people watching skaters skate to this song, and I thought, ‘You can have an audience of a billion people if you’re good at what you do.’ When you’re sitting all alone in your room by yourself writing your songs, this is the last thing you’re thinking about. You’re exploring your psyche or telling a story, but you’re not in any way thinking a billion people are going to be listening. But if you have that audience, what are you going to say to them?” “You might want to avoid writing songs that would make someone who is impressionable pick up an attitude that’s anti-human,” John says as he references this quote: I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim, too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. —Woody Guthrie

Creative Currents JoAnn Braheny compares the currents of creativity to a river. “People think they stop and start the flow, and if they talk about it, it will disappear. Some songwriters think if they learn too much, it will demystify the process and subsequently it will be taken away. They think creativity is the variable, but it’s flowing constantly. The river won’t dry up—we are the variable; the river is the constant. Sometimes songwriters will say, ‘That song just came to me all at once.’ Baloney. Not that it didn’t drop in, but they have the consciousness of being a songwriter all along. I’ve never had a plumber come to work on a sink and say, ‘You know, a song just came out of nowhere,’ unless, of course, he or she is a songwriter. The song has been cooking on the back burner on a subconscious level.”

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John relates a recent interview with songwriter Jude Johnstone (songs cut by Bonnie Raitt, Stevie Nicks, Bette Midler, Jennifer Warnes, Trisha Yearwood, and Johnny Cash) who told a spellbound conference audience about a song she’d written in minutes. “And a girl in the audience said, ‘Thank you for saying that. All of my songs come to me like that.’ Now, probably every successful songwriter has a song that came to them quickly, but consider that many of these writers have been writing for 20 years. And they’ve made creative decisions that have taken them hours or days, and their synapses are well-honed, and with their self-editing they can make decisions without being conscious of them. So I attribute very little to ‘The Lord is speaking.’ But if it works for them, fine. I think it’s learning your craft, reading great literature, paying attention, and being aware all of the time. When a songwriter dials a phone number they hear a melody. That’s imagination, hooking up disparate elements, which is how psychologists describe the creative process. You train yourself. The trap of being inspired is when you believe that something comes to you from the unknown. And then you don’t work on your craft.” Meet the Inner Critic In JoAnn Braheny’s applied creativity workshops, she emphasizes the contrast between left brain—responsible for logical and analytical functions—and right brain, which is imaginistic and intuitive. This, she says, is the reason that so many good ideas seem to occur to songwriters when they’re in the shower. The left brain understands how to soap and rinse the body, freeing the right brain to dream and imagine. In her popular workshops, she also has participants identify and visualize what is often referred to as “the inner critic.” She explains, “I introduce people to who their inner critic is. By and large, it’s been shown to them from early parenting or a guardian who was there who might have said, ‘You’ll never make a living at this. Why don’t you get a real job?’ This is the inner critic. And television commercials are so full of this: ‘You’re not going to be popular if you don’t use this toothpaste, if you’re not wearing that cologne, or have that watch on.’ It’s just a way to sell products. They make a fortune out of it.”

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At least two voices, JoAnn explains, make up the persona of the inner critic. “First is the one that’s involved in saving your life who says, ‘Don’t touch the stove. Don’t drive too fast. Don’t eat too much. Don’t spend too much.’ These are inner critic voices that I tell songwriters to heed. In fact, they already did, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. On the other hand, there are voices that say, ‘You’re going to wear purple and green?’ This is the cultural inner critic. We as healthy artists challenge this. ‘Why can’t I use paint and charcoal? Why can’t I write reggae/Hanukah songs?’ This is not a health or survival instinct.” An imaginative exercise that JoAnn uses helps workshop attendees grasp this concept. “I do a little pretend game to send the critic away on a vacation because it’s worked so hard. Some can send it out of the room for an hour, and some can get rid of it for a week. With John, I got really tactile and said, ‘What is your inner critic going to pack in its bag? And what does the suitcase look like, because we’re going to send it to Hawaii.’ He said the suitcase was black snakeskin. It was really dark. The trick is to then invite the inner critic back in and have it look at what you’ve been working on.” JoAnn concludes her thoughts with this fond remembrance: “We were doing a seminar in Salt Lake City, and I said, ‘Now we’re going to talk about the inner critic.’ And the guy in the back of the room said, ‘Just tell me how to kill it.’” De´ja` Vu John and JoAnn both share a belief in a higher power. “I believe our path is laid out before we’re born, and I believe in reincarnation; but I also believe in free will—what we do with the situation we’re in, how we react and use our powers,” John says. “We might come in with gifts that are there from a previous lifetime, but these are formed, to a great extent, by our environment. We see people who come out of poverty and degradation to achieve great things because they were probably destined to have that ability.” And, John says, some people have immense talents that they subsequently piss away. “They may have the same gifts but lack other attributes or have a life’s script that is set up for them before they’re born that they have to fulfill, and it doesn’t include being a successful

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songwriter or artist. They have to do something else to balance their karma; they have a different path that they have to take. It’s easier to grasp when we consider reincarnation, that when we go through this one life, we go through thousands of experiences from past lives that shape what happens to us now. When people have come to this world with gifts, there are many opportunities for them to either deny these gifts or to embrace them.” Ritual Revealed “Some people think if they summon their God, the spirit, or Jesus, they will help,” says Braheny. “And I do think that works—but because it’s a ritual that primes the mental pump. When we go out and do seminars, we have a powerful communicator crystal that we say a prayer to. We thank the universe, then we say, ‘Please help us to be able to download what we need to help them when they need it. Help us to maximize our ability to help them.’ And we put that out to the universe, to our spirit guides, our ancestors—whoever is out there and can follow us on our journey and wants to help people through us, we say, ‘Please help us to do that.’ And then we let go.” John qualifies that while this might have a New Age California sound, or as he laughs, “Woo-woo,” these rituals can prime the faculties to prepare creative people to operate at a peak. “It’s about focusing. I do believe in the transfer of energy. And now they’re beginning to find in quantum physics that it is an actual thing, and time and space are not barriers to this transfer. I do believe, to an extent, in the power of prayer, but I think in essence it’s a transfer of energy. So I think it’s good to have your rituals when you write songs. Light your incense, call it up, and focus your energy on the task at hand.” Zoning Out Braheny believes that as an educator and facilitator, his ultimate function is to transfer information and energy. “What turns me on is seeing those light bulbs go on. It’s the same for performers, the exchange of energy. Songwriters talk about being in the zone—it’s all that kind of experience. If you want to make the most of being in your zone, you have to practice and know that it comes naturally.”

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any of my interviewees have confided that they feel like their songs and their art has chosen them, and not the other way around. Creativity is the depth of what lies in these feelings, and the need for a song to convey this message requires a well-appointed messenger of the spirit. Songwriting is no easy undertaking; it requires a specific point of view, a lack of self-consciousness, a sense of undertaking and intention that demands complete honesty. Contrary to popular myth, writing a threeminute song might be more difficult than penning a 70,000-word book because in the outpouring and manipulations of language in the latter it is highly possible to overshadow any sense of truth by cloaking it in metaphor and language. As the old saw goes, “I would have written less, but I didn’t have enough time.” Songs are distillations of deliverance— pointed, succinct, and alive. The four songwriters in this chapter are bonded by their adherence to the needs of their art and the reflection of that in their lives. They have all, at some point in their careers, each taken supreme leaps of faith, leaving the safety of a reservation, sleeping in a van in Nashville, traveling across continents for spiritual sustenance, or following the journeyman’s road and using considerable talents to fulfill other artists’ visions. Songs are their compass on this path.

Bill Miller: Sacred Trust A Mohican Indian from northern Wisconsin, Bill Miller has long been one of the most admired figures in Native American music whose Cedar Dream Songs was awarded a Grammy for Best Native American 9

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Bill Miller

Recording. Miller grew up amid the natural wonders of the reservation (his tribe is properly called Mahicanuk, which means “People From Where The Waters Are Never Still,” and his Indian name, Fush-Ya Heay Ka, means “bird song.” I’ve been a fan of Miller’s songwriting since hearing his Capitol Records’ release, Raven in the Snow. A few summers back, when I visited my family in Lima, Ohio, the week of July 4th, Miller headlined an outdoor show to coincide with the festivities. There was something deeply ironic about seeing Miller in my hometown. The concert was held in Faurot Park, across the street from 716 State Street, the house where I’d grown up. As kids, my brother Jeff and I would race in the ravines along what were euphemistically, or fancifully perhaps, called “Indian Trails.” If we were lucky, we’d sometimes find arrowheads buried in the ground, and the neighborhoods and towns that surrounded us—Wapakoneta, Fort Shawnee, Maumee—reflected the names of the region’s earliest inhabitants. Because the victors invariably write their own histories, no one ever bothered to teach us what happened to these people, and we knew

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even less of their spiritual practices. In the years following the American Revolution, after the 1794 Treaty of Greenville, the Shawnee were the most prominent residents of west-central Ohio. By 1817, the United States had created the Hog Creek Reservation for the local Shawnee, covering portions of what would become Allen and Auglaize counties and including part of present-day Lima. In 1831, one year after the Indian Removal Act was signed, the Shawnee relinquished all their land in the area and relocated to Kansas. “You can imagine we grew up knowing better, in high school thinking, ‘We were here—you guys didn’t name that river, we named it. How can you say someone ‘discovered the Mississippi River’?” asks Bill Miller incredulously. “You come back into history, and you have to fit in somewhere. This bizarre placement played tricks on my mind for many years as far as being a part of American history. In this part of my life, I’m working through that, but I’m also being victorious in a really positive way for all mankind, because historical trauma can make you a victim for the rest of your life—I refuse that. I’ve got brothers and sisters of all races out there, and I want to be part of that family, not as a ‘res kid,’ but as a human being who loves this land. But first you have to get over the historical trauma.” A relentless touring artist now based in Nashville, Bill called me in a brief respite between show dates. As you’ll read, his openness and candor are remarkable. Drums along the Waters Miller tells of developing his career back in the 1970s and attending a live audition for a county fair show in Northern Wisconsin. “And the guy said, ‘What are you doing here?’ I said, ‘I am trying to get a job at the festivals.’ He said, ‘You are Indian; this is not an Indian festival.’ I was getting tapes coming back, ‘We do not support native music. Go to your reservation and play’—real blunt letters. Now, promoters are coming to me. There is a victory here—I won a Grammy, so it’s a little different. I did not get over it then because I kept seeing it thrown back in my face. I wanted to see someone who would accept me for who I was. I didn’t want to take away my nativeness and become homogenized milk.”

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“But the thing was, then I started to realize my anger toward my own full-blood father, who I couldn’t reconcile with most of my adult life, was starting to wreck my marriage. My wife said, ‘When are you going to get over it? Your father died in 1993. I felt the effects of your father most of our marriage. You need to stop, or our marriage is over.’ This is too much—it isn’t a white man hurting me, it was an Indian, my dad, and this was historical trauma that I was carrying with me, into my home, into the bedroom, onto the stage, into the studio— everywhere I was going it followed me.” 12 Steps Forward A part of Miller’s reconciliation path was to confront a classic example of how historical trauma has ravaged the native community: alcoholism. “I won’t erase my path, but I refuse to let it dictate who I am,” he says. “Get this—when are you going to say, ‘I’m a good husband, I like to fish, I like to hike, to help my brothers in the inner cities; whatever I might say, that’s an identity that the systems have not let us be. They want us to be victims; history does that—communities and governments. I tell people, ‘Did Crazy Horse ride into that battle against Custer as a victim?’ Hell no he didn’t—he was purified the night before he went out, he was prayed over at the sweat lodge, got the debts off his shoulders, confessed things to other brothers so he’d be free to ride, and he said ‘It’s a good day to die,’ meaning, ‘I’m free of a lot of things I’ve held onto in my life, and I’m free to live to be victorious in this battle or die victoriously for my creator.’ You cannot defeat a warrior like that. You ride next to people with that attitude, and it is victory that’s going to come off. That’s where I’m living now and where I’m going to stay—in the Victory Zone.” And this concept of overcoming adversities, Miller believes, should not be limited to the tabloid confessions of media personalities. “Victory is for single moms who have raised their kids. It took me a long time to win a Grammy, but people who are 10 times better than I am never get Grammys. It is nice to have one, but the fact is, we get awards. Single moms don’t get awards; abused children don’t get awards. The fact is, alcoholics get awards, but when are people who haven’t had a drink in 30 years say, ‘I’m done—I’m not an alcoholic or an abused child.’ Now I can get off my defensiveness of having to walk into a room

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and tell everyone I am an alcoholic. I had to get tired of that. I rise above it. I am going to smile in the last years of my life. I’m going to smile with other people of other races and nations. I am going to bring a full table of music to mankind rather than a limited edition for certain people.” On the Trail of the Truth In his youth, Miller was taught to hunt by some older men on his reservation and from the reservation next to him. “It was deer hunting, but not about killing—I missed every deer I shot at. However, I learned to track, and I was an excellent tracker. I learned three things: observation, interpretation, and application. In the observation phase, I was allowed to observe everything these guys did—how they made the bows and how they practiced, how they put on certain clothing, how they had certain scents they wore, how they marked the trail, and how they trailed the deer. In addition, in the observation phase, I was not allowed to speak with them or interrupt the teaching.” “In the interpretation stage, I was allowed to ask questions and interpret what I’d seen and then practice; and in the application phase I became a hunter. In life, I observed an alcoholic, abusive father, and several guys down the block who did that to their wives and sons. How did they interpret that? It was scary. I’d see my dad treating us this way, and then I’d go and see the white people spitting on us at a Dairy Queen, and how did I interpret that? Fear, anger, rage, trauma. Now I don’t care if I’m at Arby’s or a McDonalds or at the airport, I’m on the lookout for excellence. And I see some excellent men out there, and I just listen to the conversation and see how they’re holding their grandkids or daughters or how they’re touching their wives, and I’m thinking, ‘This is excellent. This is powerful. This is truly what life should be, this is the way mom should have been treated and I should have been touched by my dad.’ But I’m not going to grieve—I’m through with my grieving. Now it’s time to see reality. Now it’s time to put it into practice. Now it’s time to observe and interpret.” Miller professes that he has undergone a deep spiritual change over time. “It wasn’t a one-night, 700 Club ‘Send us your money’ and a guy jumps around and you’re done. It was a gradual change and a

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slow beautiful growth, and it happened through several different incidents in my life through different families. And for real, when your eyes open up, spiritually and holistically, you start to see crap for what it is, poison for what it is, bad, sexual comments about women for what they are. You start to read people, how they use people in a class way. It is not an easy thing; it is almost a freak-out period when you start seeing this. You have to back off and come in slowly.” The spiritual elements of his tracking training, Miller says, were more subliminal than overt. “It wasn’t talked about in a real public way. They were almost secretive and beautiful, and when it happened, you knew you were in a learning zone, almost like a jam session in Nashville. You can’t help but jam with Vince Gill and get better. In Nashville, you will get an opportunity to jam with some great pickers. It was like that with these men. They did not come out and say, ‘You are going to learn this lesson or else.’ You had to step into the zone. You have to show up. I tell people, ‘Don’t wait around for your demo; your record deal.’ It’s not going to come to you. You have to show up. I showed up to hunt. I showed up to track. I watched these guys bring in the beautiful deer and feed the community and dance at Pow Wows and that’s where it began. I thought ‘I’m going to hang with them.’” Honoring the King “My later change came at a Martin Luther King Day event. It was the year that my father died. I was in a lot of pain, and I didn’t know where to go. I’d grown to hate him and not want to forgive him, but I also missed him. I’d had a lot of native training handed to me.” “I was backstage in Nashville in 1993, and I was the only non-black act at these festivities. I watched black-and-white films of Dr. King marching down the streets of Selma, with black gospel bands playing positive music with joy. It was ironic because the films were pretty scary, but they were singing praises to God. I thought, ‘That’s different.’ As I stood back there, an elderly black gentleman came up and said, ‘Excuse me son, did you just lose somebody?’ I had a six-piece band at the time, and I said, ‘No, they’re all here.’ I didn’t get what he was saying. He was a spiritual man, like a medicine man. He said, ‘You don’t understand what I’m saying, do you, son? I’m a

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grandfather and the father of quite a few children. I know what’s in a young man’s eyes, and I want to ask you again: Did you just lose somebody in your family? Did somebody just die?’ I freaked out and said, ‘Yes sir.’ He asked, ‘Was it your daddy?’ And I said, ‘Yes, it was.’ He asks, ‘Did your daddy ever tell you how much he loved you?’ I said, ‘No sir, he didn’t.’ And he held me and asked, ‘Did he ever hold you like this?’ And it started freaking me out. He said, ‘Wait right here, I’ve got something for you.’” “A few minutes later, he showed up with six other elderly black men. They smiled, formed a circle around me, and they all laid their hands on me. To this day, I don’t know what they said but they were praying for me. And I felt warmth, power, strength, and I broke in the circle. I felt like I was going to melt. And each man came up to me and individually held me for a while. They said, ‘This is what it’s like to love, son.’ I did not want to let them go. The last man said, ‘Please forgive your father, and then you can love your wife and kids and all mankind.’ That was the last door for me that opened me up to where I am now. It was a powerful moment of reconciliation, and I learned about that word that night. I can’t turn back from that anymore—I felt true love.” “I felt God’s presence there. And I feel God’s presence when I go on stage. Finally, the stage has turned into an altar for me. When I was 17, it was a place to impress my friends and see if the girls liked it; when I was 21, I’d do somewhat of the same. When I was signed, it was a place to impress the record company and go on tour with the bigger artists, and later on it was to make money. Now, it’s a sacred place, and I feel God’s presence when I play the guitar. I’m committed to God, but I feel it in the mountains, the canyons in nature, and I felt it with men who would step up for the truth and are unafraid to hold you and break through the barrier of silence and tell you they love you.” Mission of the Maker “My wife was up on the reservation and she said this: ‘If we are made in the image of God, we’re doing an awfully poor job of reflecting it; nature is beating us out, that windstorm, those trees, that cloud is the

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image of God.’ We are false, plastic, bull crap, pornographic, alcoholic, war mongers—what are we reflecting? It’s greed, excess, everything but the Creator. When you see someone reflecting the Creator, like nature does, that is powerful. And Indian people have that down. Many cultures have that down. On the road, I turn on the Discovery network, turn off the sound, and play guitar. It centers me. When I see a cheetah run across the Serengeti in slow motion, that’s God, the essence of the spirit, that’s life, the force right in front of you. You just saw it, man, because there’s no perversion in it—that’s the beauty in the Creator. We need to see that in each other. We see bitterness and greed and beatings and racism—it can overwhelm us. I choose not to be overwhelmed by my circumstances, but by the spirit of God.” Miller recounts the many ceremonies that he has witnessed and been a part of. “I have been involved in Navaho nation blessing ceremonies with corn painting, rain ceremonies, hand drum ceremonies, tribal ceremonies with rattles, and I have seen miracles happen. I think ceremonies should be a part of our lives, like when a family takes a vacation and they come back excited because they are all part of a family. To make memories and pictures, I think, we should make more ceremonies; it tightens everything up. That’s what kept our people around; we knew ceremony and how to bring it together, we didn’t forget our ancestors, and we kept little bags with eagle feathers and stuff that meant something to us. And as kids or warriors we could look at it and say, ‘This is what your grandfather carried into battle 100 years ago.’ And we were psyched up, and our hearts beat differently. I grew up with all that. And I’m so glad I did.”

Craig Wiseman: Angels over Hattiesburg Forty million albums, 300 released songs, 90 charting singles, and 13 number ones: irrefutable evidence that Craig Wiseman is one of American music’s most productive songsmiths. Warm, gregarious, and engaging may not be the definitions that are measurable by chart position, but they certainly characterize this formidable man and his embracing energy. Now heading up his own publishing firm, Big Loud Shirt, he is engaged in the commerce as well as the art of the

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popular song. And it should be clear to anyone who examines the themes of his songs that Wiseman operates from a deep source of spirit. A native of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, Wiseman went to Nashville in 1985, and in time-honored tradition, slept in his van while he sought out the cheapest digs in town. Within weeks, he was drumming with a bar band at night while making the rounds of Music Row during the day, trying to get someone to listen to his songs. In time, these efforts paid off handsomely, and in 1988 Wiseman wrote “The Only One,” a song that was included on Roy Orbison’s triple platinum swan song, Mystery Girl. By 1990, his band had worked its way up to one of the popular nightclubs in town, and Wiseman avows that he was collecting a whopping $35 for playing four sets a night. When Almo/IrvingRondor music publishing offered him a deal, he packed up the toms and headed off for new endeavors. Since then, Trisha Yearwood, Diamond Rio, Confederate Railroad, Randy Travis, Deana Carter, Trace Atkins, Lonestar, Phil Vassar, Montgomery Gentry, LeAnn Rimes, Faith Hill, Kenny Rogers, Don Henley, Rascal Flatts, Brooks and Dunn, Kenny Chesney, and Tim

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McGraw have all cut his songs. He has amassed multiple ASCAP Awards as the Society’s Songwriter of the Year. It was “Live Like You Were Dying,” a monumental smash for Tim McGraw, that arced Wiseman into the songwriting stratosphere, winning CMA song and single of the year, ACM song and single of the year, and a 2005 Grammy for Best Country Song. Wiseman and his cowriter, Tim Nichols, also wrote a book by the same title, and it became a 12-week New York Times bestseller. A recent project involves Wiseman and fellow songwriters Jeffrey Steele, Bob DiPiero, and Tony Mullins in The Hitmen of Music Row, a six-episode, reality TV series for the cable network Great American Country that follows the four on the road as they perform, write songs, and generally just have fun. “I’ve got a friend flying in from London today; he’s writing with me and a couple of my writers, but I’ve also hooked him up with Jeffrey Steele and some of the other big writers in town,” begins Wiseman. “I do not stand to make any money off that or anything, but it is just the thing to do—this person is great, and he should get with other great writers. Some of the things you do are outside of ‘Where do I stand to make money’—just doing what needs to happen. How you need to profit is not the first thing to think about.” “Good stuff happens and good stuff happens. It is kind of spiritual. You put something good out there and maybe something good comes back, but regardless, you put something good out there. And you are not concerned with every single thing adding up with dollars in the bank account. I know a couple of guys who can operate from that ‘I want to make money’ place, but most of these guys, as it creeps into their thought processes, it seem to fade away.” Forever Young Maintaining his innocence of creative spirit is something that Craig Wiseman believes is necessary for his perspective as a consistently inspired songwriter. “It is the love of it, of being in that place. You have to stay 16 in a lot of ways. It has to stay that pure: ‘Man, this is just great.’ You can’t help but get a little more sophisticated and

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worldly about it. I’ve got a publishing company now; I have many families who are looking at me to make sure this thing keeps going. But my job, every day, is to write a song. I knew that was the trick going into it. Through the years, I learned how to compartmentalize those things and just go write. I knew that was one of the goals. So I watched myself, went through various things, and eventually took it up to this level. It’s easy to get caught up in chasing the next thing; you forget. But I never forget that this makes me completely content and happy, and it feels like this is what God put me here to do. And I bore it easily. But I have done this every day for over half my life now, and I still think it’s exciting and fun. I stepped out of a co-write to come in and talk to you, and I’m going to go back in the room and finish it up and go into the studio next week, and I’m just as fired up as I was the last 2,000 times I’ve done that.” Fountains of Faith After he was awarded the Grammy for “Live Like You Were Dying,” the local Hattiesburg television station requested an interview with Wiseman’s mother for a segment. “In the course of their questions they asked her, ‘Where do all of those songs come from?’ and she said, ‘I don’t know, he just keeps on writing songs and more songs. I have no idea how he continues to do that.’” “About 30 minutes later the phone rang at my brother’s house. And it was a classic, old-school African-American woman. She said, ‘Hello, is this the family of the woman who was on the television?’ My brother explained I was her other son. She said, ‘Would you convey a message for me? You tell your mother that those songs come from God.’ When I heard about this, I said. ‘Give me her number.’ I called her, she answered the telephone, and I told her, ‘I’m the other son calling from Nashville.’ We started talking, and she said ‘I know your mother has worked in the church. I could see the hand of the Lord in your mother’s eyes. I could hear it in your brother’s voice, and I hear it in yours. And don’t you ever doubt that God is with you. He loves you and He is in your works.’ I stood in my kitchen for 15 minutes crying my eyes out as this lady just laid it out there. And look, I come from church. My mother is a certified lay minister with the Methodist

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Church. I was raised in church, and my wife is a minister; it’s not like I haven’t been around faith for a long time and was getting a dose of it. But this lady…her faith was just staggering.” A few weeks later, RCA wanted a Wiseman song to pitch to country superstars Brooks & Dunn. “I said, ‘Just give it to me. I drive by Ronnie’s (Dunn’s) house; I’ll stick it in his mailbox.’ I buzzed at the gate and Ronnie came out and said, ‘Come on back to the barn.’ He has a barn that he’s done out as a game room/guest house on the back of his property. I drove back there, and we started talking about faith. Ronnie said he almost went to seminary at one point—here’s a honkytonk singer taking about gong to Baptist seminary. He’s a fascinating guy; he’s one of the most multi-faceted people you’ll ever meet in your life, and it’s so easy to put him into some hillbilly singer box, but he has a huge Russian art collection worth millions—how about that?” It was this moment that led the two, in a circuitous way, to pen the song “Believe.” Wiseman recalls, “I told him about this phone call from Sister Elma Dennis in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. I had the first part of a chorus, and I played it; and we tried writing a couple of verses, and it didn’t work. But I started scatting this thing; I really wanted to get the lines ‘book, chapter, and verse.’ (“I can’t quote the book/The chapter or the verse/You can’t tell me it all ends/In a slow ride in a hearse.”) I go to church, but the idea of being able to quote scripture and that kind of stuff, I don’t feel like you need it. I think anyone can get the big picture without having encyclopedic recall.” “We worked until midnight, and then they went on tour for the summer. Six months later Ronnie called. I wanted to write this honky-tonk barn burning song. We tried for an hour before he said, ‘You remember that song we were trying to write last spring?’ But we hadn’t recorded it, hadn’t written anything down; there were all kinds of loose ends. ‘I think I can remember it,’ I said. It just fell in there. And when we hit that first chorus, the third line ‘find more and more truth, words written in red,’ and Ronnie goes, ‘tells us that there’s more to life than just what I can see,’ and we know that ‘Believe’ was coming. And this thing—all of the places that were gray just fell away, and it just opened up.”

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“But we’re sitting there with a four minute plus weird song! Brooks & Dunn are trying to cut another lead off, uptempo solo. I did a guitar/ vocal and stuck it in Ronnie’s mailbox just to say, ‘OK, this song is all the way completed now, we can write an uptempo thing.’ And he called me a week later and said, ‘We cut that thing.’ It turned out that Ronnie took it to his house, sang it, and mixed it and cut that just unbelievable vocal on it. A lot of times, as a songwriter you hear versions of your stuff, and it’s just a pale imitation of your demo; but every now and again someone takes your song and, buddy, just transforms it. And Ronnie just transformed that thing with the heart that he brought to it.” Rarely are records by superstars sent into the market place without extensive test marketing, but Wiseman avows that RCA’s Joe Galante made a critical decision to put the song out without the requisite scrutiny. “No one said it was too long, and they could play it during drive time; it was only a top-10 hit, but it won the CMA and ACM Song of the Year, and the Inspirational Music Song of the Year—it missed qualifying for a Grammy because it came out a week too early, but it was just an amazing song in the way it’s touched people’s lives.” Wiseman made a very special call to a very special woman. “I called Elma Dennis when I won Song of the Year,” he says. “That song has got a lot of angels in it.” Precious Moments in a Life Angels must have also circled for “Live Like You Were Dying,” a song that tapped the collective emotions of millions of listeners to become a milestone in Wiseman’s storied career. “I’ve had some big songs— songs that have touched people—but that thing, it was up for Song of the Year against John Mayer and Alicia Keys. It was a contender. Any huge song like that does tap into some Jungian, cosmic unconsciousness. I think with any huge song there are always mystery ingredients that you can’t control. I remember reading about people in L.A. who read screenplays, and time and time again, these completely unrelated camps of people will create scripts on the same subject from disparate places, indicating that collective unconsciousness thing.”

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“I think we are all spiritual. Some people bristle at that because they don’t believe in God. I’m not saying that—I think there is a spiritual side of us, and if nothing else, on that level, I believe that is there. Sometimes when I work on songs, there is no sense of time. I love it when I’m writing and I go to get cup of coffee and I reach down for it and it is ice cold. Then when I look at my watch I realize that I went and got that coffee two hours ago and took two sips of it. That is a good day, my friend.” “My wife says in the Celtic and Irish belief, they call those lines ‘thin places’ where it is the thinnest between where we are and the spiritual side. I think sometimes in writing songs, you create a thin place. There is no time or hunger. There’s being lost in what you’re doing because it’s engaging, but there are other times you’re lost in this thing, just surfing and taping it. And there you are. It is the coolest thing ever. You write all year to have that day two or three times.” “People say, ‘How do you keep your faith in this business?’ Dude! If there is ever anything that requires your faith muscle to be exercised to ‘Arnold Schwarzeneggerian’ limits, it’s this. If there was ever a business that gets you praying or paying attention to things beyond yourself, there are all kinds of signs that intimate those things. Now people come to me and say I should write contemporary Christian stuff. But songs about God, or whatever, in my songs, I have someone drinking beer and cussing. I always write where I am coming from. I am just a person who is looking, searching, and messing up, and being human. And in spite of this, I have felt that these messages seem to resonate with people.” Scribes Behind the Curtain With The Hitmen of Music Row, what Wiseman and his friends establish early on is that it generally takes outside songwriters to create hits in country music. “In pop, they write a good bit more of their own stuff, but generally it’s with a real songwriter. There are always professional songwriters; sure, you can have one phenomenal group that has one completely over-the-top single, but there are generally always writers involved. In Nashville, that’s still the case—Reba, George Strait, Tim McGraw, and even Kenny Chesney, up until a year or two ago, hadn’t cut their own stuff. So trying to get people to

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understand that the person coming out of the radio—the odds are slim that they wrote the song. We spend a lot of time establishing and telling and retelling that.” The impetus for the show came from informal events that the quartet was invited to do. “We got asked to start doing a lot of industry shows (we do a songwriter show for the CMA’s in New York). A couple of years ago, we thought we should do a Songwriter Thank You Tour. We would play in major markets, have the radio stations help us find venues, go around and play shows, and do a morning thing with these stations. And we’re so busy as songwriters now that we started enjoying these out of town gigs because we could go and write songs in our hotel rooms without all of these Nashville things going on. So that’s what we were going to do. Someone said something to someone on a TV production crew, and we got this show.” Wiseman is aware that what makes many songwriters shows esoteric and limited in appeal is the lack of visual elements in songwriting. “Why would you show me singing my latest Kenny Chesney hit, me, sitting there on a microphone, when they’ve got a $400,000 video of Kenny singing the same song that is going to play before or after the show? That’s why a lot of songwriter shows haven’t been very successful. All they can do is show a guy who can’t really play and can’t really sing up there playing a hit. But with us, there’s a chemistry; we screw around, we go ghost-busting in Atlanta, we go on a haunted tour. The four of us are terrific friends, we laugh a lot, and they have captured that. As far as it being insight into the industry, it shows us writing.” The four are also a self-contained group. “We figured out we’re a band—I’ll play drums, Jeffrey plays bass, the other guys on guitar. We need some music for the show so we ended up writing some things on the road. We got in the studio for the first time, got on these instruments, turned the tape on, and started playing these songs. And after all of these shows we’d done together, we did a theme song. ‘Hey y’all,’ we wrote literally at a table at a Steak ‘n’ Shake in Jackson, Tennessee, coming back from a gig. We did another song called ‘Mo’ Money’—we went to a bling-bling shop in New York where they had a diamond-bearded Jesus head.”

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In performance, Wiseman says, it sometimes takes audiences a while to comprehend the concept. “About the first 30 minutes, people are wondering why you’re playing that other guy’s song. Then the lights start going on. To be a songwriter you get that brought on to you really quick: you are behind the scenes, buddy.” “So we’re putting together a street video; GAC is going to put it in rotation, and we’re already turning down record deals. We tell them, ‘Nah, we’re just going to see how it plays out.’ It turned into quite this little Alice in Wonderland kind of adventure. I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen next—it’s absolutely impossible to outguess it.” Faith and Fortitude Wiseman references a cover story that he read in Time magazine about Mother Teresa. “It said for 50 years she had a faith crisis. But to have faith is to have a faith crisis; it’s a risky, odd thing. The way to put that, so many people outside of any spiritual press will talk about that. ‘Let’s talk to the Christians who are a completely other breed of animal, who live in a world with a different sky, and God walks by them every step of the way and protects them.’ I believe we are all just people.” “My wife and I have a friend who is just one of those Type A personalities. He’s not someone who thought about stuff, certainly not a bad guy, but not someone who would ponder things. He turned 35, and something happened that made him look at his spiritual side. There’s nothing like someone who has just gotten religion and gets in your face and says, ‘This is how you’ve got to be.’ But this guy immediately started sponsoring these mission trips down to Mexico to work on tar-paper shacks and worked on Habitat for Humanity projects. Instead of him going, ‘Look how high I am—look how much better this has made me,’ he never took the ego road. He’d say, ‘I went on a mission trip, and it’s really cool.’ He was saying, ‘Look at what I’m paying attention to.’ And it was the same thing Sister Elma did on the phone. She never told me how to act. She was talking from her faith, and that’s what made her so powerful. She had faith enough for both of us, and don’t you doubt it.”

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“Sister Elma never told me how to act; she operated from a place of faith. When you run across someone with that much faith, it just gets on you. It resonates with every human soul, no matter how dormant or latent, and when you hit it right you cannot help but respond. That’s what’s amazing about our friend. He’s going, ‘Look how this is over here.’ One of the coolest spiritual turns is the way he’s incorporated and animated; this was a beautiful thing. His belief in God had touched his life. You’d think a Type A personality would be in your face, but he did the most beautiful graceful pirouette. The next thing you know, he’s taking a bunch of songwriters down to Mexico and having them work on tar-paper shacks.” Wherever Two or More Are Gathered “On the east coast it is the Catholics; down here, it is the good ol’ Southern Baptists. There is so much dogma and hypocrisy; you see that and push it away, but once again, I think you are coming to the spiritual side. I was suspicious of the church, or the body of the church, but I came to a conclusion a long time—that what I was going to get was between God and me. It’s like politics or anything else; in Washington, there’s all this awful stuff going on, then there is the Declaration of Independence, the Emancipation Proclamation, and some wetland that has a beautiful bird being protected. In the midst of the nonsense, there is some wonderful stuff going on.” “I think one of the reasons I have a successful marriage is that there have to be things in your life bigger than you. And these days we have gotten to, ‘I’m the most important thing in my life. And me being uncomfortable for five minutes? I’m calling my attorney and suing somebody.’ I think we are at our finest when we are not the biggest things in our lives. Marriage gives me that and so does church—there are bigger things than me. But because people saw one Baptist minister on TV saying some stupid shit, they draw a couple of big conclusions. There is a lot more going there than the CNN 30-second sound bite.” “In this society the psychology of church is brilliant. Think about it: church is a place where you have all of these people who are not going to be rock stars or on the cover of People magazine. Church elevates those people up to a complete tier. At the same time, for people like

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me, who have a lot of blessings, church is there to bring us down to this level of commonality. It lifts some people up and humbles others. That is really an amazing function; where else do you get that? Church, from a sociological aspect, is an amazing dynamic.”

David Nichtern: Ballads for the Buddha Diversity doesn’t even begin to describe the undulating career of songwriter, composer, musician, and entrepreneur David Nichtern. First off, he is the writer of a classic song, “Midnight At the Oasis,” that has become a modern-day pop standard. He is also an award-winning composer for two classic daytime dramas: One Life to Live and As the World Turns. Nichtern is the founder of a company called Nudgie Music LLC, an umbrella enterprise formulated to produce and market several lines of musical offerings. The first label, Dharma Moon, is dedicated to music for an emerging American lifestyle that mixes yoga, contemplative, and world influences. Another imprint, 5 Points Records, spotlights emerging talent, while the third in the trio of enterprises, Nudgie Records and Tapes is described as an across-the-board adult contemporary/pop/jazz/country label.

David Nichtern (right) and the author (left)

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As an Emmy-winning and Grammy-nominated composer, musician, and producer, Nichtern has collaborated with a span of artists that includes Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Jerry Garcia, Brand New Heavies, Christopher Guest, Billy Crystal, The Chieftains, Patti LuPone, Maria Muldaur, David Grisman, The McGarrigles, David Bromberg, and Dr. John. Nichtern has been a Buddhist meditation practitioner for over 30 years and is the head of Buddhist Studies at Om Yoga Center in New York, as well as a senior teacher in the Shambhala Buddhist lineage of Cho¨gyam Trungpa Rinpoche Shambhala. Nichtern teaches the interweaving of spiritual practice and real life, and he leads joint yoga/meditation retreats with his wife, Cyndi Lee, at locations around the world. Recently, David Nichtern was asked to formulate another type of class, and he explains his inspiration. “I went for the first thought: Creativity, Spirituality, and Making a Buck. This is the blend. People go to Starbucks and have the double macchiato. If I looked at my contribution to the world and framed it, for pure dharma, there are people who are much more learned; there are those who are dedicated to the creative life as artists, but they do not go to business or relate to their families. Then there are those people who are adept at making money; I read Donald Trump, but he does not read me. But this is a combo platter; if someone wants to talk about those three things, I’m not a bad person to talk to.” From Nichtern, I first heard the term Bu-Ju, meaning someone who was raised in the Jewish faith but who has since embraced Buddhism. This interview was conducted over breakfast at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood, California. Nichtern, who lives in New York, had just returned from teaching in China. “We went to Hong Kong for a big conference where my wife, Cyndi Lee, and I, taught yoga and mediation. We had three days before the conference, and we took a ferry over to Lan Tow Island off the coast of Hong Kong where there is a 250-foot high seated Buddha at the top of a mountain. I study mostly Tibetan Buddhism, but I am now studying with a Daoist, and this has great meaning for me because these teachings were so cooked in that environment. And I’m looking at the

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Buddha, and then I go back and teach a new generation of young people from all over the world, but mainly from China. I say, ‘I’m very humbled to teach Buddhism in China. Three days ago, I saw this giant Buddha statue and I knew someone had been here before.’ This is not a great new idea from America. There is a great appetite for that form; it bounced back and they could hear it better. I said to my teacher, ‘Selling water by the river, no?’” The Buddha at Berklee Nichtern studied at Boston’s Berklee College of Music, and it was there that he first encountered the power of Eastern spiritual philosophies. “I was 22, and I started studying yoga, and my teacher was instrumental in bringing over this Tibetan Buddhist mediation teacher to the U.S. from England. I went and heard a talk at the yoga center. I really liked him, and I wanted to study. He was brilliant, refreshing, very suited for the times, creative, unorthodox—a major dude. It magnetized people like me. There was a lot fermenting at that time, and he had the right energy to connect.” Tibetan Buddhism is a Mahayana Buddhist tradition, meaning that the goal of all practice is to achieve full enlightenment (or Buddhahood) in order to remove all limitation on one’s ability to help all other living beings to attain a similar state. Buddhahood is defined as freedom from the obstructions to liberation, such as negative states of mind, like hatred and desirous attachment, and the obstructions to omniscience, considered the imprints of negative minds, or delusions. In the Tibetan Buddhist view, when one perceives or conceives of a particular object, the mind—carried upon a subtle energy (prana in Sanskrit and lung in Tibetan)—goes to that object. It is said that upon the attainment of omniscience, one’s mind becomes omnipresent. There are said to be countless beings that have attained Buddhahood. Buddhas spontaneously, naturally, and continuously perform activities to benefit all responsive beings. It is also believed that suffering is a result of negative actions, even those committed in previous lifetimes. Nichtern relates that he played with another well-known proponent of Buddhism, the late poet Allen Ginsberg who practiced the poetic spiritual connection of Dohas, poems of realization, expressions of the

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spontaneous mind through unfettered communication. “The reason [Ginsberg] connected was that he had trained his mind to be eternally fresh, always on the edge of open space. It could be totally refreshing or very intimidating. It’s like you’re in the ocean—to some people this is very refreshing, to others, very scary. If you swim, it invites you to be alive. In Buddhism, they say the relative and the absolute are intermingled inseparably. You do not get to transcend anything. It would not be the point. The sudden awareness is expressing itself in every relative experience. Skill and craft seem to become absolute, and if some spontaneous process didn’t refresh it, you’d be locked up and your writing would be stiff. You need a blast. The idea comes, but you have to work it through.” Nichtern notes that creativity is about having choices, and if creative souls have it in them, then something has to come out. “I need to get a blank piece of canvas, brushes, and slap on the paint. What are you doing from a banker’s standpoint? There is a muse-driven quality, like you’re serving someone else on some other level of reality who says, ‘I ask you to make this for me.’ Neil Young is muse driven. He says when it comes, he has to put everything else aside. But with the spiritual thing, there’s plenty of choices; you can choose to practice or not. Making a buck is another choice. And if you don’t make a buck, they come, they take you away and say, ‘You don’t live here anymore.’” Auspicious Coincidence Tendrel is a Tibetan word, variously translated as “interconnectivity,” or “dependent arising”: a famous emblem of it is the endless knot. The fact that it is a homophone of the English word “tendril” may be viewed within the context as a happy accident.” Tendrel is auspicious coincidence,” Nichtern clarifies. “More than just haphazard, it seems to be accompanied by a slight buzzing in the atmosphere where you go, ‘Uh-huh.’ Its feeling of ‘Yes’ is almost an increased energy. It is when you feel connectivity. If you follow that, interesting things happen. There is a certain intentionality mixed in at some point. The things that kill auspicious coincidence are too much self-consciousness, fear, doubt, hesitation, and ambition because too much push will ward people off. Do not push and do not hold back: this puts you right on the edge. People are very hard on themselves. To have a natural sense

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of confidence that doesn’t blow up into an exaggerated sense of confidence is hard to cultivate, and it’s what’s missing in a lot of situations. People pump it up much harder than they need to. And you’re looking at a monster.” The historical increase in spiritual alignment is something Nichtern observes closely. “People developing their spiritual path: I consider myself a little of an archivist of American spirituality over the past 35 years. And watch how solid and real it becomes. The Buddhist approach is that one’s self is not solid and real to begin with, and the big deal is emptiness. I means things aren’t solid. This doesn’t mean they don’t exist, but it means they don’t exist in a solid, selfreferential, interdependent way. It’s more of a matrix. It’s my understanding that when you attempt to solidify your sense of self, the world becomes solidified as a mirror reflection. When we get angry or depressed, everything feels very solid.” Final Thoughts Relating back to the concept of Spirituality, Creativity, and Making a Buck, Nichtern ruminates that it took a certain length of time to create the right mix in his own life and career. “My premise is balancing the three. Otherwise, it’s all falling apart. You have to ask yourself, ‘Are you present? Are you fully engaged?’ How much attention is being paid to that?” And as a Buddhist operating in the material realm, Nichtern relates that there is another form of divorcement and integration from the world. “A classical Buddhist retreat is three years, three months, and three days. At the end, there’s a process called Entering the Action, when you mix the realities completely and seamlessly. You’re supposed to become completely porous. You have to possess some sense of reality, and that’s the wining ticket—you’ve already won the lottery.”

Mark T. Jordan: A Compass for Many Roads Bonnie Raitt, Taj Mahal, Dave Mason, Tom Jones, The Carpenters, Randy Crawford—a variegated litany of artists have recorded the songs of Mark T. Jordan. Unlike may of the other songwriters profiled in this book, Jordan is possibly best known as a musician; he is a

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Mark T. Jordan

veteran keyboard player of the first order who has toured and recorded with Raitt, Van Morrison, Jackson Browne, Olivia Newton-John and Lyle Lovett, among others, and who served as Wynonna’s musical director for three years. Jordan, a long-time West coast session and touring cat, now makes his home in the relatively bucolic world of Nashville where he concentrates on songwriting and sessions. “It’s a lot slower and a lot smaller, and you keep running into the same people,” he observes. “It’s like being on a college campus. You can’t really make a living in the clubs, but any night of the week you can see amazing music. It’s not just country; it is also jazz, gospel, and R&B. L.A. is a young person’s town. Neighborhood, community, seasons— it’s not bad here. The leaves change. I have children, and it’s a better place.” Spirituality is a factor as well. “They call this ‘the Buckle of the Bible Belt.’ And there is a lot of emphasis on Christian worship and the gospel and Christian music industries, so you’re immersed in the point of view of having it available and present. A lot of people are into religion, which can’t be a bad thing. As far as the music community, Nashville seems to be a liberal oasis.’’ I was introduced to Mark T. Jordan through his frequent co-writer, Charles John Quarto, who thought I would appreciate Jordan’s level-headed take on an often turbulent world.

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Demons and Eggshells As we began our conversation, Jordan confided that he had recently returned from a European tour with a venerable rock figure who was well known in the business for a tempestuous temperament and mercurial madness. “You have to forgive the guy a lot, but I had pretty much allowed for that. My chart book was 150 songs, equally divided between B3 and acoustic piano. He doesn’t like dead time. He mumbles a song, and I’m supposed to know what it is and how to do the organ intro. I have a second and a half to jump in and start playing.” And if he misses the cue, Jordan says, there is a pointed visual reprimand. “You don’t want to get ‘The Look.’” “The guy used to have fun with it, and now he’s inconsolable, miserable. He’s been a wing nut for many years, but back in the day he used to smile. Sure, he was erratic, but the guy is a genius. But as a social being, I’m sure it comes out of a severe defense of being inadequate. He’s so demonized; it’s like walking on eggshells.” As a decades-long rock survivor, Jordan knows the powers and the pitfalls awaiting those held in high esteem as rock stars. “You don’t get a primer on rock ’n’ roll 101. We’ve all played the same notes; it’s just how you bring your personality to it. And very few people are prepared to encounter that kind of allegiance and wonderment and keep their wits about them. More likely than not, they fall into the Memphis Mafia or whatever the entourage is, just to insulate themselves. This thing we do, this life we lead, is based on illusion. Show business is two words, and the first one is show. You get into this strange place where you’re expected to be creative and real, but you have a very tenuous hold on what everybody else thinks reality is.” “Some people think of it as exotic, and in some ways it is; other people think of it as terrifying. Imagine being on your own and finding your own way by the inside of your brain somehow. It’s a very difficult world, but I have known some people, mainly women, interestingly enough, who have handled it well with perspective, grace, and e´lan. But it’s hard to do. I think women are more complex creatures and more able to entertain multiple and/or competing thoughts, and they can be more even-handed in how they approach things than men.”

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Musical Maternity Jordan compares songs to children, musical infants, if you will, that are birthed by the creative mind. “You look at them and think, ‘Boy, did I make that?’ They might come out in ways you don’t expect—better or worse—and then they develop a life of their own. Some are shiftless and lay around the house, others go out and make you proud of them, and some go out and embarrass you thoroughly. Once you’ve done this act of creation, you’re pretty much done with it in terms of what your perceived control is. The marketplace will determine success, failure, or notoriety. A lot of times you have to let them go and hope they make you proud down the line.” Still—the exact creative moment, when the union of soul and senses creates the fertilization—it is a delicate balance. “A vibration, yes, but you had better not acknowledge it because it might vanish. You dare not turn your eyes to the side. You know or feel something but you want to keep going down the road, and not say, ‘Hey, look at this,’ and it’s gone. You wait. And if you’re successful and make sufficient progress or get to that delicious point when you think it’s finished, you may then thank the sprit and the muse profusely in any way you desire. And I certainly enjoy doing so. I don’t try to acknowledge it at the moment, and sometimes it’s just hard work.” “Lyrics are always a challenge for me; sometimes it’s an exercise in trying to communicate. If you get to the point of having something valuable, you have to ask, ‘What does the song want?’ You have to submerge your ego and just be quiet and listen. If you listen hard enough, maybe the song will tell you what it wants. There are paths, or several paths, you can go down. One might lead to a lovely bridge, or a clearing, or a forest.” Illuminating Co-writers As a songwriter who concentrates on melodies, Jordan often hears the music within the rhythms of the words. In his endeavors with poet Charles John Quarto, there is no shortage of verbiage. “I feel unworthy—every one that comes out of his pen is pure poetry. And I am just stunned, not only by the amount of his output, but the quality

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and the consistency. I probably have 30 of his lyrics that I have not yet had the courage to work into the works of art that they deserve to be. But the songs we have written together—I’m thrilled. I look for the rhythms in the words; how does the line break up? I make little baby steps and try to get a form for the verse. Or I’ll go to a chorus; maybe it’s saying something to me.” Jordan marvels at the panoramic scope of Quarto’s poetics. “We all have the vocabulary and speak the English language, and I think it is the most descriptive language there is, with 50,000 to 70,000 words we can recognize. But Quarto can rearrange them. Galaxies pass before your eyes.” Pathways and Pitfalls Earlier in his career, Jordan had the opportunity to become a staff producer at the creative epicenter, Warner Bros. Records, in Los Angeles. “I used to wonder a lot about the road not taken. I’ve come to the conclusion that the only thing I have control over is what happens in the next few minutes. That’s all I can think about; yesterday is gone, and tomorrow who knows?” A question that begs to be asked is this: in the midst of the legendary excesses present during his coming of age, how did Jordan avoid becoming another rehab or overdose statistic? “With difficulty. I think it was having kids. My wife had a year-old girl when I met her, and we had another girl in Marin country. I think being married and being responsible for little people—they went on tour with us to Europe with Jackson Browne on the Pretender Tour, from Norway to the UK and all over the place. It grounds you. You have to think about something other than your career. It gives you a sense of balance. You can’t accuse me of not doing my part to keep up with the madness. Hell, I was with Dave Mason for three and a half years. It was the mid-’70s. I was in Marin County and L.A. I did my share. But when you have to come home and change a diaper or go to the hospital for an emergency with one of the kids, it brings you back to reality—even to drive them to school or make their breakfasts. I don’t regret that at all. I’m remarried now and am lucky to have a woman who is independent and understands what it is to be a musician’s wife—a very

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difficult job. Each and every woman who is the wife of someone who does music has a unique set of traits and talents to put up with the craziness.” Sacred Sounds As a musician, Jordan is aware of what sounds seem to invoke a human connection among audiences. He talks about a fascinating musical subculture that rose among African-American churches in Florida decades ago, the sound of the sacred steel. “The black churches couldn’t afford a Hammond organ. Some guy came from Hawaii and showed these cats how to play the steel guitar. They took it and made it do what the Hammond organ will do—swooshing, screaming. These primitive Baptist churches in Florida, screaming and stomping double time, with steel guitar? It’s got all of that gospel fervor, and it will take the top of your head off.” Jordan plays Hammond organ, piano, and assorted keyboards, and he says that with electronic keys, it is more difficult to make the human connection because listeners tend to gravitate to sounds that have more qualities that are in tune with the human voice. “Something that has vibrato in it—like violin, an oboe, a flute, something that has breath in it. You can’t do that on a keyboard; you can with a synth, but not a proper piano or organ. That’s where the Hammond comes in and all the ways to make it sound. With a real Hammond player, your feet and hands never stop working. Anything that has a human voice, or heart, will reach people. With a Hammond and a Leslie [speaker], some of it has to do with the air being pushed. It’s the physical sound; they rattle and hum and overdrive, and it’s a living and breathing thing.” The larger scope of music, the ability to connect, communicate, and heal, is of interest to Jordan as well. “I’m fascinated by music therapy and the fact that it activates a part of the brain that helps with relationships, kids, and oldsters as well; it has a beneficial effect on blood flow—the old saw that plants exposed to Mozart or heavy metal will thrive with Mozart. It’s got to have an effect. I believe music has the power in a number of ways to heal or disturb. It is certainly the only medium that doesn’t need words. If I were to start playing ‘Dock

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of the Bay’ to some Afghani rebels, they’d start smiling. Music is international.” “I think my path has kept me healthy, despite my early efforts to disprove that notion. A lot of people think this is a hell of a way to survive because nothing is certain. I could counter that nothing is certain otherwise. Just because you got a job at AT&T doesn’t mean you’ll have one there tomorrow. I think you get to a certain age when your perspective changes, you’re more content, you have the luxury if you will, of having a long view.” “I think I’m lucky to have done this, and in a way I feel like…not a messenger, so much, and not a caretaker, in that a caretaker would be passive, but someone to whom a certain code has been passed down. And who can, therefore, have that ability to pass that code down again to whoever may benefit from it. In a lot of ways, the music tradition, certainly the American popular music tradition, one of the three things we export—movies, music, and professional sports—is a legacy that is both oral and aural; It’s not written down. And as musicians you’re always curious, living to see someone who’s got it, and this makes everybody want to get better. There is always another hill to climb and another lick to play, but those of us who are committed as lifers have an obligation to give it back. I’m happy to do that at this stage in my career; earlier I was concerned about getting me and mine.” Songs about the romance of the human heart is where Jordan finds his emotional and creative comfort zones as a songwriter. “I gravitate toward the angels of love. There is a way to be spiritual and universal at the same time; some proponents can do it, and I admire them. I’ve seen a lot of other people think they had something to say, but it was only a brilliant job of marketing. It’s hard to say where that road might be. Maybe I’m more of a fatalist or a realist.” “Carlos Santana, when asked what was the most important trait a musician can develop, answered, ‘Humility.’ I think it is spiritual in quest. People go about it in many ways, and maybe even venting the excesses was a way to open up spirituality—a way to explore the boundaries of it so that you could have an overreaching experience.

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Maybe it wasn’t an epiphany, but we’re all contributing to looking for a better way. I like where I am. I continue to have wonderful experiences, and where I am, some people expect to retire because who they are is what they do from 9 to 5. I can’t imagine retiring—they’ll have to pry my cold, dead fingers away from the keyboard on stage and roll me out in a sitting position. That’s fine. What could I possibly do except do this?’

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lthough it is mandatory that an interviewer maintains some objectivity in his conversations—and a sense of distance, if you will, even to the point of playing devil’s advocate to elicit a response—I stand in awe of brilliant songwriters, and no more so than in the company of the writers whose words will come next. In my career in this enterprise that we call the music business, I have never witnessed someone moving from one comfortable situation to another. This is not to say that songwriters have to suffer like the emaciated garret dwellers in some existential La Boheme, but it is not an easy path to follow. The daunting economic outlets for songs notwithstanding (it has been estimated that even for the most successful songwriters, a tiny percentage of their entire catalogs will find homes), the willingness to support an entire future on the house of cards that is the modern-day songwriting business is daunting. So the song itself, and its expression of the writer’s intention, is its own reward. And if the words and music, the melodies and phrasing, and the heart of the message are in essence empty, then there remains a sense of unfulfilled destiny. The next trio of writers set high standards for their art as their songs speak to deep truths and personal experiences. Their resonance as masters of their art and craft and their connections to the spirit cannot be overstated.

Beth Nielsen Chapman: The Angels Lend Us Shoes Among aficionados of significant songwriting, Beth Nielsen Chapman is a deeply revered icon. Although her songs have been recorded by artists like Trisha Yearwood, Tanya Tucker, Bette Midler, and Faith 39

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Beth Nielsen Chapman

Hill, who took “This Kiss” (co-written with Robin Lerner and Annie Roboff) to the top of the charts, it is Chapman’s own remarkable vision as an artist that has endeared her to audiences as one of the most vital voices in American song craft. After a less-than-stellar beginning to her career as a recording artist, Chapman took a three-year break before returning to music as a songwriter. What followed were turbulent times: Chapman’s husband Ernest Chapman died of lymphoma in 1994, and Chapman was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2000. While many creative souls might have been crushed by these profound adversities, Chapman’s honesty in making these battles public became remarkable acts of courage that were embraced by listeners worldwide. No less a towering figure than Elton John was so moved by Chapman’s “Sand and Water”—written in response to her husband’s death—that he asked Chapman to make some lyrical adjustments so he could perform the song in concert on his world tour. I first met Chapman briefly at a conference in Durango, Colorado, but I had no direct access to her. Although a number of well-meaning

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intermediaries offered to make the requisite introductions, it hadn’t yet happened when I sent a blind e-mail to Beth’s website. Within hours, she responded personally with her desire to be included in these pages. Belying the gravity of many of her lyrical themes, Chapman is a delightful conversationalist with a sparkling sense of self-effacing humor. Her latest release, Prism, a collection of world hymns, has been an undulating journey for Beth Nielsen Chapman, one that has lasted a decade. “At some point I almost said, ‘Forget it I’m not doing it, it’s too much work,’” she acknowledges. “In the last eight months of working on it, there were so many coincidences. And so many things I had nothing to do with that made things line up—it sent me to South Africa twice. All of these things I couldn’t have planned. It’s like having triplets, a labor of love, and I have no idea how the world will receive it; but it’s something I had to do as an artist, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Twenty-three songs in nine languages— forget about it!” Chorus in the Classroom “I’ve been teaching a lot and at first it intimidated me; I was afraid to put it into words for fear I’d mess it up. The first place I taught was in Berklee in Boston to a classroom with 300 kids who were studying, taking songs apart, and analyzing them and finding out why they worked. I waltzed in, and they had been studying my songs in their course, and they were waiting for me to tell them how I thought up these songs. I gave them a spiel that, ‘I feel like these songs are like white towels that are neatly folded up in the ether and you can draw one in because of your experience in life, or some type of emotional opening you might have—or as a professional songwriter you can make an appointment to draw one in—but drawing it in, it changes because it comes through you.” “It’s my experience that ideas come of their time. I’ve had this experience quite a few times on Music Row. Two writers will write the same title: they don’t even know each other, and they write two different songs, but the idea comes into a place where it’s happening. It goes along with my theory that the songs are already written, and we

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just sort of download them. And being open to receiving them is part of the job of being a songwriter—to create a space to write, to practice at it, to be willing to show up and not write anything, which I call ‘facing the Great White.’ I’d have students who would say, ‘I feel so bad, I sat there for two hours and didn’t write anything—I feel like I’m stuck.’ And I’d say, ‘Why would you think that? That’s like the hardest writing there is.’ That’s like working out in a gym lifting 2,000 pounds in a creativity workout. That’s why three days later when you’re driving to the dentist, you have to pull over because the whole second verse just rolled into your head faster than you could write it down.” “I think when you put in the time, whether it’s flowing or not, is beside the point. So giving people permission to show up and have nothing happen, and giving them the notion that they have to be open to allowing the song to happen. This permission really seems to enlighten people with a sense of play. It takes them back to the child-like place where they were coloring, and then they stared to draw a tree and they stumbled into something. You can teach this, but I don’t think you can teach someone to have the accessibility to the creative spirit. I think you have to learn it—to get encouraged, but you can’t earn a degree in it.” “I stumble into everything I write. I write the vowels sometimes weeks before the consonants. I’ll have a melody and just throw my voice around in the ‘Who knows where it’s going?’ thing, and I’ll have this experience of clopping words into the air that don’t make any sense; but often, two or three months later when I finish the song, the vowels would have lined up perfectly with the nonsense syllables way before I knew what the title was or had any idea where the song was going to go. I’ve trusted that since I was 12—and it ain’t that glamorous.” Songs That Sense Nielsen Chapman believes that her songs have foretold the future. “I have often written ahead of time; I’m not aware of it when I’m doing it. ‘Sand and Water’ I put out in 1997 after my husband’s death. He died in 1994 and he was diagnosed with advanced lymphoma in 1993, but I had five of the songs two-thirds written before the end of 1992,

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like ‘No One Knows But You’ and other songs that have to do with loss. And I remember playing those songs for him. One of the songs he really loved because it had a Bob Dylan vibe, ‘Seven Shades of Blue.’ We’d sit and have some Grand Marnier, and I’d play him songs. And before we ever knew he was sick, that song was on its way. He’d say, ‘Who is that about? It sounds like us, but it also sounds like somebody died.’ I remember having this conversation. Looking back I remembered thinking, ‘You’d better finish that; it’s really good.’ Then six months later we were faced with his serious illness. And there’s a line in ‘Sand and Water’—‘In the hollow of your shoulder, there’s a tide pool of my tears’—and that specific thing happened the day we were made aware that he was very ill. And we were crushed and sobbing half the afternoon. And there was a point when I had my head on his shoulder and here was a tide pool of my tears in the hollow of his shoulder. I remember thinking about it at that moment. In the months that followed, as I began to think about what those songs were about, there were little silhouettes—pieces of film in my mind that happened after I wrote the verse.” Deeper Still Chapman had completed the CD Deeper Still in 2000 and was preparing for a tour when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. “Deeper Still doesn’t say it’s about breast cancer. I’d finished it before I knew I was going to have breast cancer, but if you listen to those songs, it’s amazing how many of them were almost written from a place of working through that. I deeply believe we are so guided by the creative spirit, and I think of the spirit of being everything from ‘What are we going to have for dinner?’ to ‘How am I going to write this song?’ In my opinion it’s a manifestation of what spirit is, whether you want to call it ‘God’ or whatever it is that creates. It’s different from thinking. Thoughts are already created, already a form of legal tender once you think them. Creative spirit is an unfolding of what you don’t know is going to happen next. It’s hard to put it into words; once you put it into words, it’s no longer what it was.” “When my hair fell out in chemotherapy it was during the fall, and all of the leaves came off of the trees; and when my hair grew back it was

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the time that the leaves were growing back on the trees, so nature was this metaphor while I was going though the treatments. But I had already written the song, ‘Every December Sky’ on the Deeper Still record. And for a woman sitting on the couch with her hair falling out and going through the hardest winter in her life, it’s a really comforting song. But I didn’t know two years before, when I wrote it, that I was really writing it for me. It’s not blatant because that song isn’t about breast cancer, but it is about stepping into the next chapter.” “I’ve never had a bad hair day since my hair grew back in—any hair is good hair. The perspective changes. I get frustrated, and lose my temper, and things don’t go my way, but I don’t have the ‘down about the little stuff’ like I used to. I’m not capable of it. It’s a right of passage. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, but that is part of the by-product, getting back to normal; you’re happy to get back to normal. My health has been great. I have friends going through it right now, and there’s nothing better than talking to someone who went through it. As I get onto the back end of my life, I look back on what have been portals; you crawl through the darkness and you get to a place you couldn’t have gotten to any other way, and that’s part of the process.” Through teaching, Chapman has developed a game of metaphors for people who are intellectually stuck. “If you can’t get out of your head, you’re not going to be able to write a great song. So aside from doing mind-altering drugs, I tell them to do a drive on a journey called ‘writing a song.’ You get in the car, and if it’s a country song maybe it’s a pickup truck. And the only part of you that should have a driver’s license is the creative spirit. That’s the thing behind the wheel. The intellect, ego part of you is in the passenger seat with duct tape on its mouth at the beginning of the journey. The less said the better. And in the glove compartment is the fear, which is a little tiny part of you that can grow up and be a big thing, so you keep it in the glove compartment. And in the back seat is the whiner who says, ‘Isn’t it time for lunch? We’ve been working so hard.’—the part of you that wants to get up, check your e-mail, and distract you away. In the trunk is the critic, an important part that you don’t want to get rid of, but you want it at bay because there’s nothing worse than writing a song and having the critic say, ‘This is really stupid.’ And if you

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saw the first three drafts of my songs like ‘Sand and Water’ and ‘The Color of Roses,’ when the first blush is so dumb you’d think it had no hope of being a song, and then by the end it’s fully realized, but the little bits and pieces, the soul, is trying to get through.” “The critic comes out at the end that tightens it up. All these parts are aspects of being a part of writing the song, but at the beginning you want to follow the creative spirit and wander around. And halfway through the journey you stop and get gas, and the creative spirit takes the duct tape off of the mouth of the intellect and says ‘Here’s where we are, here’s where we started, and you can participate in where you want us to go.’ And then it becomes an exchange.” “I tell students that writing is like walking out to the edge of what you know and hanging one foot out into the air. And you move forward. And something will be under your foot. To me, every line I’ve ever written has been completely effortless when it happens. It goes onto the page with no effort. The effort is the other days I showed up and didn’t come up with anything and had to deal with my ego trying to judge myself. The ego and the intellect are like a team of ‘me, me, me.’ What’s fascinating is how immediately our brains claim ownership the minute we have the line on our page. The brain and the ego say, ‘Isn’t that fabulous? I just wrote this.’ They didn’t—you just got out of the way for a split second and the creative spirit dropped something in. And you just get to write it down. It takes all of the fun out of taking the credit for it, but it also takes all of the pressure off of me and anybody writing if you come from that headspace: it’s not something we do, it’s something we allow. And it’s a brilliant gift.” Rigors of the Row “There is a business entity that can enter the professional songwriter’s world, especially if you’re down there every day, cranking out songs, and you’re up to date with whose going to the studio. It’s one thing to be inspired by an artist, ‘I’m going to write a song for Willie Nelson and make it in the style he’d do,’ a labor-of-love approach to being specific. But being driven by this week’s record on the charts and trying to do that is deadening to me. There are people who can do that, but it doesn’t have to do with the soul of songwriting. I hear songs on the

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radio and I go, ‘That’s an office song.’ Two crafty writers got together and their brains wrote the song. It’s like moving furniture around.” “Sometimes I’ll write with someone and it’s like, ‘What’s Faith Hill cutting right now?’ because of course they’re writing with me, and I wrote ‘This Kiss’ for Faith. It doesn’t make any difference. When we wrote ‘This Kiss,’ we were just writing for the song. And if we shut up, the song will tell us what it wants to be. And the best thing about allowing is that you don’t have to even put your hand on the steering wheel. You see where it takes you, respect where you end up, have a cup of tea, and then strap on your analytical mind and polish ‘er up. I do two kinds of writing, one is allowing as much of this thing to come through me with as little of my interruption as possible—messy, confusing, disjointing, making no sense. From this place of chaos comes the most amazing stuff. I’ll be playing and go to anther key, but the fact that I did that is like a butterfly bubbling along and knocking into things and what I knock into is usable, fresh, and I wouldn’t have thought of that. It only comes from the freedom of not thinking. And I’ll write that way—a mess! And I’ll go back and listen, and it’s like I’m hearing things for the first time because I wasn’t actually there, and I’ll say, ‘That’s cool —it sounded like I said sand and water,’ and I’ll write that down.” “The workmanlike way is then I’ll go back through these recordings and pick out what’s working and discard the rest. And take another run at it and work at what’s working and take a leap into the unknown. It’s like a bungee jump. Learning to become comfortable with not knowing what you’re doing is what it comes down to. And it’s just a wonderful thing—everyone knows how to not know what they’re doing, and no one wants to admit that and they spend their whole time trying to know how to write a song. If you go to college for four years to know how to write a song, you’re missing the point. You’ve got to learn how to not know how to write a song.” Fresh Towels and Liquid Dreams “I did a show at Vanderbilt [University], and I was talking about the white folded towels in the ether, and this guy raised his hand and said, ‘I totally get that thing with the towels, but I only get wash cloths!’ But if you get enough washcloths you can make a towel.”

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“It’s like a pilot light, it’s always lit, and when it gets connected it’s this unstoppable thing—a creative spirit that’s available to everybody. Watching people get reconnected to it is one of the biggest thrills that I have. It’s right up there with having someone’s face light up when they hear a song I wrote. There’s this wonderful sense of recognition when they realize they can do it, too. And that doesn’t mean they can be a songwriter like I am, but they can be a creative genius. What category that falls under they will have to discover on their own. It’s not an exclusive club.”

Steve Seskin: Someday We’ll All Have Perfect Wings I first met Steve Seskin when I was creative director for the National Academy of Songwriters, and Steve was our guest performer for a Songwriters in the Round held in conjunction with the annual Songwriters Expo in Los Angeles. In the commerce-driven environment that defines the commercial songwriting world, it’s sometimes too easy to become distracted by the marketplace, the trends and the economics of the industry, let alone the desperation inherent in these situations. But in his performance that night at the Expo, Steve Seskin played a new song that was to become a country classic, “Don’t Laugh at Me.” To

Steve Seskin

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evoke the hoary cliche´, “there was not a dry eye in the house,” is an understatement. It was very clear that this song cut deeply to the hearts and souls of even the most jaded listeners. Since that night, I’ve had many occasions to hear Seskin perform and to spend time with him at the West Coast Songwriters Association Conference, held annually in Los Altos, California. A gracious man with deep intellect and a self-deprecating sense of humor, Seskin’s sense of the song is epitomized with the dignity that he brings to his craft. “How I live my life has a lot to do with spirituality,” he says. “I try to inject that into my writing, what the world should be like—the world according to Steve Seskin. But I want to put that forward in a way to make people feel it and see it.” It’s rare that a country songwriter can thrive outside of Nashville, but Northern California–based Steve Seskin defies the commonly held assertion that it’s impossible to reside away from the cloistered confines of the Music Row scene and make an impact in country music. But Seskin has written seven number-one songs, including Grammynominated “Grown Men Don’t Cry,” recorded by Tim McGraw, and “Don’t Laugh at Me,” winner of NSAI Song of the Year and Music Row Magazine Song of the Year as recorded by Mark Wills. His other number-one hits are “No Doubt About It” and “For a Change,” both recorded by Neal McCoy, “No Man’s Land” and “If You’ve Got Love,” both recorded by John Michael Montgomery, and “Daddy’s Money,” recorded by Ricochet. Other chart toppers include “I Think About You,” recorded by Colin Raye, and “All I Need To Know,” recorded by Kenny Chesney. The video for Raye’s “I Think About You” single was named the Academy of Country Music’s Video of the Year, and the song and video were also given an award by the Tennessee Task Force Against Domestic Violence. Recent recordings of his songs include “Pictures,” by John Michael Montgomery, “We Shook Hands,” by Tebey, and “I’ll Always Be There For You,” by Brian McComas. Geography notwithstanding, he makes regular trips to Nashville for co-writing sessions. While his prodigious talents as a writer are evident in his covers, Seskin is also a formidable vocalist and guitarist and a

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consummate interpreter of his own material with 17 solo releases to his credit. The Song God Seskin avows that he connects to a higher source initially by being open to it. “In terms of creativity I think of the muse as a Song God, and I look for gifts. Sometimes I’m thinking, ‘Why are you treating me so unfairly? Why are you making this so difficult?’ And I usually find out there’s a reason. Digging a little deeper gets me further. It’s not settling. I never say ‘That’ll work.’ The thing I start with when I’m writing is the notion of being available to the muse. Creativity is not a ‘time versus results’ activity. It’s not like other things. ‘I’ve been at this for two hours—what have I done?’ The answer is I have one line I love. Someone who’s not on the inside of that process might say, ‘C’mon, you’ve been working two hours and only written one line— what’s wrong with you?’ You didn’t write one line; you threw away 50. And there’s wisdom to why you threw away the 50. A good photographer will tell you they take tons of pictures in search of that great photo. It doesn’t mean that anyone could do that. It’s not just luck. And part of the skill is being able to realize the brilliant part, knowing what to throw away, and to be honest with yourself.” “When I think of spirituality, there is some mysterious deal to where songs come from; the original idea and waiting for the brilliance, but I don’t think you’re waiting, I think you’re living. When I’m rewriting and missing the link, I rarely get it by staying to the task and plugging away. And believe me, I do that at times. But I know it’s going to come. I don’t know when, but probably not when I’m writing, per se, sitting with my guitar and trying to make it happen. I need to go to the beach, to stimulate myself with a good book or movie, something that gets my mind flowing, and all of sudden it’s there. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten; I’m available to the muse, and waiting for it. But I have to recognize it when it’s there, and it’s a fleeting thing. I think every creative person has to stop what he or she’s doing when they get a flash of brilliance, or to just observe something that could be a song. I always operate from ‘that could be a song.’ If I don’t take that moment to write it down, it’s going away because I’m

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not going to remember it. I carry a little tape recorder or pen or paper. Every songwriter has written down something while driving, even though it’s not a good idea.” Collaborative Chemistry Seskin observes that in a spiritual sense, it helps him to write with people with whom he shares a soul connection. “We have to have a willingness and ability to discuss things and to go pretty deep. A spiritual connection with co-writing is the emotional connection, the willingness to share your deepest darkest fears and secrets with someone in the name of the song. We end up sharing in a deep way that might be reserved for a lover or a really great friend. That happens, that deep connection, through creativity.” Seskin and Alan Shamblin co-wrote “It’s Going to Hurt to Go There” about being a member of a family that always swept things under the carpet. “The hook is, ‘It’s going to hurt to go there, but it’s the only way to heal.’ In the course of that song, all kinds of things came up about our childhoods and what we bring to adult relationships from those situations. It was phenomenal and very healing to both of us to write that song.” Honesty is at the core of “Don’t Laugh at Me,” also co-written with Shamblin and recorded by Mark Willis. A top country chart hit upon its release, the song has transcended commercial acceptance to inspire a foundation, and Seskin conducts seminars at elementary schools on the subject. “A lot of the characters came out of our lives. We wrote it about our kids and ourselves. I never anticipated what a huge response there’d be to it,” marvels Seskin. “I didn’t sit there thinking, ‘This would be great for kids at school.’ I thought people would be moved, but I’m amazed at all the work I do in schools now, how kids take to that song. We got lucky that we used first person: ‘I’m a little boy with glasses, the one they call the geek.’ The specifics transcend their nature. Immediately, you’re the little boy they call anything. It allows you to plug in. That’s what specific writing does. I think it’s the chorus that helps, ‘Don’t laugh at me, don’t call me names.’ The example is the geek or the kid on the playground who is always chosen last, but you can plug

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in whatever you want to plug in. I’m amazed at the connection on that song and the broadness. I’ve had kids come up to me in tears. ‘I’m a bully. I’ve been treating people badly.’ I didn’t realize how painful it is for them, too.” “Don’t Laugh at Me” became the impetus for the Operation Respect/ Don’t Laugh at Me project, a curriculum designed to teach tolerance in schools. This program has already been implemented in more than 20,000 schools across the country. Seskin now enjoys performing at school assemblies in support of this program. The song is now available as a children’s book, Don’t Laugh At Me, which was featured on PBS’s Reading Rainbow. Relevant Religion Although Seskin was bar mitzvahed and went to Hebrew school, he observes that his family wasn’t especially devout. “We were into the traditions, Seder, temple on high holidays, but not really religious. It turned me off when I discovered after the four or five years of Hebrew school that there was a different mindset. Full circle for me for the next 30 years, I wasn’t a member of a temple, wasn’t observant; when our son was nine years old we joined temple to give him that option. I’d like to think I present it to him in a different way: ‘I’d like to expose you to organized religion in this way, albeit a very reformed Judaism.’” “Spirituality and religion are close cousins, but not the same thing. I’m not a huge fan of organized religion,” continues Seskin. “I respect whatever anyone believes in, but I draw the line at proselytizing. I don’t believe my job is to convince someone else that this is how it his because, obviously, this is not how it is. If that’s not the most obvious thing in the world, I don’t know what is. There are devout people who really feel religious conviction on a deep level, and it’s not always the same one. So I think there is a spiritual way that one lives their lives that has little to do with religion, but it has to do with morality.” Miracles And Messages “When I take a stance, I want people to know how I feel. My goal is to have somebody who doesn’t agree with me hear the song and say, ‘I

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never looked it at that way,’ as opposed to shoving it off in two sentences. For me the responsibility is the old cliche´, trying to make the world a better place. Within that statement, people wouldn’t agree what makes the world a better place. I have a bit of an agenda with my writing. I always have an emotional agenda—I’m a lyric-driven writer. Music is very important to my songs, but I don’t write a lot of great groove dance tunes, although as a listener, there’s great music I listen to and don’t care what the lyrics say. As a writer, I usually have a message. When you’re done with a song of mine, I want you to laugh, cry, or think, depending on the song. Otherwise, I’ve failed. I recently wrote a song called ‘Making a Life.’ The chorus says, ‘Don’t let that big house become a broken home/What good’s a pocket full of money to an empty soul/Ask yourself this question when you lay down at night/Are you making a living, or are you making a life?’” “Obviously, when you hear the term ‘making a life,’ it’s going to mean different things to different people, but most will wonder, ‘How do your friends feel about you? Your family?’ Not whether or not you’re driving a Maserati. Making a living doesn’t mean putting food on your family’s table to survive—it means, ‘Are you consumed by making a living and always needing more at the expense of your life?’ As we wrote the chorus, it was clear to me that I have absolutely no right to say that to the general public. ‘Hey buddy!’ Nobody wants to hear it. The only way to put that information forth so that someone who needs it might hear it is to do the songwriter trick, we’re there eavesdropping on a conversation. So in the song, the singer is a son, and his dad is saying this to him. The listener either relates to it or not, but they don’t feel assaulted. What I’m trying to say is, this is important and you need to hear it, but I have to house it in a way that they’re going to listen.” I’m fat, I’m thin. I’m short, I’m tall. I’m deaf. I’m blind. Hey aren’t we all? Don’t laugh at me, don’t call me names. Don’t get your pleasure from my pain.

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In God’s eyes we’re all the same. Someday we’ll all have perfect wings. Don’t Laugh at Me Steve Seskin/Alan Shamblin

Marcus Hummon: Travels on the Broken Road “There’s another experience, and that is when you sit down with your guitar or piano and you’re working, and suddenly you get that ‘aha!’ that the lyric and melody work together, and that is magical. And to me, the best part is when you really hit it and it’s so right. Which isn’t to say that hearing a song on the radio isn’t a thrill, but the highest payback is in the flush of it.” Marcus Hummon embodies the thoughtful spirit of his craft and has distilled it into some of the best-loved songs in modern memory. “Bless the Broken Road,” a mega-hit for Rascal Flatts and a Grammy-winning song, might be his most recognizable calling card, but Hummon has also written for Patty Loveless, Sara Evans, the Dixie Chicks, Bryan White, Steve Wariner, Kathy Mattea, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Alabama, and Wynonna. An accomplished vocalist and interpreter of his own songs, Hummon has also recorded and

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released a number of solo records and co-founded a group, The Raphaels, with the late Stuart Adamson. There is another side to Hummon, an unexpected alternate vocation perhaps for a writer based on Music Row, and this is his parallel career writing for the theater with Off-Broadway, European, and national stagings of his shows. He is married to Becca Stevens, an Episcopal minister who serves as chaplain at St. Augustine’s Chapel, Vanderbilt Campus, in Nashville, and the founder of Magdalene, residential communities designed to rehabilitate women with a criminal history of drug abuse and prostitution. Between his home life in Nashville, travels to Europe and the west coast for activities tied to the production of his plays and the writing and production gigs that now come his way as the result of being a top echelon Nashville writer, Hummon is certainly time-challenged. I had previously interviewed Marcus just before his breakthrough successes, and recalled from our conversation his genuine warmth and sensitivity to matters of the soul. He was equally generous is speaking with me for this book, and we had two in-depth conversations on concurrent mornings before his sessions began at the Geffen Playhouse in Los Angeles. Mosquitoes, MacArthur, and the Muse After graduation from Williams College in Massachusetts, Marcus Hummon moved to Los Angeles in tandem with his sister to make his mark as a vocalist. Considering his young age, he had already seen much of the world, having grown up as the son of a career diplomat and variously living in Tanzania, Nigeria, the Philippines, Italy, and Saudi Arabia. His career on the west coast was not a study in glamour, as he waited tables in the Santa Monica area and plied his trade in small clubs—At My Place, Madame Wongs, and Club Lingerie—with bands, while performing folk/rock songs to entertain diners in various eateries. “I had nothing. I didn’t have a car,” Hummon recalls. “I stayed with a great aunt of guy who I’d played football with. We lived on Vermont and Wilshire, near MacArthur Park, with his aunt and her sister, these elderly Lithuanian women. We lived

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down there and took the bus system for two years. When I look at it now, I can’t believe it.” As a songwriter, Hummon believes that he retains and reinterprets these distinct images from his history. “It all comes back. I do look at all of those times we struggled, and I look at them really fondly, as serious grist for the mill. Not that my life is so unbelievably different now, but it’s significantly different, and I think there are scars. If you hang in there and stick it out, you can become pretty proud of those times, even though at the time they weren’t that great. There were definitely moments—we never had an air conditioner for two years, so sleeping was like getting close up and personal with mosquitoes, thinking they are your friends, bringing them into your life. I had one of those rooms where the screening was broken down; it was hot in the evening. Nowadays if the air conditioning doesn’t work in my hotel I complain, ‘Can someone come up and fix it?’” To the Row He Will Go After his stint in Los Angeles, in the mid-1980s Hummon and his sister, Sarah, relocated to Nashville. Auditioning for a music publisher, they were offered a deal, which Marcus signed, while his sister opted to return to college. Then came the torturous process of trying to mold Hummon into a recording artist to fit the milieu and the times. It was a tough fit. “Part of my problem as a recording artist related to the fact—I say this legitimately—it wasn’t central to put me in a genre. Where being diverse can be very helpful as a writer or a producer, when you are as diverse as I was in terms of writing and thinking—I didn’t resemble the country industry a great deal. I felt like a fish out of water. I also never felt comfortable with ‘I’m a pop artist.’ There was something about country music that’s like folk music; that’s the way I connected myself to it. There is something I instinctively love.” “For a decade I tried getting a deal, and I finally signed with Columbia. I had four, full contractual development deals, and it just got so strange that people were calling me when they were doing showcases to get references on lighting design. It was really irritating. ‘Hell, Marcus, all he does is showcase.’ Suddenly I was in my thirties, and

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I had two kids. I also found a lot of the travel and being on the road, I didn’t really enjoy it very much. I might have enjoyed it more in my twenties, or when I wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, but I found overall that it was not something I particularly enjoyed. And that is not a recipe for mega success as a recording artist.” “I think, realistically, if the label had chosen ‘One of These Days’ or ‘Bless the Broken Road,’ and gotten behind it with a video and some money, it might have broken my career because there was something I could instinctively do that was different than anything else in the industry. When you get into a discussion on how to market yourself, it feels like an ego-driven discussion, but you still have to have it. And you have to ask, ‘What does make me different. What is the thing? Is there anything special here?’ I think there was. My disappointment at Columbia was they didn’t choose those things.” Still, Hummon avows that he is perfectly happy with how it all went down. “I’m much happier as a person. If, in fact ‘One of These Days’ did become a huge hit, would I still be married and have my beautiful songs and still write everything from Egyptian music to Celtic? I don’t know if that would have been the case. It’s possible I would have put all of those things at risk. And maybe that’s an unfortunate reflection on myself. Maybe that’s admitting a certain amount of weakness. But so be it. Better to be 46 and in love with my wife, as I am, and even though I have to go off to do theater in different cities, I’m so happy to be a father and connected with my kids. And ultimately I am a homebody. I like messing around the house. Now I produce records, and a lot of it is songwriting, but I really do like working with artists and helping them to find those very same things. What’s special? What’s the core? Who are you, and what do you want to say? How do you maintain a sense of humor in the midst of all the nonsense and also be forgiving of others and yourself in the process? If you can pull all of those elements together, you can have a great career. And I like to see that from other people.” Monks and the Muse Hummon sometimes speaks to songwriter organizations, and he prefers to do it anecdotally. “One of my themes is to have a real appreciation

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for how hopeless the industry is in one sense.” Having multiple options to fall back on, he notes, can be a recipe for failure—“if you do a twoyear plan, for example, and you leave a lot of outs for yourself. I’ve never met anyone who worked in the arts and made something of themselves and made something extraordinary without cutting the ties behind them and leaping into the life. It’s a pilgrimage; you’re like a monk at first. You have to give up things. You have to cut ties. And then the other side to that idea of committing yourself by leaping off the bridge is that no one can possibly promise you anything.” “You can use large, famous examples like Vincent van Gogh, a troubled person with an enormous heart for people with his early work as a seminarian and working with the poor. He shifted at such a late age to painting, so that same enormous spirit within him became evident. But we’re talking about a man who sold only one painting in his lifetime, and it was to his brother, who pitied him. Now, they’re the most expensive canvases on the earth. He was a guy who suffered from deep depression, probably drug abuse, he cut his ear off—not a happy camper—but all someone has to do is walk into a museum and witness one of those paintings. You go, ‘Dear God, what were they thinking not buying these paintings?’” “From a songwriter standpoint, you might wake up one morning and discover, ‘You know what? I’m not John Lennon, I’m Guy Clark. I’m one of the best wordsmiths in the world in a way, in a fashion I never am going to sell a million records, it’s just not going to happen, and there’s no way about it.’ If you tell kids that those are the two realities, now what do you want to do? That’s the part where I think it’s like a pilgrimage, an avocation, a way of life, a way we filter all of our experiences prismatically, through music. And if it’s something that’s a quest to you, then you’re the real deal.” Nails for the Carpenter Hummon is a committed Christian. “I believe Jesus embodies the highest aspirations of the human race. He embodies the will of God in some important way. My theology, as they say in seminary, is that I have a low ‘Christology.’ Everyone has his or her own issues. My Jesus is very earthy. He plays the blues; he is a folk artist. I also think I’m

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governed; whenever I spin out, Jesus is also a figure in my life where I can center myself. I’m sure Buddhists feel that way about the Buddha. I actually spent a fair amount of time when I was in college studying Buddhism and raking a Zen garden for my guidance counselor who was a Lutheran minister and a Zen Buddhist. But I find the idea of Jesus’ life and his vision of offering this really radical form of love and the ways that love demands of you that you seek justice, and that you try as an artist to create something really beautiful and true from your experience, which I also think is also very akin to the idea of seeking justice for people. I don’t know if I’ve turned Jesus into a folk music playing hippie, but I think as we find out who we are in our culture, what part we play, what is our archetype, we often do reflect back on the sacred. And to me it’s very grounding.” Radical love is a term that Hummon defines this way: “I think that we, especially songwriters, give a lot of ink time and lip service to that word. It has many manifestations. If you contemplate love as being in the center of the heart of God, it is probably deeper and broader than anyone can imagine. The amount of forgiveness and grace that inhabits the heart of God, I think—the times in my life when I’ve felt I begin to understand it—what I’ve begun to understand is kind of an ocean. I think there is a vastness and power that is perhaps beyond human experience, but we can tap into it.” “Back to who is Jesus? Again, in my mind and what I understand from gospel and experience and the present tense—not scripture or ritual, but in the eyes of people everywhere—I do sense the power of love. I think it is real. And I know a lot of people particularly today feel that type of language and talk is associated with particular political agendas, an ‘opiate of the masses’ kind of speak, but I don’t think in those terms.” Here Is the Church, Here Is the Steeple Hummon is aware that for many former churchgoers, the dogma and separations inherent in the followers of organized religion can have a negative impact, but he notes a balance. “There is a lot of evidence that certain types of organized religion has brought about a certain amount

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of violence, or divisiveness, but there is also a lot of evidence to the contrary. We tend to focus so often on the negative aspects. We may not think of hospital or schools or teaching. Church is a place where you can go in your life where someone talks about love, and feeding the poor, and forgiving one another. How many places do we go in our life where that is expressed?” “Also, when people are searching, I think they often throw out their background or story, whether you are Lutheran or Episcopal or whatever. Without discipline, most forms of art begin to drift into meaninglessness. It is one thing to take your liturgy as an identity; it is another to think of it as your practice. I think there’s a beauty in speaking words that millions have spoken for generations, and to look back and look forward and rejoice in that. One does not have to create a new icon to let it be what it is. To have a sacred discipline is a beautiful thing to me. And that’s one of the reasons—not just because my wife is a minister—that I enjoy the beautiful language of Episcopal liturgy. I think if I grew up in a different tradition that I would also enjoy the liturgy of that tradition. And I still do from a distance. In college, I studied Islam, and when I would read the language of the Koran in translations it was beautiful language and insight. But it was not exactly my story.” “When I read the beatitudes, and I hear somebody say, ‘Blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek’; the poetry of that language is my story and my tradition—I came from it. When it gets spoken, I resonate like a bell whether I want to or not.”

Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus. . . The Hebrew Bible, not the Old Testament, is the way Hummon defines the texts of the sacred word. “I think ‘Old Testament’ implies a hierarchy. As a Christian, even though I do have a sense of the divinity of Jesus, I do not create a disparity between Christianity and other faiths. And when I look at the Hebrew Bible, as I do the New Testament, it’s just a collection of things pulled together in the fourth century in Nicaea. I am not a fundamentalist or a legalist or literalist in

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that sense. I look at the Hebrew Bible in the same way. You have an amazing collection of different writers and schools of writers reflecting Babylonian captivity or the other periods. Who knows who wrote the first five books, to be honest?” “In that sense, when I read it I find strands of things. The tribal, military strand is there. I do not resonate toward that particularly, on the other hand I know it is religion out of a rough frontier, and it has remnants of that frontier understanding. I do not really find, because I am not looking for, everything to be literal in either Testament; that is an absurdity. A basic reading of the four gospels will give you plenty of problems with that perspective. If you do not understand that, then you should take a course on the synoptic gospels and do some literary critical work.” “Because I do not have that lock-down position on it, I don’t find a unified vision of Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible. What I find are different traditions. I move toward certain prophets, like Isaiah. It’s my opinion that these strands become the universal version of Judaism that Jesus picks up, or frankly is the embodiment of. If you read Amos, there is a strand of this vision that’s universal, not strictly, ‘Let’s wipe out the Canaanites, but leave one horse and one man so he can tell everyone.’ It is not all about that. It does not have to be literally accurate for me, so I look at what is actually there. And as a lover of poetry, the music of it is amazing.” Healing Harmonics Hummon formed a band with Stuart Adamson, probably best known as the lead vocalist for the Scottish band Big Country. Adamson took his own life in Hawaii in 2001. “I had a lot of grief and emotions. It was rough in the end. There were episodes of being on tour and him ending up in detox—the issues around addiction have a lot of history for me anyway. He took his own life, and he was a really dear friend— I’ll always have a hard time with that. One thing that helped me was, I wrote a play called The Pier, and as we speak it goes up for presentation in New York. That play is the story of a young girl who has polio but has a genius-level gift on the Irish whistle, and she’s brought up by

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The Promise and the Process

her single parent in the poverty of Scully Square in Boston in 1890. It’s a show with a strangler, someone killing prostitutes, so it’s about prostitution, which is kind of like the family business considering my wife works with prostitution and drug addiction through Magdalene. But suicide becomes the question, and the question put to the child who is thinking of taking her life is, ‘To what extent can your music save you?’ She’s so brilliant she can almost shape shift. To me, it’s a metaphor of what happens when we do beautiful music that things actually change. And in the story of Stuart, the answer is ‘No, it didn’t.’ But as the writer, I can do any damn thing I want. So I have a radically violent ending to how she answers the question. It really was helpful for me. I was able to get through some of my grief through my story. There are so many different kinds of tragedy, but suicide is so against our nature, you find yourself endlessly puzzling over what that is supposed to mean.” Sterling Songs Lately, Hummon remarks, he finds it difficult to listen to country radio. “And just a couple of years ago, it was fun because we had so much diversity. I felt like we had more and better artists, at least what was getting on radio. I know that’s a cliche´, too; it’s usually spoken by somebody who hasn’t had a cut in awhile. ‘I’m not in the center of the business now so everything sucks.’ I don’t think that’s what’s going on in my reflections. I think there is a tendency to play it safe, and that happens when business begins to hemorrhage. I know that means pockets of other things may come up and become more dynamic; Americana may be somewhere where we look, or if you’re in pop music, you look at the indies and the ways people are marketing and putting their music out. That is where creativity exists. There is not as much fear there—they don’t have anything, anyway. But Faith Hill—I love the fact she cuts Lori McKenna songs. The Dixie Chicks are great like that, recording songs by Patty Griffin, Darrell Scott, and they let me write something with Marti [Seidel], then they do something by Joe Ely, then the Texas writers, and they went deep inside with their newest one. Those are the kinds of artists and producers we need.”

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“Nashville has to be a place where great songs exist. We have to get young writers to focus on creating those types of works, not to just spend their days knocking out double sessions of songs. How good can they be? Dig deeper, take more time, and try to get appointments with older writers—I think that is part of our heritage.”

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Moments of Change

I

n data, linguistics, or biology, the term “transformation” can refer to many types of changes. In fiction, it can even include shapeshifting; in cartoons it can indicate that Clark Kent is about to step into the ever-convenient telephone booth. For songwriters, life’s transformations often result in cataclysmic shifts of reality. Many times these experiences are out of control—the loss of a loved one or a potentially fatal illness. In the best of lights, this is followed by a renewal of faith. For the creative individual, a choice can also be made to transform. Often, this begins with a form of inner dialogue, a radical change in the physical dimensions of writing, speaking, or communicating. It might be reflected in a need for retreats or isolation, and meditation is often helpful in stilling the chatter—especially the sound of one’s own frustrations, expectations, and critics—that may be drowning out the subtle messages of songs. The two songwriters spotlighted in this chapter have each experienced dramatic moments of transfiguration. And their songs and their voices retain the essence of this power, confirming that they have used their power to propel their art. “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” said Friedrich Nietzsche. Meet two songwriters of enduring strength and spirit.

Christine Kane: Learning from the Song Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors. —African proverb

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Christine Kane

When Steve Seskin urged me to investigate the songs and artistry of North Carolina–based Christine Kane and to consider her as a potential interview subject, I was immediately hooked. If Seskin thinks someone is a brilliant songwriter—and chooses to collaborate with her even—I’m all ears. Thanks to the Internet, I was able to surreptitiously investigate Kane online and certainly concurred with Seskin’s assessment: her songs are blessed with an undeniable purity and a deep soulfulness. She’s a joy to interview: insightful, irreverent, and not afraid to laugh at herself. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband, her dog, and three cats, tours widely and, as noted in this chapter, conducts regular workshops. Five years into her career, Kane was successfully touring the college circuit and releasing her second CD when she experienced an epiphany. “I was so burned out and miserable, and I had to make something more of this rather than being about me, my cool songs, being onstage, and being hip,” she recalls. “It was deep exploration time.” While her subsequent performances have included plenty of high profile shows like Rocky Mountain Folks Festival, Kate Wolf Festival, and Chattanooga’s Riverbend Festival—and she now has five CDs with another in the works. Additionally, the artist has a parallel career conducting workshops that bond a practical approach to awakening intuition and creativity in a wide cross section of attendees. Her college circuit lecture,

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“Getting a Job Is Boring. Get a Life Instead,” draws on her own experiences as an independent musician, and she was recently contracted by the federal government to teach creativity as part of its bi-monthly Leadership Assessment Program, an intensive retreat for government leaders. She also facilitates three-day retreats for women at a resort in the mountains of western North Carolina three times a year that are designed to motivate women to evaluate their lives and set new goals and intentions in a safe and comfortable setting. All of these endeavors have helped illuminate her songwriting journey. “When I started getting asked to teach songwriting, I realized there was so much out there already about how to write a hit song. It’s almost tiresome; a lot of songs that are becoming hits are not in that format—it’s an ‘anything goes’ perspective. I realized what I’m strongest at is all I’ve learned from the whole creative process. Learning how to write a song has been the greatest teacher for me. Even if I never played another note of music or stepped on the stage again, I’d be so grateful for having to stick it out and write the kind of songs I write,” she affirms. “When I teach, I make it more linear, but if it’s a week, people start to recognize that it’s a personal process. The whole purpose of it is to see who you are as the writer and to see what challenges you need to go through and get over and what comfort zone you need to get out of to make certain things happen.” Raising Kane Kane notes that while she teaches and facilitates, she also abhors preachiness. “I never get on stage and say, ‘This is how wise I am, and here’s how you should be.’ I do know that I have attained a certain amount of wisdom. I have a certain way with words, and I do like to reach out to people who seem to want that and seem to be lost in a way that I was at one point.” Kane shares that she thinks people can be frightened off by the word spirituality. “I’ve seen some opening acts for me that just think they’re going to show the audience how to live their lives in a way that makes you cringe—I don’t think that’s our place. I think our place is to show who we are, as boldly as we can, and let the spirit of that shine through in ways that people can connect into it or not.”

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When asked if she thinks our talents give us responsibilities, Kane chortles at the ponderous weight of the question. “I don’t now—that’s so Catholic. Sometimes we make things such a burden. I think if our gifts guide us into what makes us happy, then they can become gifts for other people. But if we think, ‘Oh I have this burden, and I must go forth,’ then you become the heavy-handed person that no one really likes. It’s not a fun way to be. There is something to finding a gift, but I’ve never been ‘Oh, look at me with all my gifts.’ I’m the opposite. With the level of insecurity and fear I’ve gone through, I’m more likely to go, ‘What do I have to offer anybody?’ And my challenge is to realize how much we have to offer people in the smallest, tiniest ways and to also take in the e-mail and fan notes I get from people who have significantly changed their lives after listening to my music. It’s a mystery to me.” With songs recorded by artists including Kathy Mattea, and Nashville Star finalist Casey Simpson, as mentioned in the introduction, Kane also collaborates with hit writer Steve Seskin. “I was writing songs from my heart, and I never had any kind of publishing deal, and I think he sensed the kind of freedom that a songwriter like me has. I think it was intriguing to him to write something that was so not about the marketplace. When I encounter staff songwriters who are signed to publishing deals I sometimes think, ‘You can’t be creating anything you’re going to like because you’re so freaked about where it’s going to go or whether it’s going to work.’” Rituals and Rhymes Kane believes that songwriting rituals can be beneficial. “The more emotional and insecure and neurotic somebody is, the better making it a practice works [in balancing] the voice, the ego, and the critic. If I’m sitting and working from 10 to 1 everyday, then the critic goes, ‘OK, we’re used to this.’ By day five it shuts up—it realizes that you’re committed. When someone’s completely insane, it calms that part of them to make it a practice and not such a big deal. It’s like meditation—if someone gets into it and does it every morning, it’s not some gift, some ‘wooo’ thing—you don’t have to light candles. It’s just your practice. I meditate some, not to the extent that would qualify me as a Buddhist monk or anything.”

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“I don’t believe in writers block or getting to where everything you do has to be some great attention receiver. I know the moments of being hooked into me. But is there something bigger that we’re channeling, or is it that we get so peaceful and still when we’re writing that we get the unnecessary stuff out of the way? It may have been Marianne Williamson who said, we’re all like Jesus—we all have that same level of power and love and capability, but the difference between Jesus and us is that Jesus had nothing else. We have egos and needs, the ‘pick me— how am I doing?’ syndrome. Without that, we’re pretty OK. When you’re in the creative process, there’s nothing else that matters. When you’re in the process of writing and you’re really in it, all of the other crap falls away. And that’s what taps you into something that feels so much bigger than you are. There are teachers that say you could live like that every day of your life if you knew how. When we do the creative thing, we finally get a taste of it.” A Zen expression, “Leap and the net will appear,” is included in the Kane/Seskin co-written title track from her most recent CD, Right Outta Nowhere. Kane acknowledges that one of the hurdles she had to overcome in her life was a serious eating disorder. “It wasn’t like the first time I wrote a song I was healed. It’s learning how to keep yourself company. I don’t think I knew how to do that. Writing songs is a hugely courageous act. Anytime we’re willing to step out of our comfort zone and do something bold, there is a measure of healing that happens. Something about that started the healing process for me, taking chances over and over and feeling really happy about having done it and playing something that I had made for people. It started to add up on itself, and I got better at letting go of all of my stuff.”

Sam Baker: Divining the Details The locations: a border whorehouse, a locals’ casino in Reno, the bloodstained interior of a crashed Corvette. The cast: a Pakistani psychic on Manhattan’s lower east side, a privileged Texas son transformed into an old man, a straight-haired orphan girl. As singer/ songwriter Sam Baker frames scenes and characters, he tells their truths in a voice as windswept and craggy as the Texas Plains. Even

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in a state famous for its stellar songwriters, Baker is a treasure. His second album, pretty world, is the follow up to his debut, mercy. As his non-use of capital letters might denote, Baker’s ambitions as a recording artist are modest. “With my first record, the goal was to create a good piece of art, and when it got some airplay and popped up in places, I would go and play. Maybe that’s what pretty world will do too; maybe it will sort of wander around, and I’ll just wonder around behind it.” Compression and Color He considers himself a reporter, and correspondingly, the details in his writing are transparent and journalistic. “I see elements of visions that are black and white, and I have to give them some color. But in giving them color, what I try to do is make sure the color makes sense. If I see the character close enough or I know him well enough, then the fabric had ought to fit. The hat shouldn’t be too big or too little, and the dress shouldn’t be too tight or too short, too long or too full. It all has to work together. You’ve got two to three minutes to button things down,” Baker says, “I like that compression.” As Baker distill his lyrics, he says he feels a decided ambivalence about the painstaking process of refining a lyric down to its purest essence. “I

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struggle with it, but I like to have those boundaries. It’s the invitation of a greater atmosphere.” The Gift of Life It’s a miracle that Baker is on this earth. In 1986, the carpenter, world traveler, and rafting guide was touring South America when a bomb planted by Peru’s Shining Path Guerillas blew apart the bus on which he was traveling, wounding 40 and killing eight, including a father, mother, and their son who were knee to knee with Baker in the passenger compartment. “The blast waves killed the people I was sitting with; it also knocked the air out of our lungs. So, we all were dying without breathing. I came back and breathed, and I think the boy probably did, but his mother and father, I doubt they really moved too much after that.” Baker, his femoral artery and vein both decimated by shrapnel, drifted for days in a shadowy plane somewhere between life and death. “I’m still at a loss of what the dying process is, but by my standards I went fairly far into it. The morning after I woke up from the bombing and had moderate brain damage—but not so much I was incapacitated— something said to me, ‘You are here to do something.’ Even as injured as I was—I was deaf, I couldn’t walk, and was on the verge of dying every second because I lost so much blood and the patches were just barely holding—even then I thought, ‘Let’s be a bit more specific, how ‘bout that?’ For a while I wasn’t in a memory world. I guess we were overnighted down to Kusco and to Lima for a few days, and then onto a military evac down to San Antonio, Texas. Over that seven-day period, I was in a state of barely living. I don’t think in that period I was in the world of the past, the future, or anything but a kind of dream state. That’s not exactly accurate, but more accurate than our world of consciousness. I wasn’t processing like that. Food meant nothing; water meant a lot. I was thirsty all the time. The infection was massive, so I think I processed things as if I were wrapped in gauze, which I was. I had so many holes, but it wasn’t just me. I saw that everything was wrapped in gauze.” Even comprehending what had transpired, Baker says, was difficult. “People explained what had happened. They shouted into my ear

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canals but my drums were blown in. I could hear what they are saying if they were close enough and yelled loud enough. I knew that a train had been blown up. I don’t know that I cared. I was at a state of existence; the state of barely living is pretty engrossing. It occupied a lot of time and space and whatever energy I had. I think it was absorbed in that gauzy period. Then were times were I would drift into some dream states that were pretty terrifying and uncomfortable.” Lazarus Man The exercise of writing became part of Baker’s healing process. “I think to heal I had to understand what happened—to be young and strong one day, and then be deaf and unable to walk, really unable to use my hands and not remembering basic stuff. The whole world changed in less than a flash.” If the flash was instantaneous, the recovery time moved in slow motion. Deafened and traumatized, it took nearly a decade for him to recover. “Let’s not kid ourselves: it wasn’t a straight line. For a number of years, I moved excessively. I added it up, and it was about 16 times in four years. I had a thing where I couldn’t be in a room or any place very long. I felt if I were, the room would blow up. I was at an airport one time, watching one car for no particular reason, and I was sure it was packed with C-4s or something.” Baker compares his experience to that of returning war veterans, although he notes that the situations have many differences. “I understand the sitting on the porch and looking and actually waiting for something to go off, waiting for that ‘terrible quick’ again. I don’t know what that mechanism is that allows some of us to go forward and try to clear up some of those things and it doesn’t allow others. My situation was very different. I had no lead-time. Some of those guys that came back from Vietnam are in a constant state of darkness and uncertainty, and in fact, there were people that wanted for them to die, who wanted to kill them. And of course, they were killing people. Those are some pretty heavy shoes. Every step, every breath, every motion; it’s somehow weighted by those actions. I’m not sure how memory works or how to lighten that weight so it’s easier to carry. I wouldn’t try to speculate about men and women who have gone

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through serious trauma like that. I almost think it’s some universal thing—that people can’t do and can do—that worked for them. My sense is that it’s a very personal, very private side, and it’s dangerous.” Stages of Strength Attempting to make sense of his existence, Baker first turned to writing fiction. When his sister, Chris Baker Davies recorded an album, she included some of Sam’s songs. Clarity through distance, hearing his songs sung in the voice of another focused him on the songwriting and performing paths. Right handed before the attack, Baker taught himself to play left handed. Gradually, playing in front of audiences helped bring Baker to another reality. “I started doing open mics in 2001 and 2002 and finally started playing a roadhouse outside of Austin. It was so noisy, but it was such a great venue to play because I had terrible stage fright and it helped me with having people in front of me. I did that for a year and a half, and one night I looked up and people were actually listening.” Baker references the hymn “Jacob’s Ladder” in his song “Slots” and “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” in “Orphan.” The liturgical melodies are lodged in his memory, as his mother played piano and organ for the local Presbyterian Church in his hometown of Itasca, southwest of Dallas, Texas. “When a song comes in and I’m working, it’s a bit more like being a smoke machine or in fog, where it makes just as much sense for ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ to come out as it would anything else. I can go back and try to detect it, but it’s such a part of the fabric; the character in the song, once I start separating them, I think I’d be trying to separate skin from bone.” Picture This In addition to songwriting, Baker is now teaching himself photography, which is a perfect parallel to his word craft. “I’m learning from some pretty good people, and there seems to be things I like to capture. Right now it’s faces. I love faces. I think faces are so interesting. Our brains are filled up with facial recognition, and we can look in a field of 200 or 500,000 people, and really every face is different. I think it’s amazing. I think people are exquisitely transient and beautiful. There’s

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this beauty that we’re only here for this short time. I guess that opening is our Mecca in some ways. I like to capture people on the fly, as they’re moving, as they’re going through life, and look at that a little bit because we have so little time to look.” Baker avows that as a man who has faced the other side and returned, there is a message to decipher, but the answers are often obscured by the questions. “I don’t have that one figured out. I think a lot of things I do are attempts to fulfill that something, but I don’t think I’ll ever know what it is. These days I think, what if the DNA that has a dying loop says, ‘if you actually get through this let me give you something that’s difficult to understand, a vague mandate.’ I either work around it, or work with it, or run from it.” His song “Broken Fingers” might say this most clearly: “The broken fingers/Some things don’t heal/I can’t wake up from a dream/When the dream is real.” Baker also questions the nature of art. “Is it divine? It’s certainly spiritual. Is divine something that comes from a mountain top or something that comes from the best parts of us or the parts of us that somehow transcend into a different place? I don’t know. I would have to actually look at the word ‘divine.’ My sense is whatever that stuff comes from, it’s a very powerful place. And when I was in the dying process, what I felt and saw in that place was power beyond what we know. It didn’t seem to be denominational. What I saw was beyond what I could easily put into traditional religious words. I think there are things we try to say, and even in this process in the spirit of the divine, I would say, ‘Yes,’ and it’s all people who go into that creative place. We have all been to the same pool of power, of goodness, of strength, of very foggy clarity. That’s the way it comes to me.”

5

Music for Healing

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he I Ching, the famous Chinese book of wisdom states, “music has the power to ease tension within the heart and to lessen and loosen obscure emotions.” Healing with sound is increasingly well regarded and well documented as an effective holistic treatment, even taught in practice in colleges and universities. Music can slow down and help balance brain waves, reduce tension and stress by affecting endorphin levels, reduce physical tension by changing the vibrational frequency of cells, and even evoke feelings of love and inner peace as the mind controls the body’s functions. A study published in the June 2006 issue of the Journal of Advanced Nursing found that listening to music daily reduced chronic pain, made people feel more in control of their pain, reduced depression, and made people feel less disabled by their condition. If you write songs, you probably are well aware of the benefits they might have for others; a melody and lyrics that can entrance a child, sooth suffering, reconnect an elderly listener with another time of life. There is also the potential of songs and music to heal the creators. The trio of songwriters in this chapter has all experienced these messages as music and healing go hand in hand.

Melissa Etheridge: Songwriting Alchemy One of the most powerful images in recent rock was realized when Melissa Etheridge, her hair eradicated by the chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, performed her shattering rendition of Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart” at the Grammy Awards. Etheridge’s commitment to courage is legendary, confirmed by her support of breast cancer 73

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Melissa Etheridge

survivors, her unapologetic stance as a proudly gay rock performer, and as a champion for environmental urgency as recognized with her recent Academy Award for “I Need to Wake Up” from the environmental documentary film An Inconvenient Truth. I first interviewed Melissa on camera for the ASCAP Pop Awards at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood where she was presented with the Society’s Icon Award. Warm and effervescent, Etheridge exerts a powerful gravitational pull that is much more than simply sheer star power. To facilitate the interview for this book, I moved through the requisite management channels and her response was immediate. Days later, when Etheridge called, she began the conversation by repeating this book’s title. A high-profile breakup, children begat from a legendary rock star, and a public battle with cancer notwithstanding, communicating her thoughts about the spiritual source was essentially uncharted interview ground for her. “I can’t get anybody to talk to me about this,” she said. The year Melissa Etheridge turned 40, she met the love of her life, actress Tammy Lynn Michaels. “And I started writing songs like

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‘Lucky’ and ‘Kiss Me’ and thought, ‘This is fun!’ I still have ‘How Will I Know’ with a little fear, but not too much. But it was those sweet songs—what a happy ending. And I thought, ‘That’s it; I don’t want to do much more. Thank you, that was a great ride. I’ll be known as that lesbian singer rock and roller, and I’ll have fans, and every couple of years I’ll tour, and have fun.’ I was like, ‘That’s OK—I’m in love, I don’t need that drama. I’ll write my little songs, and I’ll be fine.’ And then I remember sitting with my drummer and my guitar tech and saying “I don’t know—I need a sign from the universe about what I’m supposed to do. Is that it? Is this all there is?’ And the next morning I found a lump on my breast.” Music has always been a refuge for Etheridge. Growing up in Leavenworth, Kansas, it was both her identity and salvation, “I had a very emotional experience around my writing and singing that had to do with my grandmother. She was the only one who would listen to me—I was 10 years old, strumming on my guitar, and everyone thought I had a really weird voice, and I knew like three chords, maybe. My grandmother—and nobody told me at the time—was dying of cancer. I would sing to her. We’d go down every few weeks, and it was a long way from Kansas to Arkansas.” A book of poems sparked Etheridge’s budding songwriting talents. “It had a children’s poem: ‘The good little sheep run quickly and soft/ Their colors are gray and white/They follow their leader nose to tail/ Because they must be home by night.’ I started strumming chords and singing to the poem. I wrote a little song—I don’t know who I was pretending to be, but I wrote, ‘I want to be a good little sheep, I want to come back home.’ I went down and sang ‘The Good Little Sheep’ for my grandmother. It was the first time I wrote something and sang it for somebody. She turned to me and asked, ‘Honey, would you please put those words in my casket when I die?’” “We came back a couple of weeks later, and she was in the hospital. And even though children were not allowed, they allowed me to come in with my guitar and sing for my grandma. It was the first ‘Wow!’ It put a whole different spin on the power of what I did. And she died right after that. I told my aunt about the lyrics, and she said she would

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put them in the casket. I went back home, and to the melody of the ‘Good Little Sheep’ I wrote my own song, called ‘Lonely as a Child.’ Songwriting was a dramatic emotional spark. That was the one that started it. And I held on to it. And as long as it rattled that spark and the tuning fork inside myself was vibrating when I was writing, it was a song, and it was good, and it was a vibration.” Hormonal Honesty She kept on writing songs, and when she played with country bands her story songs fit the milieu. “I was going to songs and songwriting to express my emotions. So as I go through adolescence, I’m putting everything in my songs. And I’m crazy—not only are my hormones waking up but also I’m gay, and I’m out of my mind. It was a very important thing to me, my songwriting.” After high school graduation, Etheridge enrolled in Berklee College of Music in Boston. In between classes, in a time-honored tradition, she busked for extra money by playing for change at the occasional subway station. More lucrative were cover gigs at clubs on Boylston Street, where she could earn about $50 per night, five nights a week, playing multiple sets, while generating much more in tips from a crowd of inebriated businessmen. With its academic jazz orientation, Berklee was not an exact fit for Etheridge and her rootsy, emotionally raw style of songwriting and performing. She dropped out after her second semester and worked as a security guard at a hospital in the Boston area to support herself while performing in local clubs. In 1981, she moved back home to Leavenworth with a plan of performing in locals clubs to earn money for a car, and then departing for Los Angeles. Onstage at her gig at the Granada Royal Hotel, she performed cover tunes, soft rock, and more requests. On her 21st birthday she left for L.A. Waiting for the Ship to Come In Just south of Los Angeles, the city of Long Beach is a rough and tumble town with shipyard origins and home to a large gay and lesbian population. Etheridge, as a gay woman, felt at home socializing in the city’s clubs. It was a logical extension of her bar performing that she would find a home playing in the women’s bars that existed in

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the gritty seaside community. “Here I am in California. I want to make a record, be rich and famous, and I’m gay; and I want lots of lovers and I’ve written these songs and I want to be a rock star. And I’d try to write what I thought people wanted to hear. And nobody liked those songs. But the songs I would go back to my room and write from that place when I was 10, 11, 12, writing in the basement—those songs I would maybe play for a friend. And I started seeing that the more honest I was in my songs, the more audiences enjoyed them, when it rang that tuning fork again inside myself. And I’d write songs expressly about the girlfriend I had at the time or the situation. This is hard. I’m in a business, and a society, that doesn’t like gays. So I had to find a clever way of being honest, but not confrontational. And I found the more you focus the flow, the harder the stream of water.” As a performer, Etheridge says, she is able to tap a completely different level of spirituality. “I felt that divine spiritual experience with my grandmother. And when I’d get on stage and people wanted to hear my songs, that became this spiritual experience. And I was completely addicted to that. I didn’t have problems with substances, or alcohol or drugs, but I was addicted to the drama of relationships and the drama of being on stage, and it was perfect for my career.” Sleepwalking A well-publicized long-term relationship proved to be the breaking ground for Etheridge as she relates. “I was sleepwalking through my personal life because my professional life was so fun. But by having children and watching them grow, I thought, ‘Wait, I’m miserable. I don’t want my children to think that being miserable is okay. I have to get out of this relationship.’ When I was going through the breakup, I went into the studio to save my sanity. Skin was all about the breakup. And I didn’t need anyone to hear it; I just needed to write it. And from the writing to the performance was a healing experience. I ended the album with ‘Heal Me,’ and I remember saying to the universe, ‘Ok, I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that if I stay there, I’d be dead. I’m floating free, I’m cutting myself out here. I don’t know what happens to my career, I don’t know what happens to me personally. I’m turning 40, and I don’t know.’ And I met the love of my life.”

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Chemotherapy Chorus As soon as she was diagnosed with breast cancer, Etheridge relates that her world, as she’d created it, stopped. “I closed all of the windows and doors and went inside. I had to do chemotherapy; it’s one of the most hideous medical procedures ever. And I know in a couple of years we’re all going to go, ‘Oh, what a bummer.’ But for now that’s what we do. So I go do this for 10 weeks. What you do is poison your whole body. They shoot the chemotherapy into an artery that goes straight into your heart. And then the blood pumps it through your whole body, and it kills every dividing cell. Your whole gastrointestinal system goes ‘phtt.’ Your hair falls out and all your nails—those are dividing cells. And hopefully it kills any cancer cells in your blood stream. So there you are. It’s from inside out.” She explains that the process was one of absolute mental solitude. “I couldn’t open my eyes. Light hurt my eyes. Sound hurt my ears. I couldn’t watch television, and people couldn’t read to me. I had to lay there with my brain and my mind and my soul and my body for hours and days, until my mind finally reached a point of quietness. This is not something I asked for, and it is not something I thought I could obtain. When I got there, when I thought every thought that I could think, I’d gone through my life over and over. And when I had no more junk going in, I reached this point of stillness. And this amazing enlightenment, this joy, came to me. ‘I can stop running. I’m perfect.’ It was one of those moments people talk about, and I had it. And it was the result of being still.” Foretelling the Future “When I came out of the chemotherapy my wife asked me, ‘Did you ever listen to your whole catalog?’ And she starts with my first album. And after every song I’d stop and say, ‘I wrote that, but wow, I didn’t know that was going to happen when I wrote it.’ And I started going through, ‘I’m warning myself here that this is going to happen—and it does.’ And when I get to ‘Come to My Window,’ I said, ‘Nothing fills the blackness that has seeped into my chest/I need you in my blood.’ I thought, ‘That’s creepy!’ And I started listening—where I was so much clearer about what was happening to my body and myself. Really, my

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writing is much more aware than my consciousness. And I got to Skin with ‘Heal Me’ and it’s like, ‘I’m going to get sick.’ And I’d been writing messages to myself, to warn myself and speak my feelings. And of course, that’s what I was doing when I was a child—it was a place to put my fear. That part of me that couldn’t speak, that was connected to my spirit and spirituality was deadened, except in the music. And so I started a connection more with the universe, or God, or whatever one wants to call that.” The Deep End Throwing herself into an ad hoc study of metaphysics, Etheridge says, sent her off “the deep end.” Native American spirituality, quantum physics, string theory—all became fuel for her renewed spirit. “I was already on the track and reading about people who’d discovered that thought creates reality, which is blowing my mind, and I’m seeing it just begin to wake up all over the world. And I understand that the more I say it and think it and live it, the more it comes to me. That’s the law of attraction.” In the recovering months, Etheridge had sent missives into the universe about what she wanted to do with her creative energies. “When I first started trying this, I was on chemotherapy, and I thought, ‘If I can really create something, I want to be on the Grammys.’ Here I am lying in bed. But after I performed on the Grammys with my bald head I was like, ‘Maybe this is serious.’ And I thought, ‘I want to work with people who are working to better the world.’ And when I was lying there in bed, I thought, ‘Hey, I’d like to win an Oscar.’ I told my wife about this. And Al Gore calls. And says, ‘Will you write a song for my slideshow?’” Waking Up “My brain was open. I write the song, and I purposely called I, ‘I Need to Wake Up.’ That’s what I started to see, that I had been asleep, my spirit, my connection. That thing I was doing blindly with the universe, writing and letting my emotions come through, and I think we all have that connection. And I think we all need to wake up. Starting with the ecology and the environment is a good place, ‘Have I been sleeping/I’ve been so still/take me where I’m supposed to be/To comprehend the

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things I can’t see. I need to move. I need to wake up.’ Great! I want to write about this experience. I’m waking up. I’m excited, connected to some spiritual, universal source. My head is blown off. This one little stream that was coming through and writing those songs has now become a huge waterfall. I’m so turned on about writing songs.” “My next album is called The Awakening. It’s exactly what I told you. It’s me going, ‘If this is the way it works.’ And I’m seriously a normal person. And I think we all have the capacity to open up the channels as wide as we want to open them. I have made it a practice. Like some people become yoga masters or painting masters, I have mastered this because I have been doing it since I was eight years old. And I have really made it my life’s work. I have reached such a delightful place in my songwriting. I can’t wait to write my next song. I’m just alive and on fire with the excitement of writing.”

Paul Williams: Connected to the Creative Rainbow An Oscar, a Grammy, enshrinement in the Songwriters Hall of Fame, and a star on fabled Hollywood Boulevard: Paul Williams’ illustrious career is highlighted by awards, kudos, and successes across an expansive swath of popular media from hit songs to films, television to theater. Conceivably, at this career juncture, Williams could be resting on his laurels and reclining on a beach somewhere. Instead, the sixtysomething songwriter has been co-writing with Jake Shears and Baby Daddy for their band, Scissor Sisters, merited a credit on Dizzee Rascal and Lily Allen’s “Wanna Be” (thanks to a sample from his score to Bugsy Malone), and is writing and composing for upcoming stage projects, including Happy Days, a theatrical version of the famous television show, with the series’ producer, Garry Marshall. Paul’s beloved catalog of hits includes such perennial favorites as “We’ve Only Just Begun,” “An Old Fashioned Love Song,” “Evergreen,” “Rainy Days And Mondays,” “I Won’t Last A Day Without You,” “You And Me Against The World,” “The Rainbow Connection,” The Love Boat theme song, “You’re Gone,” “Let Me Be The

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Paul Williams

One,” “Nice To Be Around,” “Out In The Country,” “Family Of Man,” “Cried Like A Baby,” “Love Dance,” and “My Fair Share.” Williams scored the films Bugsy Malone, Phantom Of The Paradise, The Muppet Movie, A Muppet Christmas Carol, One On One, Ishtar, Cinderella Liberty, A Star Is Born, and The End. And unlike many songwriters who are uncomfortable in the spotlight, Williams effectively parlayed his personality into a parallel career in the 1970s as an actor, a favorite talk show guest, and a regular on the daytime television show Hollywood Squares. I first met Paul when he hosted a “Salute to the American Songwriter” concert in Los Angeles, and over the years our paths have crossed many times. Through past interviews with Paul, I was aware of the other side of his endeavor, as a recovering alcoholic and as a certified drug and alcohol counselor; but ironically, this vital element in his life was not something that I could include in any prior media. But when I was considering interview subjects for this book, Paul Williams was certainly at the top of my list.

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Jamaica Farewell “In 1987, I was in Jamaica working on a project. At 2:00 in the afternoon, a guy asked me if I wanted a rum and coke. I thought, ‘Well, hell, I’m the Paul Williams. I’ve got a star on Hollywood Boulevard and an Oscar on my piano. I can handle one drink.’ So at 2:00 in the afternoon in Jamaica I had a rum and coke. At 2:00 in the morning I was at Bob Marley’s grave explaining reggae to a lot of black people I didn’t know. And I stayed out there for two more years because I cannot have a drink. I had my last drink in 1989, and continued sobriety since March 15, 1990. And it’s the best part of my life.” Unlike many songwriters who struggle with their craft and endure years of rejection and anonymity, Williams’ rise was dramatic and virtually immediate. First signed to a company in Los Angeles called White Whale (home to the group The Turtles, among others) he was released by the company only months into his contract with the dictum that he might not have a future as a songwriter. “I’ve always said that in my life, ‘no’ is a ‘yes,’ and a great example is my songwriting. I started out to be an actor, and when the acting dried up—very quickly—I was left with nothing to do, no money to go to the movies, and a chest full of emotion. Before I made a living at writing songs, I got a life from songwriting, and the life I got was an emotional healing —sitting down to write about this stuff that was going on in the center of my chest. In a sense, it was a healing and a self-discovery process, dealing with the emotions in a way that I didn’t even realize I was dealing with them. Songwriting became a kind of journaling process for me. I hadn’t done any analysis, or spent any time on the couch; I wasn’t aware I was doing that, but the first real gift of songwriting was that it put me in touch with who I was. The interesting thing for me was that with songwriting, almost immediately, I found myself being given the opportunity to do it for a living, through a couple of chance meetings with other songwriters who led me to A&M Records and my songwriting career.” Self-Medicating the Muse “‘I’m nothing but I’m all I think about’ is a classic line,” Williams laughs. “I think that there is that whiplash experience of going from

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anonymity into the glare of the spotlight for many people in the music business. Also the whiplash of being told, ‘You’re different’ to being told, ‘You’re special.’ There’s a larger gulf between those two words— ‘different’ and ‘special’—that any other two words I can think of that have affected my life. We’re all special. That’s the gift of our recovery. Our uniqueness is a gift, it’s who we are; but we’re all family. But there is a connectedness. It’s why music works. It’s why, when I listen to Dvorak symphony, I want to cry. Or I listen to an aria, when I don’t understand a word of Italian, and look across the room and see that some truck driver is moved to tears. We have different lives, but we’re both touched by that piece of art. It’s that connectedness. The family of man—we have the capacity to be moved. Those of us in the public arena are the ones who are written about. In 17 years, I have friends who are sober doctors, judges, and cops. I speak at recovery events, and I’ve spoken to sober dentists and sober lawyers. What is ignored is that there’s no difference between a bored housewife in Louisville, Kentucky, drinking Listerine and the lead guitarist of a big rock group shooting heroin. They’re both self-medicating. They’re both dealing with fear and anxiety. They’re self-medicating emotions in a way they’ve found to deal with. The trick to recovery is to realize that it only works for a little while, or it doesn’t work at all. And when it stops working, it’s better.” The Subconscious Center Williams emphasizes that a big part of his writing process is that he’s come in contact with his unconscious. “When I became sober, I didn’t know if I’d ever be passionate about writing again, so I waited a long time. One of the first things I did, and I had maybe been sober for a year, I wrote the songs for The Muppet Christmas Carol. What I did was a great lesson. I’d look at the script, ‘Now Disney wants a song about Scrooge. We’re seeing his feet as he goes by, and little rats and things are even colder.’ There’s an expression, ‘I don’t know how to do this, but something inside me does.’ And that’s essentially what I was saying. In my collective experience, in my unconscious, in the gifts that I’ve been given is the ability to write this song. So I’m not even going to think about it.”

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“I picked up a murder mystery by Lawrence Block and got as far away from A Christmas Carol as I could get. I had the original script, I knew what was needed, and I ignored it. I started reading. Within the hour it popped in my head. I set down the book and wrote, ‘When the wind blows it chills you, chills you to the bone/But there’s nothing in nature that freezes your heart like years of being alone.’ I know it came out of my process and out of my own mentality. But I didn’t work at it. I trusted my own instincts and add to that the ability to play at writing rather than working at it, that’s the successful mix for me as a writer.” Random Patterns Williams says he doesn’t believe that our destinies are totally planned out by the universe. “I’m a big believer in the power of intention. An unchecked fantasy about what a fabulous life you’re going to have, not weighted down with the reality of circumstance, for people who don’t end up in the asylum—often ends up with billionaires and huge successes. I think what we dwell on, and think about, we manifest. I feel like more of an active participant in my life today, but I look back on it, and I realize that I was being led. I think that there were elements at work in my life that I see as an absolute gift now, that I was led to where I needed to be. And once again, ‘No’ begins a navigational nudge—it puts me in the direction I need to be going.” For Whom the Song Tolls Early in his career, Williams noted that alcohol and drugs were heavily romanticized. “I thought, ‘Hemingway drank and Fitzgerald drank— goddammit I’m going to drink too.’ Alcohol and other drugs worked in self-medicating fear. What started out being a party stopped being a party very quickly. I wrote in spite of the drugs and alcohol and not because of them. I’d stay up two and three nights doing endless writing, then get up, look at what I’d written, and write in the first hour after getting up and being clean and sober, write what became the song from a perspective of sobriety and really seeing it.” Suffering, says Williams is key to spiritual awareness. “As long as I could stumble along in my disease I kept doing it. It’s hard for parents: if you have a kid who’s a drunk, you have to let them hit bottom—that’s when they’ll find their own recovery. I know kids in their mid-twenties who are

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sober 10 years. I was 49. It takes what it takes. It’s a progressive disease. I began drinking as a kid, but it never hit. But you know you’re an alcoholic when you misplace a decade. And the 1980s were where it went over the line. With my addiction, I saw my productivity fall apart.” He notes that alcoholism is an insidious disease. “I don’t know when I crossed the line from use to abuse to addiction, but I did. What I did to medicate fear in the early years of my life progressed so I could deal with the bogeyman—and then I became the bogeyman. Alcoholism is an obsession of the mind, an analogy of the body, and a spiritual dilemma. We get to the point as alcoholics where we process alcohol differently, and we experience the phenomenon of craving. And I know the reason: it has to do with blood sugar dropping. And I can’t take one drink; that drink will then take a drink. The key for me is to remember that my disease sits there in the back of my head like a little bird that will tell me, ‘You don’t really have the disease.’ It’s the only disease that will tell you that you don’t have it. A big part of my recovery is to remember I’m not recovered—I’m recovering. I have to stay in love and service, in service to my fellow man, and remember my windshield gets dirty on the inside. My thinking can get very twisted, so I talk to other alcoholics, and read spiritual books, and try to stay grateful.” Gratitude Dude Williams concludes that at this point in his life he has experienced what he defines as “The Lazarus Principle.” He explains, “17 years ago I was given my life back when I became sober. Everything in my life relates to that moment, that gift, of being reborn. The perspective that I look at the first half of my life with is through the grateful eyes of an alcoholic. I’ve heard people joke about how an alcoholic can read the same book twice and enjoy it more the second time in the same way I think there is perspective on the gifts of my life that I can see in this day and age that I couldn’t see then. I find myself being overwhelmed with gratitude for things that happened 35 years ago. It’s an interesting process.” “At this point it’s all a gift: my wife says she’s going to put that on my headstone.”

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Gary Malkin: Composing to the Light I was introduced to Gary Malkin at the West Coast Songwriters Conference in Los Altos, California, when I was asked to fill in and moderate a panel titled “Songs for Social Change.” It was a profoundly expressive session as each of the songwriters and composers shared the power of musical creation to transform lives and experiences. As the award-winning composer spoke of his media enterprise Wisdom of the World and the Graceful Passages project (created with Michael Stillwater), his intensity and devotion to the transfiguring power of music was a palpable force. When the opportunity came to write this book, I believed his story would be an integral illustration of the theme. We spoke as he was on the East Coast to present a keynote speech to a convention of cancer survivors. He explains the impetus for this endeavor. “About three years ago, I met the woman who had arranged the conference, and I asked, ‘Has anyone ever spoken in an inspiring way about how facing mortality can actually enhance your quality of life?’ She said no one had been able to address it because of the stigma. I gave a talk last year in Seattle

Gary Malkin

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to about 1000 cancer survivors and their families. It was an incredible conference with powerful performances, but very much balanced in terms of heart and spirit with integrative medicine. By combining poignant songs and instrumental music with my keynote speech, it was the most rewarding public presentation I’d ever given. They thanked me for mentioning what the doctors tend to avoid talking about, mostly because of fear.” The Sound Takes Flight Using music as the lubricant to talk about the things we can’t talk about, Malkin says, is a prime motivational factor. “Films do that, so why can’t music alone?” he asks. The award-winning composer recalls earlier in his career scoring a groundbreaking anti-nuclear feature documentary that used the migration of birds as a metaphor for the continuum of life. “It was the opening night of the New York Film Festival at Alice Tully Hall. I was standing in the back of the theater, and near the end of the film the air was thick with people’s despair. You could smell, feel it, and taste it. It was really oppressive. The filmmaker had instructed me, with the last scene, to create a five-minute cue. He said, ‘Somehow we want the music to create a sense of hope.’ So I had written this cue; and there I was in the back of the room, and what I felt in the room was the closest thing to a spiritual awakening that I’ve ever had. In that moment the air completely cleared. You could hear people breathing more deeply, you could hear that the whole room shifted, and it was because of the music. There was nothing but music and birds flying, and in that moment, I went, ‘Holy shit —this is so much more of a responsibility than just fame, fortune, and gigs.’ I will never forget that.” Transformation and Transition When Malkin was 21 years old, a tragic accident claimed the life of a little girl who was like a godchild to the composer. Malkin and the girl’s father were jumpstarting a car and didn’t realize she was under the wheel. For a decade, Malkin would awake in the middle of the night with this image frozen in his consciousness. The birth of Malkin’s own daughter stirred his spiritual sensibilities; but when she was six, Malkin experienced another catastrophic

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occurrence—this time a bike wreck that injured his daughter and threatened to deny him the use of his left hand—a crucial component for any pianist. While he was recovering, his wife experienced a spiritual crisis of her own and left their marriage. For Malkin, pain evolved into a powerful epiphany. “When I had my accident and then my wife left me in the same month, it was either I was going to kill myself or I was going to find some way to make this meaningful. Otherwise, I could go crazy. When my wife told me she was going to leave, I was just beginning to recover, not knowing if I’d ever play piano again. I remember having these violent fantasies about what I would do to her for hurting me at the level that she did; I couldn’t control them. I’m such a ‘touchy feely’ kind of guy, but I was close to doing something that they would have put me in jail for. That suffering was a kind of a death for me—and was the birth of Graceful Passages and the life I went on to lead.” Graceful Passages is a compilation of music paired with spoken messages about loss and dying from 12 of the world’s most profound wisdom keepers: Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, Thich Nhat Hanh, The Rev. Alan Jones, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, and Ram Dass, among others. The CD/book is meant “to help people realize that emotional and spiritual intelligence is needed profoundly during the transitions of life,” Malkin explains, “when you don’t exactly know what’s coming around the bend. When people experience loss of any kind, they’re in new territory. This is the time when you need support from the people who have walked those walks and traversed those waters. This is the time when you’re most receptive to really listening, and by using the power of film-score quality music, it deeply enhances the power of the spoken wisdom. So that’s my goal, to increase the world’s awareness of the need for support during transitions by melding spoken wisdom with the awesome power of music.” The God of Media The commandment that says “Thou shall not put other Gods before me” resonates deeply in Malkin’s consciousness as he reflects on his early ambitions within the mechanisms of Hollywood, “Let’s face it: the reason that the L.A. machine exists is because the god of fame and

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glory, success and wealth, seduces everyone to some degree. It’s fine, but not if it’s at the exclusion of our humanity, integrity, quality of life, and connectedness to what matters. Everything had to be taken away from me, including all my addictions to wanting to be rich and famous; I was really successful at the time of this the accident. I had property and money. Most of it has gone, but I’m rebuilding from a whole new foundation now, so I don’t regret it an ounce. What prepared me for this is I experienced a kind of death, and nearly everything I was constantly around was gone. I was shattered. It’s that up close and personal experience of life’s impermanence, not an abstract thought, but a direct experience of loss that often is the most powerful spiritual awakener. It’s the ultimate loss and a profound spiritual catalyst when someone dear to you is gone.” “Whether you call it God, the world, the universe, or spirit, these experiences clean you out relentlessly. All the inconsistencies and flaws in your character start to come to the surface; there’s no question of that. They say it takes a crack in the heart to let the light in or the light out—either way. I believe it’s that crack, meaning the suffering that we experience, that awakens our humanity, and that includes the sorrow and pain, but can ultimately bring out so much beauty as well.” Commercial Concerns Malkin emphasizes that even though he is becoming well known in spiritual, global healing, and health care circles, he still loves composing music for commercial endeavors—films, documentaries, and commercials as well. “My favorite experience is when you take away the thing that’s being asked of me. For example, when I am ‘spotting’ a film (an initial viewing to determine where the music will go), my favorite aesthetic moment is being in the experience of seeing the fine cut without listening to any temp music yet. I can feel it from inside me, calling for what it wants to be. I can hear instruments, textures, genres, and melodies, and that’s a spiritual experience for me. It’s so exciting to feel like you’re this vessel, and if you empty yourself enough, you can hear things that come from some place deep inside.” And Malkin says that he notes a strong current of change in audiences yearning for media and experiences more spiritually satisfying.

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“Everywhere I go I’m noticing, including in media, that people are hungry for a deeper connection with meaning, deeper relationships with things larger than themselves with a stronger connection to heart and spirit. Rather than focusing on our linear, intellectual minds as the only form of credible communication, rather than continuing to deluge us with meaningless, shallow entertainment, it’s time for us to use media, music, and the arts to inspire us, uplift us, to offer hope for the integration of our common humanity. I guess I have a little more optimism than most. After all, how long can mindless media dominate the airwaves? We can’t stay in the cesspool forever.” Grace in the Cathedral “Last August, a friend came to me and told me about the events that were coming up around the International Day Of Peace (September 21) and mentioned that I could promote my work on their website. I told them that I was using music to support people through life’s transitions, and I don’t think my work would be useful to them. Even though I supported world peace, it didn’t feel like I was the perfect person to be involved. Then I found out about this extraordinary confluence of world-class folk music virtuosos from the Middle East: Iraq, Israel, Jordon, Palestine, and Syria who were all independently going to a Middle East folk music camp, and this happened to be during the Lebanese bombings. I couldn’t imagine a more potent medicine than to actually see them play together in a concert for peace. I went to Grace Cathedral (in San Francisco) with whom I have a great relationship because the head cannon, Dean Alan Jones, is a featured speaker on Graceful Passages. He agreed to host the concert, saying that he couldn’t imagine a more eloquent response to the horrors that we were seeing in the news each day.” Malkin says that presenting the idea of being able to witness Christian, Muslim, and Jewish musicians from different countries of that region creating music made for a powerful vision. “Within two weeks, every radio station I asked to promote it put me on. And we filled Grace Cathedral with 1,500 people, with only two weeks notice. At that moment I realized, it’s not just about using music for life’s transitions, it’s about using music to awaken people’s capacity to imagine what’s

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possible, what we could only dream of. Maybe you can’t imagine world peace really happening in my lifetime, but when I saw these musicians play together and reach out their hands to one another singing their native music in different languages for the purpose of creating peace, I was changed.” Into the Mystic “I think that all the mystical traditions—Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, Buddhist—are expressions of a universal light,” Malkin summarizes. “They all have components that contend with the basic issues of being alive and being human and learning to relate to the mystery. Music was my ultimate spiritual teacher from the earliest stages of my life. At five years old, when I started to play the piano, something profound happened to me, as if it changed the air around me. Music has been the most powerful experience. It’s the closest I came to the spirit. But you can’t force on any artist the requirement or obligation to serve humanity. It’s a decision and an impulse that you have in you or you don’t.” “We have only scratched the surface of what is actually possible for the musicians and artists of our time to step into a full awareness of how we can serve the world, how we can awaken people around the enormous challenges of our time. I literally feel we’ve been using blunt instruments up until now. But with music, media, theater, poetry, with all the non-linear arts, I believe that there are potent ways to create tactical interventions for the betterment of the world; and we’ve only begun investing artistically, in what’s possible, ways that, while being truly entertaining, powerful, and inspiring, are also tools for awakening, integrating, and healing, whether it’s environmental, societal, or whatever. I do think when you’re given a gift to create beauty, no matter how that gift expresses itself, it’s a bit of a waste when you don’t use it to support healing or bettering the earth in some way.”

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here do songs come from? Are they, as many songwriters believe, already preexistent, floating in completed forms in some existential nothingness, to be plucked out of thin air? We wish. Living in Southern California as I do, a region where legions of socalled spiritual masters fill the yellow pages of the telephone book, it is easy to maintain a sense of skepticism and “show me” attitude. It is quite easy to be jaded. It takes another type of innocence altogether to reclaim the creative essence that is in tune with an open mind. Certainly, this is one reason that creative individuals have much difficulty historically in the so-called “real world.” Because when your life and art are defined by the words, as is in the case of musicians of “playing” an instrument, there is a certain societal denigration, no matter how subtle. Or consider the old phrase, “Yours for a song,” which in essence, means of no value. All we know is our own personal truth; how creative ideas are processed through our own intellect and experience and ultimately how they come into this personal reconciliation of craft and the cosmos. The next group of interview subjects exemplifies that maintaining and nurturing the health of their creative source is no easy task, but if done correctly, can reap immense personal and professional rewards.

Daniel Moore: How Does Your Light Shine? By the early 1970s, pop and rock music had become suffused with elements of religious mysticism. Reflecting the ongoing cosmic search, these often-opaque religious ideals began competing with the 93

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Daniel Moore

ubiquitous psychedelic substances in expanding the minds of curious pilgrims. Songs of that era—“Jesus Is Just Alright,” (The Byrds), “God, Love, and Rock ‘n’ Roll” (Teegarden and Van Winkle), and Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky”—were only a few of the aural offerings that bore witness to a celestial power. Sparkling from the airwaves came a song titled “Shambala,” written by Los Angeles–based staff writer Daniel Moore. The first version, a country twang rendition, was courtesy of B.W. Stevenson, (who later collaborated with Moore on “My Maria”). But it was the effervescent gospel-infused pop magic of Three Dog Night that propelled the song into the pop stratosphere. Moore recalls the genesis of the song: “In 1972 my brother, Matthew, called me and informed me that he had received a letter from Dorothy Beg at Lake Pleasant, Massachusetts, that told him where and when he had been in his past lives. He had sent a letter to her requesting this information. After recounting several past lives the letter ended with, “My messenger tells me to tell you, ‘Let our light shine in the halls of

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Shambala.’ In the phone conversation at that point Matthew said, ‘Shambala? What the hell is that?’” “So I did some research and found dozens of references to the word Shambala, the 5000-year-old word originating from Sanskrit. Some were weird, some were goofy, but the one I liked was found in Alice Bailey’s Treatise on White Magic. It basically said that there is a gigantic cavern under the Gobi desert that has a replica of every living human being. And when that replica begins to light up or glow (meaning you are cleaning up your act and becoming more spiritual minded or raising your consciousness to a higher level), there is a point where your replica gets bright enough to warrant a spiritual teacher being sent to you.” “I remember getting excited about the sound of the word ‘Shambala.’ Before I wrote the song I called a friend, Eddie Zip, who I’d been working with and telling him, ‘That word Shambala has a magic sound to it, you ought to put together a band and call it Shambala; you couldn’t lose.’ We had just recorded one of his songs titled ‘Don’t Make God’s Children Cry.’ We were getting ELEVATED!” “I wrote the words and melody, acapella, driving on the Ventura Freeway in about 10 minutes. I got home, picked up my Martin guitar, and had the music finished in five minutes. It was a pretty good 15 minutes. The recording session of my demo in 1972 was with Dean Parks and Jim Varley. Dean (playing bass) was sitting with me (I was engineering, playing the acoustic guitar, and singing live) in the control room; we were wearing earphones with the speakers turned off, and 50 feet away at the other end of the studio on the other side of the glass with earphones, was Jim Varley, playing drums. Three Dog Night heard the song through a publisher, Lindy Blaskey, who was working at ABC Dunhill Publishing. He called me and was very excited because he had gotten such a positive reaction from Three Dog Night and their producer Richie Podler. Anyway, they cut it, it was their single, and it was a hit. Bless all of their hearts. Postscript: In the Guinness Book of World Records, under Prophecies, there is a reference to Shambala where it says “Any one who furthers the name ‘Shambala’ shall be rewarded 100 times.’ And so it is.”

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Many Moore Songs A roster of powerhouse artists—Joe Cocker, Brooks & Dunn, Bonnie Raitt, and many others—have since cut Daniel Moore’s songs as he’s continued to write for almost three and a half decades, Moore has recently released a rare compilation of his work titled The Giveaway, a collection of original demos interspersed with some new songs. “I think the music business is one of the more honest businesses,” Moore explains. “The burden is on the music. In the long run, if a song really knocks people out, they go for it; if it doesn’t, they don’t. I think it’s pretty fair that way. When I show songs to artists, and if it doesn’t do anything for them, it’s the music’s fault. That’s my attitude. I’ve written 300 songs and 75 have been recorded by major artists. I’m batting pretty good. Joe Cocker just recorded one of my new songs. He was in good form. I was in the vocal booth. They’d hired these guys to cut backgrounds, and he wanted to do a live lead vocal. I sang the parts where the backgrounds would be. We each had mics and earphones. I had a hard time not cracking up: his chest was sticking out, his arms were flailing, and he was bellowing like a bull!” laughs Moore. Moore is credited as a vocal conductor on Cocker’s notorious “Mad Dogs & Englishmen” Tour, and he recalls the halcyon days of touring. “We rehearsed for two weeks, went on the road for eight weeks, did a double album and movie that brought in 100 million dollars. Leon Russell put me in charge of background vocals. We were 10 background singers. I turned around and looked at those nine other hippies and said, ‘There’s three good notes—nail one of them.’ That was the extent of my choir direction.” The View from the Pulpit In reviewing the catalog of Moore’s songs, it is apparent that his lyrics are distinguished by their subtle but insistent spiritual tone. Raised in the tiny town of Athena, Oregon, his father, grandfather, uncle, and his three oldest brothers were all ministers. “It’s a tough gig. I remember people coming to our house who were really down and out— needing a can of beans—over and over. And if it wasn’t that, it was

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someone who’d had somebody in their family die. I have a lot of respect for preachers.” While attending the University of Oregon, Daniel also studied for three years at Northwest Christian College Seminary and considered entering the clergy. He observes that church music is the root of his influences. His mother played piano at services, and one of his songs, “Roll the Holy Bones,” references the early prophets of the Bible who would toss gems, stones, and special bones and read them to tell the future. “Glowing” and “light” are terms that reveal themselves often in his words. He agrees with this assessment. “Deep down, I feel the purpose of music is to move people to a higher level and a better place. Move ’em, make ’em feel better, make ’em think musically or lyrically. It’s really all that I do. I don’t know how to do too much else.” While spiritually informed, Moore’s songs are not didactic or preachy. “I have to watch that,” he says. He explains that to write songs, he first blanks his conscious mind by intense concentration. “Like yoga mediation. Songwriting is similar. You start at zero. In fact, I think all creative things start at the same zero.” The practice of Kundalini Yoga was an energy source for Moore. “I backed off of it; it got too powerful. I had to decide whether I wanted to be a monk living in a cave or a public person. I would get a lot of energy; 15 minutes of that mediation would take the place of six or seven hours of sleep. I would have fantastic light shows—gems coming at me. The only other time I would have that was on acid. This was more controlled than acid, but similar. It pointed out to me that there is a lot of order in this universe. The earth doesn’t orbit out of control, the way that nature works. The spiritual thing is a thing to be sought.” And the pilgrims, Moore says, might take disparate paths to the same source. “The Rosicrucian Cosmo-Conception: Mystic Christianity talks about that. They come at it from different angles. When I took philosophy classes at University of Oregon, the nine most famous philosophers had answers why there was a God, but none of them agreed with each other. It’s the same way in the metaphysical world. There are interesting ways to look at it, but no one agrees. I think we’re all here on our own.”

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Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain With the rain in Shambala Wash away my sorrows, wash away my shame With the rain in Shambala Shambala Daniel Moore

Jason Blume: The Flowering of the Song Among the ranks of authors and self-professed experts in the field of songwriting education, Jason Blume is a rarity, a man who not only talks the talk but also walks the walk. Two well-regarded books, Inside Songwriting: Getting to the Heart of Creativity and 6 Steps to Songwriting Success: The Comprehensive Guide to Writing and Marketing Hit Songs, plus a volley of instructional CDs first established Blume as an author and educator. His most recent book, This Business

Jason Blume

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of Songwriting: A Practical Guide to Doing Business as a Songwriter, extends the information to include straight-ahead advice from a business vantage point. He certainly knows of what he speaks, having written songs that have sold over 50 millions copies for artists including the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, Collin Raye, the Oak Ridge Boys, and many others. I first interviewed Jason on the publication of his most recent book for a profile in my “Song Biz” column in Music Connection magazine and subsequently spent three days next to him as we occupied adjacent booths at the Taxi Road Rally in Hollywood, California. On the final day, we conspired to stand at the furthest corners of our respective spaces to spend some quality conversation time together, and it was an enlightening introduction to someone I had previously only known through his writing and a glowing reputation among students, fellow songwriters, and the industry. When I contacted Jason about being in this book, he was on the island of Kauai participating in a songwriter event. When he returned to Nashville, we had a long conversation about the subject at hand. He is a compelling force of energy and light. Soul Evolution Blume notes that his current spiritual inclinations are the hard-won results of his life’s experiences, both personal and professional. “I think there was always another part of me; it’s just that it was not the part that people noticed because Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys were so high-profile. If you are going to talk about changes, we have to start way back when I was an atheist. I wasn’t one of those ‘mamby pamby’ people who were sort of on the fence. I felt so strongly about the fact that not only was there no God, but also anybody who was stupid enough to believe there was had my pity. I was so serious about my beliefs that when my mother died when I was 17, I refused to attend the religious aspects of the memorials because to me that was pure hypocrisy and bullshit. Then, somewhere along the line, that shifted. Partly it’s growing up, but also at some point I made a decision to really examine what I felt and what I believed as opposed to what I believed I was supposed to believe. And when I really started looking

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at some serious issues about creation and this universe and where I came from and what my purpose is, it didn’t work anymore for me to be an atheist.” “I was raised in a Jewish household and was bar mitzvahed—kicking and screaming I might add—and I very much have a Jewish identity. I do get comfort from some of the traditions, and I would certainly identify myself as a person that’s Jewish. And yet, at the same time, many of the beliefs are things I’m not able to embrace. It’s more like a cultural Judaism.” The Pontiff and the Parthenon Three years ago, Blume took a vacation to visit both Italy and Greece. “In the span of literally just a few days, I found myself visiting the oldest synagogue in Italy, the Vatican, and then visiting ancient Greek and Roman temples. It just hit me experientially harder than it ever had, that each one of these religions believed that they had the only answer. It was ludicrous; and when I factored in all the other religions from the beginning of time, it just became more and more obvious to me that it’s something that people go to, to seek out comfort, but that I certainly didn’t believe that any organized religion had access to the deep and profound answers that they were all searching for. Still, the religions that have been around for a long time must be doing something right to provide comfort and to provide at least an illusion of having answers.” “It seemed like the obvious answer to me, and I still, at this point, feel very strongly that there is no religion that has cornered the market in terms of having the real answers. I believe personally that we don’t have access to the answers; either because they are not knowable based on the information available to us, or we are not wired to perceive the information if it is out there. But I have become a very spiritual person. I pray everyday. The point of my prayer is to do my best to align myself with more or less the universe, the flow, and to remind myself to put aside my ego and to feel a sense of connection and a sense of my place within this universe. It’s not so much a being that I’m praying to, although I do believe there is a force of creation. I don’t believe that that force particularly desires or requires supplication or

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that we subjugate ourselves. I don’t think it necessarily cares whether it is worshiped. But to me it is such a profound force, that I’m in awe of it. The highest goal that I can have spiritually would be to align myself with that force and to keep my place in the universe; this is something that I’m aware of. The idea of a punishing God that demands— whether, as in the past, it was human sacrifice or in current days it demands a certain number of visits to a church or a temple or a specific way of worshiping it—just doesn’t ring true to me.” Numerology in Twos Reincarnation, Blume says, is a concept that he is open to. This is the result of changes in his thinking about the afterlife, predicated, in part, by the passing of his father. “I’ve always been a very logical, literal kind of person who believed that when you die, you’re dead. Nothing continues on when the brain stops and the organs cease to function: that’s the end. That’s what I always believed until the last couple of years. I’ve gotten the most profound, irrefutable evidence that my father who has passed away, is continuing to maintain contact with me. It has really turned my belief system upside down.” “I’m actually writing a book about it, and it revolves around numbers. My father had a tremendous affinity with number 222. He believed he would wake in the night and it would always be 2:22 on his digital clock. He shared this with me countless times that he felt that it was his mother, or my mother, contacting him in some way. I pooh-poohed it because this was impossible and ridiculous, until my father died, and it started happening to me; and it has happened so regularly and so profoundly that I actually had to surrender.” “What I believe is absolutely impossible is, indeed, happening. And it’s gone way beyond simply waking up at 2:22. I have actually seen the number 222 appear on my computer screen where it was not typed. That was the final straw for me. That’s when I threw up my hands, freaking out and said, ‘I give up.’ What I’m certain is impossible is occurring. Most recently, only two weeks ago, I was lying in bed and felt physically throttled as if I were in a earthquake. I woke up screaming to find out it was 2:22. All these examples have really combined to open me up to accept if the one thing that I know is utterly

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impossible, is not impossible, then I’m not capable of determining what is possible and what’s not possible. This has truly opened me up to possibilities that I never imagined that I would entertain.” “My father and I had began working on a book together. He had an astounding life story, and I always promised him that I would write his story. And I believe in some inexplicable way we are continuing to collaborate. And at one point when I was in a terrifying manner, awakened to 2:22 on the clock, I sat up in bed and literally said, ‘What do you what, Dad? What is it?’ And internally, the message I got was, ‘Write my story.’” A Century of Progress In the annals of songwriting history there are mythologies both about instant successes and about excruciating dues-paying. Blume’s story illustrates the latter. From the time of his arrival in Hollywood as an aspiring tunesmith to his platinum cuts was 16 years. His father begged him to return to college and give up the folly of being a professional songwriter. “It hurt him to see how I struggled. He said, ‘This can’t go on forever; how can you possibly do this? There has to come a point that it doesn’t happen, and you give up. How long?’ I said, ‘Dad, you’re right, I can’t do this forever. I’m going to give it 100 years.’ I don’t know if it’s stubbornness or stupidity, or something much deeper, but I can tell you I always knew I’d be successful. I’m not saying that there weren’t days that weren’t frustrating, disappointing, and difficult, but I never believed—not one day—that I wouldn’t be successful. In a sense, I was able to brush that stuff off and have it not affect me because I knew it was simply part of my journey. And this wasn’t an unhappy time in my life. It sounds so terrible, but it was an adventure, and it was fun. I met bright, wonderful characters, and through it all I was so excited knowing I was following my dream and I was on the road to tremendous success.” “There was a period during that time when I ate cat food and lived in one room in Hollywood. No kitchen, no bathroom. I shared the bathroom with the junkies and the hookers down the hall. My fantasy was that one day I could go to McDonald’s around the corner and order whatever I wanted. But that was my food budget for weeks. I look

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back over this and I worked so hard, for so many years, and I took every course that there was to study my craft, to hone my ability as a songwriter.” The Breakthrough In retrospect, Blume recognizes that there were forces at work in his life and his art that reached far beyond his aspirations and abilities. “Each and every inevitable event in my career was ultimately something that was out of my control. For instance, when I had an opportunity to write with the Backstreet Boys, I later found out that I was the fourth person that the publisher called—no one else was available. And that was lifechanging. That cut on the Millennium album sold more than 23 million copies. And even more importantly, it gave me a level of creditability as a songwriter that’s untouchable. I can now say between the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, Colin Raye, and all my other cuts, that I have songs on albums that sold 50 million copies.” “In retrospect, I learned about myself, what a stubborn guy I must be. And if someone else said that they’ve been doing this for 16 years and I’m still not earning a decent living, I would suggest to them therapy or at least more songwriting courses! But putting all kidding aside, I am somebody who has a deep and profound sense of belief in my ability to make this happen. I do think that I know many people, including students that I currently have, that I think are more talented than I am. Yet I look back and I realize I got breaks that some other people didn’t get. What I have that maybe some of them don’t have is that persistence, that willingness in myself to keep making it work.” A publishing deal with Zomba Music helped Blume’s sense of craft as a songwriter and aided in critical industry awareness as well. He credits the company’s Mike Hollandsworth with forcing him to write better songs for the commercial marketplace. “Mike was brutal with me when he’d critique my songs. He would rip them to shreds in a manner that no one would call supportive or encouraging. There was something in my personality that was devastated when I left that meeting but in a few hours I’d say, ‘Okay you son of a bitch, I’m going show you how good I can write. I will bring you something

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undeniable, and I’ll have to have a hit,’ whereas anyone else in that situation who didn’t have that deep sense of belief in themselves might have just crumbled under the intense criticism. We are required to have this tender vulnerability of an open soul, and at the same time we need the armor of an armadillo to survive. And I do want to credit Mike Hollandsworth with making me a songwriter. But again, I had the underlying belief system that I was going to be successful; therefore, I could take the input and use it constructively. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt or that it wasn’t devastating, and I’m not saying I didn’t curse him to my friends sometimes, but a few hours later I was back to work to make that song better and show him how good I could be.”

Craft and Communication “It’s very important as a songwriting teacher, as well as a songwriter, to let people know that there is an important element of craft; and if a writer fails to express his ideas through acceptable song structures and rhymes, it’s impossible to communicate. Songwriting is about communication. I don’t really care what someone felt when they wrote their song if I don’t feel it. What we’re trying to communicate is emotion. No one goes to a song for information. If it’s information you’re seeking, you go to a periodical, magazine, or reference text. But we go to a song to feel emotion. I certainly do not suggest that people manufacture that with craft, but I do suggest that we find ways to access what is real for us, what we care about. I sometimes say in my workshops, ‘if you’re going to write a piece of fluff, that’s fine, but do it because you are fluffy today, not because you think that it would be easier to place on radio.’ The problem is that somebody else down the block is feeling fluffy, or heart broken, or is feeling something real that they what to communicate. I think that the only truly great songs or works of any art start as spontaneous, emotional communication and then, as needed, I think we can apply craft to improve the ability to communicate. But I think simply having one or just the other meaning, only craft or only raw uncensored emotion, makes for less than perfect communication.”

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Co-writing Chemistry In Chapter 10 is a detailed observation by Blume’s co-writer, Karen Taylor-Good, about “On Angels Wings” (also recorded by Collin Raye under the title “She’s Going to Fly”), a song the two of them wrote that emanated from a deep source of spiritual information. “I didn’t feel responsible for what was coming out of me. And frankly there’s something about the collaborative chemistry between Karen and I where I feel more when writing with her than I have ever felt in any situation. I think both of us felt as though something clearly was coming through us, that we were simply channels, and we were amazed at what we had come out with. And it didn’t feel like something I had consciously written. People in the audience can feel it, and they are sobbing. Also when I get e-mail requests for copies of songs, it’s always that song. I think that Karen does the definitive version. I believe every word of it when Karen performs because it’s true.” “Anything that I’m creating is also being created by a force really beyond me. It is almost like I’m just part of the chain of command. I’m not responsible for having been created, and just as I’ve been created and from the very first moment, it has continued to spiral out. I’m a part of that and, therefore, so is anything that comes from me. So, in a sense, anything that I’m creating is not really my own creation. I’m always being a vessel, a channel.” Coda “As a writer I feel a responsibility to do the best work I can do. It doesn’t necessarily mean that every song has to be of a spiritual or uplifting nature. But I feel that the best way I can honor the gift that I’ve been given is to polish it, hone it, and do the very best with it that I can. Teaching songwriting has become my passion, and when I can give back through my teaching, I feel so gratified, rewarded, and it feels so good on such a deep level. When I do teach, I feel like on the surface that I’m teaching how to craft a memorable melody or how to craft a lyric that communicates. But under the surface what really matters is that I’m trying to encourage people to follow their dreams and to honor whatever gifts that they have been given.”

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Pamela Phillips Oland: The Moment Is Its Own Reward Grammy-nominated writer Pamela Phillips Oland is a rarity in the track-oriented musical landscape that is Los Angeles. She is a dedicated lyricist with an astonishingly diverse resume of artist cuts and TV and film usage credits amassed in a 20-year career in Hollywood. Oland is well known in the business as a “go-to gal” for composers, directors, artists, and music supervisors who depend on her expertise to deliver the words. Project writing, her specialty, has included conceptualizing and writing lyrics for Van Gogh by Van Eck, an album in which 12 songs, inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s art, are sung as if by the artist himself. Twelve of Vincent’s great artworks have influenced Oland and her writing partner, album producer Tom Harriman, with Netherlands singing artist Diederick van Eck, to create an album that allows listeners to take a musical journey into the artist’s heart and soul, as if experiencing his life with him.

Pamela Phillips Oland

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Another recent project was a Grammy-nominated kids’ album that Oland co-wrote with one of America’s best-loved kids’ entertainers, Red Grammer. The album, this time an album on “the virtues” for kids, called Be-Bop Your Best!, was nominated in the “Best Musical Album for Kids” category in 2006. Pamela is currently writing with new artists and creating 18 songs for a McGraw-Hill educational project that will unite her with composer Mark Brymer, her collaborator on “Digga Digga Dog,” the theme song to the animated Disney smash, 102 Dalmatians. Her credits range from Frank Sinatra to Whitney Houston, not to overlook Aretha Franklin, Selena, Peabo Bryson, the Whispers, the Spinners, and co-writer with Paul Overstreet and pop legend Richard Carpenter. Additionally, Pamela is the author of two books on songwriting, The Art of Writing Great Lyrics and The Art of Writing Love Songs. Like many, if not all, of the songwriters in this book, Oland was aware of her gifts at a very early age, even writing a little book when she was only six years old. “The first time I ever wrote songs, they were poems because I studied elocution in England, and I learned hundreds of poems. I then had to learn how to recite them in front of people and the cadence of the words struck me. Then my mother sent me to the Royal Academy to learn ballet, and they were very strict; they’d put yardsticks under your foot to get an arch. Then you’d walk around the room going, ‘One, two, three, one, two, three.’ Somehow or another the two things came together in my mind, the rhythmic way of movement and the rhythm of words, the way I was taught to speak them because of the teacher who was a former Shakespearian actress who taught me to think in terms of cadence.” In an interview, Oland once told me, “You can’t expect to do something wonderful the first time you do it, or the second time, or the tenth—the first 1,000 songs are the hardest!” I’ve interviewed Pamela on numerous occasions; on stage, in the studio, and for print features. Whenever we speak, I invariably come away from meeting with her intoxicated by a seemingly boundless flow of imaginative and positive energy. A profound sense of “profluence,” of continuously moving the story forward, is one of Pamela’s most endearing traits.

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“I have ‘Pamela-isms,’ personal philosophies,” she observes. “One states that every moment you spend thinking about ‘what isn’t’ is a moment when you lose ‘what is.’ So you’re not only losing the moment pondering what didn’t happen, and taking that time out of your life, it also takes the present. And you miss it. It’s like eating the main course and thinking about what’s for dessert instead of tasting the main course. You can’t go back; you have to keep moving.” Writing on the Wall “I suppose one could say that all words have existed since the beginning of time, and all we are doing is plucking them out of time and the universe. We all have different meanings and different uses for them.” Oland says that often when she’s writing, she will have words appear on the page before she is conscious of either the thought that inspired them or the act of creating them. “I look at it and go, ‘That’s interesting.’ And I often think to myself, ‘Where did that come from?’ The best ideas you could ever come up with are the ones that come through you rather then the ones you think up. That’s the key to being a truly original and successful writer—just absorbing ideas and putting them on the paper. When you allow the inspiration to come to you, you get the most wonderful ideas because you haven’t limited them. You do need to sometimes use utilitarian ideas and lines to get from one line to another, and unfortunately that’s what bogs down a lot of songs and songwriters because the utilitarian ideas you need to join two wonderful ideas together are not strong.” Joining the inspiration to the craft creates a potent mix, she notes: “I try to make every line count as much as possible, and I try to wait for those inspired ideas. I think people don’t want to rewrite; they want to marry the first thing they write. They think it means something in that moment, and later they might look back and wonder, ‘What was I thinking?’ You have to know when to stop; that’s one of the things about rewriting. That’s intuitive.” Synagogues to Sin City “My family was orthodox Jewish when I grew up [in London], but when they moved to Las Vegas they were no longer orthodox—it

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wasn’t an environment that nurtured that! My parents wanted to send me to Hebrew school so that I could get bat mitzvahed, but I wanted to go to ballet school instead. My interest was more in the arts than religion. As I got older, my connection with God became a relationship rather than a structured environment. Even though I’m still Jewish and proud of it, my own personal bond with God informs what I think and what I say. I feel like I get a lot of messages and ideas through my spirituality. I used to read fortunes. I had intuitions about people, and I could read them, and I could say things that came to me. I didn’t know what I said. I became very intuitive of ideas and thoughts that were floating through the universe, and I think that intuitive spiritual factor was more grounding to me than organized religion might have been for other people. Everybody has a different path. I once went to hear a yogi/rabbi speak, and I liked the concept that, ‘It doesn’t matter what side of the mountain you climb as long as you get to the top.’” “I’ve always said from my heart that, as songwriters, I feel we have a duty and a responsibility to entertain and inform but also to help people make their lives better, especially in our society, where everything is instant, with terse one-line e-mails. People don’t talk very much; they’re almost embarrassed to call their friend and say ‘Hi’ as if they’re imposing on their privacy. As songwriters, we have an opportunity and a responsibility to help people communicate. We often communicate for them. We speak the words that are in their souls and allow them to hear them verbalized and made whole, and made real, so they can come to terms with who they are and what they’re feeling and thinking.” And point of view, Oland says, is key. “I’m very much about the art of writing a love song. You’ve got to start writing from your own point of view. If you were telling a story and writing the woman’s point of view, it might be ‘You left me, you SOB, and how could you do that, and I’m so hurt and crying all the time; how could you run off with her?’ If you wrote it from the guy’s point of view, the same story you might be, ‘You were cold to me, you never said you loved me, you never looked at me the way you used to, and she does.’ And so you have a song from both sides of the story.”

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“You should play with the truth; there’s nothing that says you have to tell the truth in songs. If you are writing something based on a true story, embellish it, make it interesting, make yourself more interesting, make the story more clandestine, exotic; do what you have to do to give it energy, spice, and excitement, and make it something somebody would want to hear.” Change Is Constant Oland confers that she recently experienced an amicable divorce, but the experience incurred a profound change in her life. “It sent me into a tailspin of wondering what my place was in the universe, who I was and what I was about.” Fortunately, this interlude wasn’t long-lasting. “I didn’t have much time to think about those things. Better things started occurring—five or six trips to Holland and England, New York and then Washington DC to lobby Congress for copyright reform. I think the change gave me wings—the personal upheaval helped me to reform myself. Reinvention is necessary now and then. Otherwise you stagnate. You can only do certain things or behave in certain ways for so long before it becomes rote and repetitive. And you need to be able to find new ways of expression and looking at people, new relationships and depth of relationships.” These personal relationships, Oland believes, are at the core of her art. “To me the most important things in life are relationships, friends, and family—I don’t care how famous you are and how big your career is, or how much money you make, you have to make sure your basic priorities are living breathing people who love you, and that you love. That is the number-one priority in life.” “I love deep interactions, being able to talk about things—even the mundane is important with two friends. You can be talking about something as minor as hair color, and you can go into great rapture! It’s a nonsense conversation, but it’s sharing. Beyond what you talk about is the depth of communication. I believe as a people and a society, what is missing most is our ability to communicate; and if you can’t communicate one on one with your closest friends, you cannot very well expect to communicate on a larger scale with the rest of the world. Some politicians who are full of themselves aren’t reaching

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their audience or getting beyond themselves and actually looking into people’s eyes. When people look in my eyes and tell me stories, I’m thinking of songs. In one conversation, I might take down five titles.” Waking Hours and Creative Powers “There are those who talk, those who want to, and those who do. There is no such thing as ‘finding time.’ People who say, ‘I can’t wait until I can find some time to _____’ will never get there. You have to carve it out and find the time, and it has to be carved out from something else you do. There is only a 24 hour period in one day; you can’t create a 25th hour. Now that’s a good idea for a song: ‘What would I do in the 25th hour?’ You have to work with what you’ve got, your 24, and prioritize what’s important.” “People are looking for success, accolades, and glory; screenwriters feel the same way. For me, the process is the purpose, and so the joy of writing is writing The excitement when you write something and look at your collaborator—you don’t know if anyone is going to record it, you don’t know if anyone is going to do a good demo, or get it pitched—but your eyes are shining with the belief that this is just a wonderful idea, the way the story builds. That to me is ultimate— the creative part.” Being in the moment, Oland avows, is another prime component to the gestalt of the creative life. “Writing a song, making dinner, or making love—put aside all other thoughts and responsibilities. You have to be in the moment of your whole life, not just when you’re writing. It has to become a way of life. You can’t turn it on like a switch; it’s like being in love—you have to be in love all of the time, and everything you do you have to be in the state of mind of being in the present.” A sense of worthiness and self-confidence, Oland observes, is an ingredient in the complete professional songwriter. “If you go into a meeting feeling self-deprecating, everyone else will smell it on you. Lack of self-confidence? People run away, as if you smelled of garlic. Successful people are instinctively self-doubting, so they want to be around people who feel good about themselves. The more you’re around that, the better you feel about yourself. I have a definition of love: ‘Love is what somebody makes you feel about yourself.’ When

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somebody thinks you’re fabulous, and you feel fabulous basking in their senses, you feel wonderful about yourself and you’re able to return that—you’re sending them love.” “The only things I regret from my career are things I didn’t do: calls I didn’t return, follow-ups I didn’t make, opportunities I didn’t take. I remember when I was a staff writer at A&M Records, Melissa Etheridge had a development deal, and she had a little writer office next to me. We’d say hello, but I was kind of shy, new to the business, and I was too shy to strike up a conversation and ask her to write. Sometimes you might feel brash, but you never know what an opportunity could lead to—it could lead to a great lesson in your life.” Eyes of the Creator “I think God is the life force. Everything that lives is created of force. I think everything that exists in this world is a manifestation of God. I went to Beverly Hills, to an art show on The Green, and I saw a painting of a disembodied face. It was a very old, wise man with a beard surrounded by a white cloud but with no body, just a face and eyes. I walked up and said to the artist, ‘That’s a picture of God.’ She said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘Who sat for this?’ and she said, ‘It just came out of my mind.’ I bought it, and I am looking at it right now.” “We’re human, and we have to focus on something; I think that’s how people tend to choose a person or an idol or a representational figure, to help them with prayer. You have to focus it in; it’s not possible to create to an idea. I think everyone who has a deity belief has a visual impression of what God looks like. None of us are wrong. God is what God is to you.”

Sophie B. Hawkins: Drums of the Divine With her wild mane of tresses and equally unbridled artistry, singer/ songwriter Sophie B. Hawkins is a cosmic juggernaut of artistic ferocity. She first emerged into the consciousness of record buyers via two massive radio hits, “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” and “As I Lay Me Down,” but it was clear from the onset that Sophie B. did not intend to play by anybody’s rules.

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Sophie B. Hawkins

A native New Yorker, Hawkins now makes her home in the funky cultural enclave of Venice Beach, California. “I can ride a bike or walk everywhere. It’s becoming more gentrified and very expensive, but with a sub-culture of hippies and gangs. I wouldn’t want to be far from my multi-cultural elements. When I was growing up in New York, there were drum circles in Central Park. I have that here at the beach. I can hear it starting up. It seems like I’m in a place where everything is. Venice has dirt alleys, a lot of falling-down things. It’s very comforting. People in Venice put up paintings on telephone poles, and people do what they want. When I ride my bike down Washington Boulevard, and I look up and see written on a building, ‘Reach higher: reach for your spirit’—it’s beautiful.” Sophie cultivates a wide view of what it takes to be a true artist in our culture. “I will have a song like ‘Damn’ or ‘As I Lay Me Down,’ which will have such a major acceptance, but then I will have periods where I won’t. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me or my work. It means just stay true to yourself because eventually that connection will

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come again. You shouldn’t change to fit the public or a business. It doesn’t mean you should be rude or have an attitude. The fact that I get royalty checks and I’m allowed to do my work is amazing. I thank God every single day for that.” Before she was a singer/songwriter, Hawkins was a percussionist. “Bryan Ferry had hired me and fired me,” she related. “It’s back when I used to wear dresses, and they said I looked like Margaret Thatcher. I wasn’t fitting in his band, even though I’d practiced 20 hours a day. But I was relieved. Then I wrote, ‘Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover,’ and I thought, ‘This is a sign, this is exactly what I’m supposed to be, a songwriter.’” I had first interviewed Sophie B. for United Airlines, and I also profiled her for Music Connection magazine. Recently, Sophie was the headline performer for the first-ever Women’s Music Festival in Los Angeles, and I was invited to conduct an interview with her in the music industry tent at the conclusion of her show. I had never seen Sophie perform live before, and she was a revelation with her stratospheric voice—dancing, playing keyboards and djembe drum, and appearing to be connected to some other cosmos while being exactly in the present for her outdoor festival audience. Afterward, when I asked her in the interview where she had divined the power for her show, she answered, “From the trees.” Sophie is an ever-evolving artist and a true original. I invited her to participate in this book, and we spoke late one afternoon. The Search Inside One of Sophie’s concepts that she had previously shared with me was that all artistic impulses are already inside of us, and the job of the artist is to figure out how to make them appear. “The title of your book makes me think, ‘Who was the original female songwriter, Sappho?’ I don’t know if people wrote about her, but I think she also wrote poems. ‘Electrify’ reminds me of the essence of songs being way back. I read a quote, ‘Before there was the meaning there was the sound.’ That’s how I think of songs. We interpret them later, but the sound is what makes a song a song. I like that the sound is first, rather than the words or the meaning coming first. It’s really deep.”

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The rhythms and the music inspire the words for Sophie she says. “It’s very much so. And I’m fascinated for people for whom it is the opposite. It is about listening to instruments for me, and even the sounds of the street can be an instrument. Joe Zawinul (the late keyboardist) said that too—there is the mood and the sound because it’s about atmosphere. And when he said that I thought, ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell people for a long time.’ Too many songwriters get hung up on technique and craft, especially when they’re trying to make it, and haven’t. I don’t understand why people who try so hard have a harder time. They go, ‘I paid my dues.’ I’ve definitely had a lot of struggles, but I would never consider myself having paid my dues. It’s part of it; you always have to do what you have to do to get it out of you. If that’s paying your dues, well for me that’s life.” “About the atmosphere and the spiritual connection; if you set yourself in a situation to listen and be open, then you’re creating the music. And whether you’re at a piano and you know how to play or not, it doesn’t matter. That’s the beauty of songs. The poetry will come out of you.” “I’ve written songs on an African drum without any harmony; the rhythm and the phrasing, that’s where it started. I have to tell you about the sun: It’s got a ‘Boom!’ The actual sun has a sound, and it happens in rhythm. If you think of the shape of the sun, it looks like the head of a drum. I think ancient people could hear it, maybe not with their ears, but they could hear it with their bodies or their souls. I think making the drum a round thing is all about that. Even if you don’t think you hear the sun, you still do. The Egyptians worshiped the sun; and they said the spiritual center of the human being was the heart. We think it’s in the mind now.” “We forget why we’re doing things sometimes. But when you get back to the spiritual source, everything comes alive and makes sense again. And that’s why people re-find, or reconnect to their music. You find yourself again.” Hawkins, an accomplished visual artist, says that an interviewer once asked her if she was ever going to go into nature and paint. “I said, ‘All of us people who want to retreat or go away from the marketplace and

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do what has more meaning for us, the marketplace will always find us. We will always be contacted again, and hopefully be more gracious and have more to share rather than be hermits.’ That’s the story of every creative person. You have to come and go. Sometimes you have to go to your own ‘away-from-it’ place. But we can never worry if we can accept the conditions of the circumstances. People want to find those who are able to go away from it.” Child of the Drum At age 14, Hawkins began a study of African drums with Gordy Ryan, percussionist for an ensemble led by Nigerian master drummer Baba Olatunji, whose troupe lived at the Ansonia Hotel in New York City. “This guy was dancing across the floor, and I was singing in Nigerian; it was really intense and beautiful. That’s how it began. My teacher, Gordy, was at that point in his life where he had a lot of wisdom, having had to leave the Midwest, and the path of a businessman, and move to New York. When I met him, he was very grounded in his spiritual practice. He had a discipline almost like Buddhism. His approach to music was not about notes, it was about the meaning and the feeling. My very first music lesson he sat me down at a drum and said, ‘Play this.’ And I tried playing as best as I could. Then he said ‘Sing it.’ Three hours later he said, ‘Now play it and sing it, and I’m going to dance across the floor and show you the dance.’ It was Nigerian folk songs that all had a place in society, like washing the clothes for New Year’s. So from my very first music lesson, I was learning stories about life and what music is really used for. The song was, ‘The men are on this side of the river, and the women are on this side of the river, and they’re washing clothes.’ And he made me hold it down. He was voraciously intense about me learning and practicing. If I said I’d practiced two hours, he’d say, ‘That’s nothing—you’ve got to practice four hours.’ I’d practice four, and he’d say, ‘Practice six hours.’ He was really intense. I owe him so much, but I found him, too. I wouldn’t have had another teacher. I so wanted that exactly.” Passing the Knowledge There is a Buddhist saying, “When the student is ready the teacher will appear.” In addition to her musical endeavors, Hawkins is currently

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studying art, and she notes that this has brought her to another realm. “There’s a kid in my art class, and I know I’m a teacher for her of something; but I don’t know what it is yet because she asks me question after question after question. I think I was brought to this art class because of her, because she wanted to connect with someone like me. And she totally gets me. I don’t have to be old and wise; I’m a total dope. She learns a lot from me, and I learn totally more from her.” “I do dabble in other things, but the spiritual thing is in my songs, and it might also be in my paintings. Someday I will go into the wilderness and paint.” “Right now, for songwriters, there is such a struggle to survive. And I’m at the beginning of a whole new life. You can put out an album, but it will only sell so many copies. It will never be enough to support you. You have to think of ways of being. Now I have this album I could have put out. Before, people wanted songs and artists who were huge, but my album was already out. Now I’m going to hold them for a second and introduce songs to a different part of the world, maybe movies, to give the songs a chance. If someone asks me to rewrite a lyric because it’s too personal, I can do that now, then put it out on my boutique label. Today someone needed a song and I had it, but the demo was bad, out of tune. I only had three hours to make it better. You can’t add to something bad; it’s like cymbals on a drum. I tell drummers, ‘You can’t make a bad cymbal sound good; you have to get a new cymbal.’ I’m not the type of person who has three hours to get it out there. But as a songwriter, I now have to. I was a perfectionist before; there’s no time to be a perfectionist.” “With music you have to fly by the seat of your pants—live, you have to. You can’t depend on anyone being there or anyone listening. Now, you have to be willing to expose yourself to all kinds of things and throw yourself out there in all kinds of ways. You work out there, and you have to do it in the best way you possibly can. You just don’t know where you’ll end up finding the place where they’ll take root.” Trading the Truck Behind the wheel of her immense pickup truck, Sophie B. Hawkins cut an imposing swath through the rivers of Los Angeles traffic. She

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recently traded it in for a diesel truck that can run on bio-fuel. “In that process you meet people. The guy selling it to me was from Lebanon. And he’d lived there in the 1980s when they had to live in bomb shelters because he was a Christian. I asked him how they survive now, and he said, ‘You can’t. Every day is extra. You can fill the trunk with energy supplies, but you can’t plan. Just spend every day like it’s an extra gift.’ Music is like that—you used to be able to control how you put it out. You listen to records and you can hear it. For true artists now, you have to give up all control, but do the best you can.” The concept that the song knows it wants to be born or that it tells the creator what it wants is a thought on which Hawkins elaborates. “This can happen when you get to the point where you’re willing. I know I wasn’t at that point before. I wanted to do things on my own terms, even after the tides changed. I need to learn a lesson. This interviewer said to me, ‘You know how country artists are open to the best song?’ And I said, ‘They’re not open to the best song; they’re open to the song that will be the most successful.’ When you listen to country music you rarely hear a good song; you get a well-crafted song. The way people perceive what’s happening is different from person to person. My perception, for myself, was that I really wanted to have things on my own terms because I thought that is what my art needed. You have to get pushed around to say, ‘That worked then. It doesn’t now.’ It’s not a change in how you are as an artist, but a change in how you are as a human being and about your whole life. It affects everything.” Patterns and Purpose “We are scientists. We think our experiments lead us to one place, and only 10 experiments later do we know it’s somewhere different. And that goes back to your title, ‘The Spiritual Source.’ It’s when you’re around the right people, and in the right context, and the right animals and when you’re resonating with them. It’s like your mind, you want it to be somewhere that thoughts can grow, not a place where thoughts get stuck or thoughts take over. You want to have enough sky and enough sun. I want my mind to be the most beautiful planet that it can be so I can follow the art.”

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“There are some people I know who can watch TV and get a lot of ideas. It must be you can turn off one part of your mind, and that’s really interesting to me. Sometimes when I’m cooking my famous Southern fried slip ‘n’ slide I like to have something on, maybe CNN and Nancy Grace. When I come off the road, there’s something about her voice. When I was kid, TV was incredibly comforting to me. I watched Mayberry RFD, and every show made life look simple and normal. When I first came to California, everything looked like Mayberry. When I took a hike at Will Rogers State Park, and it looked like a western, I was totally home. And my song, ‘California Here I Come,’ people ask me the inspiration; it was a Bugs Bunny cartoon, and he was going to California, and there was a giant carrot and the Golden Gate….” A Face of the Spirit Sophie defines the visuals of her deity like this: “You won’t believe this. Someone in the art class I’m taking who is not a student said, ‘I was at this breathing class. I saw all of these bright colors, brighter than anything I could ever create.’ And this is an adult woman saying this. ‘And then I saw Sophie’s face, isn’t that weird?’ I don’t think it’s weird. I think we can be in many places. And I think in my best moments—and some people have said I’m a ghost—when I look at my face, I don’t see myself as earthbound. I see my eyes, like the hills of Ireland, this green, rainy fertile thing. So the face of my spirituality is not really somebody else’s face. It’s sometimes my own face. I accept that.”

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7

Meditations and the Muse

M

uses are often defined as a sisterhood of goddesses or spirits, their number set at nine by Classical times, who embody the arts and inspire the creation process with their graces through remembered and improvised song and stage, writing, and traditional music and dance. John Milton, in his opening to Paradise Lost evoked them thusly: Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the World, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, Sing, Heavenly Muse

Intention, or having the purpose of creation, is a powerful force. For songwriters, being aware of asking for gifts and being open to their reception can allow the amorphous thoughts that circle to be focused and subsequently revealed. Intention, as Rodney Crowell says, is a powerful force. Federico Fellini noted that limitations evoke discipline. “I don’t believe in total freedom for the artist. Left on his own, free to do anything he likes, the artist ends up doing nothing at all. If there’s one thing that’s dangerous for an artist, it’s precisely this question of total freedom, waiting for inspiration and all the rest of it.” The triumvirate of creators included in this chapter is all open to inspiration as they embrace the rigors of a serious work ethic.

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Charles John Quarto: A Song Is Like a Bright, Strange Bird When I first came to Los Angeles as an aspiring songwriter, I attended The Songwriters Expo, produced by John Braheny and his partner, Len Chandler. The weekend was a myth-shattering expedition into the intricacies of the business with innumerable panels given over to shoehorning the poetics of the popular song into formats, formulas, and fortunes. It was late in the afternoon when the noted poet and lyricist, Charles John Quarto, conducted an advanced lyric workshop. I was familiar with Quarto mainly as the co-writer of Michael Martin Murphy’s song, “Geronimo’s Cadillac.” With a remarkable sense of poetic consciousness and cosmic purity that was in beautiful counterpoint to the mean, mercantile messages being hammered home elsewhere at the event, Quarto delivered revelations. It was John Braheny who suggested that I speak with Quarto for this book, so I contacted Charles in Nashville, the city he has called home for a number of years. Charles John Quarto is a brilliant man whose muse is magical. “I’m encouraging the vastness within you,” he assured me. “Just like a sea bell on a misty evening, it’s more important that you hear it than solve it. That’s probably why the word ‘love’ is hiding in the word ‘solve.’ Welcome aboard.”

Charles John Quarto

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Poetic Pentameter Waylon Jennings, Lowen & Navarro, Hoyt Axton, Hal Ketchum, Garth Brooks, and Trisha Yearwood: a notable roster of artists who have sung the words of Charles John Quarto, especially since he claims an identity not as a songwriter, but as a poet. He also has four albums, the first produced by Graham Nash. “I didn’t want to write songs,” he concurs, “when I was in Greenwich Village in the late 1960s and early ’70s, music publishers and artists would approach me, amigos in the arts. I was performing a lot around musicians.” This led to co-writing songs, Quarto suggests. “Those who were inclined that way were happy to do the work, or request work, or create new work. A lot of people I wrote with had stacks of my lyrics. I’m glad that those arrangements have been made in an open way. It feels like the pieces have found their perfect home. I still write poetry. A lot of kind people have said I’ve been able to bring poetic dynamics unobtrusively into song.” Divinity Dialogue “What’s important to note is that all creation is divine,” says Quarto. “It’s also important to know that everyone has at least one sacred purpose, and perhaps their purpose is creativity. It’s not that the dictionary defines things; it describes things. It can’t tell you what a tree really is, I know some of what a tree is and none of it is in the dictionary. It’s really important for everyone to understand that their own personal creative dialogue, which is always more listening than singing, is honored through their own sacred uniqueness. Since I am also a metaphysical channel, I am also aware of being able to be linked up to consciousness that is transcendent and considerate. Transcendent of the earth, considerate of the world: we all have our own guides, we have our own law of divine design in the way we sense our metaphysics. And love knows no distance. So consequently—or inconsequentially—we are creativity. We’re also listening to the divine unlimited within our consciousness.” “It’s not that there are walls in space. There are dimensions, but even dimensions can be transcendent. Otherwise, the ghosts would crash into the walls and never get into the rooms we’re in.”

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Texas Time “Have you ever spoken with children who obviously had some type of awareness or a consciousness, and you could see that they weren’t going to let it go?” queries Quarto. “I expect that of so-called grownups, and it’s delightful to see and hear, and hear of individuals who are simply that way. I think everyone is an inventor and artistic.” Quarto notes that in high school and college he was an athlete. “That was my world. And every now and again something would happen that was just astounding, that was transcendent of ‘regular likelihood.’ I think each time someone is sitting to write, they may feel that they’re a part of something absolutely magical. And it’s not bad to expect that to happen and to extend the gratitude of that happening. People who have been writing for a while, or the first time, when something magic is taking place, you have to admit you don’t know where it came from. That would be day one of kindergarten.” Referencing childhood, Quarto remembers that kindergarten was the first place where he experienced a sense of limitation. “I was talking as an adult before I was two years old, and I expected adult privileges. So I didn’t relate to the big, brick baby sitter. And I got into a few arguments with the kindergarten teacher, saying, ‘How dare you intrude upon my childhood by keeping us in here all but 20 minutes of so called recess?’ That’s where the education was. And the ratio, 20 minutes to seven hours and 40 minutes, was absurd. Those scales were tilted early on, and all I could think of was, ‘I don’t care if I’m the only one who feels that way, it’s right for me.’ I never met anyone who opened up to consciousness who closed up to consciousness. It’s a door that doesn’t shut—it’s not even a door, it just is. Or it’s a door without a wall. Once you have embraced or inhaled the aspect of no limit, you don’t have any distance to go. You’re already aware that creativity is everywhere. How is a meadow not a great artist? How is the sea moving in unison not more than the fact that someone might have thrown a huge rock into it last night and that’s why the water’s upset? Sorry.”

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The Poet’s Particulars It was a question about channeling poetics into the tight structures of contemporary songcraft that elicited Quarto’s next comments. “Have you listened to music of Africa? Not to suggest that all African music is the same, but if you’re listening to any African music that happens to have no chorus, bridge, perhaps any verse, what does it tell you? A song is like a bright, strange bird sitting in your tree or perhaps flying. And it presents to you through its own sacred individuation, what is to be communicated, and even ways of how to do that. There is a distinctness in every dramatis personae in a song; once it starts, well, it’s a story, and whether or not it’s a story it’s still a story; and if that story has a speaker’s voice or voices, the characters know who they are, what they peacefully suspect and beyond. They’re all unique. And I believe those characters do the writing.” “They’ve always been that way. And that’s why certain songs sound like they’re forever old. They’re ancient in their heritage, and they have a place of standing. They sound like they were written when the wind was first toying with the earth. A great song is a totem—at least one. I think we’re always creative. It’s probably inherent in the logic of being a creator artistically, to be willing to allow your life to be in a state of creativity at all times. That may require some silence and interaction with self. It’s worth it. As much as you want to be in that experience you are always part of it. It’s not like someone sat down and wrote something, and to quote them, ‘I haven’t written anything in six months.’ If you feel that something is being written and shall come through you in three months, you may have a sense of something being underway. And of course, you want to grow in the experience of getting to know how your creativity works. It’s not like med school where there are a certain ways of doing things for starters. I don’t believe it’s like that with art. I know it’s not for me, but I wouldn’t project.” Silence, Sound, and Sense Finding the space where the creativity is fostered, not only a physical, but also a psychic space notes Quarto, is vital to a sense of creation. “You are here to know yourself, to know others, and to know everything. You’re innocent. Each person can benefit from being interactive

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with nature. It doesn’t matter if they go up into the wilderness or have some sense of a special physical place on their property, maybe their whole property, just a place where they feel in alignment with their art. That place can be inside themselves or can be all of themselves. So it’s like saying you’re being the artist all of the time. Becoming familiar with that reality puts you into another experience. We’re more and more connected, and you’re always ‘creactive’—this [word] just appeared for the first time through my lips. It’s my duty to make sure that it’s communicated correctly.” “It’s gathering the pinpoints of your preferred setting. Each human in a 12-hour period called night or darkness and in a 12-hour period known as day or light, has unique to him or herself two hours in the first 12 of so called night for their creativity and two hours for their rest, which we’ve come to call sleep, and the same is true for the second 12-hour period. So the first thing involving that dimension of consciousness and preparedness is to find those times. If you have kids or are in a house with other people, if you have a deep sweetheart, you’re going to have to get into more rhythms. But it doesn’t mean it’ll take you from the one I’m talking about. So find the times and find a way to be able to get your rest at the appropriate times so that you can create at the appropriate times. It doesn’t mean that all time isn’t perfect for creating. This is just a way of honoring your request about the tools.” “So now we have that framework of reality. Light is energy. Light that vibrates at certain frequencies we call color. Each frequential vibration of light that we happen to call color has certain purposes. Getting to know what the colors represent—and even more importantly, what the colors represent for you, the individual—you can put on clothing of that color. You can breathe the colors through you. You can paint the walls in the area where you do your creativity. And you have that going for you.” “I’ve always said that silence is my rhythm guitar. But that doesn’t mean someone else can’t play an instrument and write and be in the same power of consciousness. The point is that you are a part of your tools. In no demeaning way you’re one of them. And, you’re also all of them.”

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Tone, Truth, Texture Quarto says he doesn’t write from topic. “So how come the work I write, on reading or hearing it, has topic? Because I’m open to allowing the work to write itself, and I don’t mean incidentally; there is still a peaceful editorial board that’s involved with the work as it’s going on. In essence, you’re being spoken or sung to. So you want to attune yourself to the energy that’s about to come or is already visible or audible. And physically stay in that energy. I can pick up a piece I’d written a part of 25 years ago, and in the first or second line, my body physically attunes itself to the characterization that had written that. It just happens automatically. That’s another part of reality that you can develop, or discover is developed within you, and you can utilize it.” “I used to go to parties in Los Angeles, and it was great to see friends, and I also felt the call to work. One night there were a lot of us in a swimming pool; I said hello to 20 or 30 people. And I went back into the house to find a place. And I finally found a bathtub, and I took my shoes off, and put them by the couch in the living room, and went into the bathroom, drew the curtain, and was buried in my work. Sometime later one of my friends at the party pulled the curtain back and started laughing. And she said, ‘Why don’t you come out to the party?’ And I said, ‘Because the party’s in here.’ She said, ‘I love you; I’m going home to do some work.’ Great, the party grows; it’s a garden now.” Visions Retained Quarto recalls seeing a scene from a moving local bus. “I looked out the window and saw two people walking. One was quite old, and one was quite young. They had a familial connection, so it looked to me like it was a grandfather and a grandson. And I physically knew that I was looking at something that was going to echo back later in logic and become a song or a poem. What came of that particular picture initially was, ‘I saw a grandfather and grandson today, walking. They were helping each other find their way.’ And so I was looking at that understanding, having not yet been given the lines, but knowing they were being written and later they would present themselves to me. I usually write the whole piece straight out—songs, poems, it’s like

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taking dictation. Most of it is fully formed. It’s one of the blessings of my opportunity. And it keeps growing.” Angels We Have Heard on High Quarto has another co-writer, so to speak, a spiritual entity, the archangel Michael, whom he channels. “It’s like walking into the beauty of the Bible, the real deep, innocent beauty. I was introduced to Michael in this incarnation again and had the privilege of studying with him. There was a small group and a very gifted channel. At one point I was informed I would be channeling Michael, I sensed a strong friendship as a student. When it was given that I was going to be channeling him, all I could think of was, ‘This is something I’ve heard a lot of lately, people channeling Michael. And what is the loving intent?’ It’s to bring more into the world: more human, joyful, and sage consideration. I doubt that anyone is working alone. And I believe they are, and as long as that feels great, fantastic—there’s no tax on that. There is always gratitude, frequently expressed, always evinced. If I’m going to channel, there is a ceremony I was given by a great master, nonhuman. It’s something I say involving certain elements of nature. It’s peaceful and loving, and I feel a shift. Love is how light works with me.…” The Muse of Music Row Nashville, Tennessee, might seem an odd home for a poet, but Quarto believes he was directed there. “I trace back the geographic geometry of my life in North America, and it goes from a coil: New York to Los Angeles, Austin to New York to Denver to Los Angeles to Austin to Nashville—it’s a perfect spiral. For reasons, some disclosed, some kept freely within, this is where I’m supposed to be. It’s a path of contribution. I’ve loved every place I’ve lived. You’re living in a universe, so the city limit sign isn’t something that’s personally addressed to you. You are, and you are not, living some place.” Quarto gauges the outpouring of words at four to six hours a day for over 40 years. “It’s just the way that I’m prolific. Do you know what it feels like? It feels great to have reeled in these roses. I just sleep better knowing I’ve made a contribution that I don’t have any idea of the dimension of.”

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Peter Case: A Sage on the Street Peter Case is a songwriter’s songwriter, a “rock ‘n’ roll folk singer,” and a dynamic troubadour in the tradition of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, but with a decidedly contemporary bent. Case first came into the public spotlight with two seminal new wave/punk prototypes: The Nerves, and a band he formed, The Plimsouls. After the break up of the latter aggregation in 1984, Case embarked on a solo career. He has since recorded a series of wide-ranging releases for a number of labels. From Upstate New York, Case—thanks to his older sisters’ record collection—experienced the explosive era of 1950s rock and roll. When he began performing at age 14, it was as an underage piano player, supporting local blues artists. Case explains his attraction to the classic American music form. “How’d I get into the blues? It’s put into the air out there. There was a lot of it happening at the time, too. It just rings a chord with me. Country music is blues, too. It’s just another kind of blues; it’s blues and Irish and Scottish music mixed together I suppose. I went into the city of Buffalo starting when I was about 14. I saw Paul Butterfield and those guys play, and I started going out. There was a whole blues scene in Buffalo; an integrated scene.” At age 18, Case left his hometown of Hamburg, New York, bound for San Francisco. First working for a sexual freedom newspaper—where

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his literary contributions consisted of rolling a huge dumpster full of unwanted papers down a hill—he next became a carpenter, remodeling an elegant apartment. When he began inviting the local street people up to party, he found himself back on the street. “And rightfully so,” he says, ruefully. On the streets of San Francisco, Case became a street singer. He recalls, “My set was 15 or 20 songs about death, blues songs sung in the loudest possible voice. And the first person I met there was Mike Wilhelm. He’d started this band called The Charlatans, the first psychedelic band in San Francisco. Mike came up and said, ‘Hey man, I want you to be the singer in my band, and I’ll buy you a drink.’ So he takes me around the corner to buy me a drink. And I got kicked out of there because I wasn’t old enough to drink in California. In Buffalo, it was fine to be 18, but in California it wasn’t happening, so I couldn’t join Mike’s band. I fell in with him and a bunch of finger-picking guitar players. We were all about music.” Case learned from the street singers and absorbed the energy of the free-for-all decade. “There was a happening vibe in San Francisco,” he recalls. “It was really fun to be on the street. There were incredible musicians coming through; these blues guys would come through with these incredible blues guitar styles. There was this guy named Coco who used to play washtub bass with a harmonica taped to the broom handle. And he was an old man; he played jazz, awesome rhythm.” “At the time, I had no idea you could grow up and take your place in the music business and make records and have a career. It never entered my mind. Ever. All I did was play music. I woke up with my guitar next to me, and I played all day long—I just played and played and played and played. And I thought I was going to be like a rambling folk singer or something like that. I had no idea that you could get into it, especially being from Buffalo. I knew some people might get into the music business, but not people from Buffalo. It was just impossible, which is kind of the way it was back then. I just didn’t imagine it really. We were playing on the street for kicks, and I had a lot of fun.”

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I had previously interviewed Peter Case for a short-lived, but impressively capitalized, Internet venture around the dawn of this millennium. I had even seen him perform back in the day with the Plimsouls; and at first listen, I had a bit of a disconnect equating the serious young rocker with the neo-urban street singer, but Case’s lyrics and melodies cut deep. In our first interview, I recall hearing his harmonica echoing down the corridor as I approached the room where the interview was to be conducted. With our subsequent conversation for this book, Case was as animated, literate, and as freely associative as I recalled from our first encounter. Living the Life “A lot of songs come when you’re really opened up, and that’s what the blues is about, people who are really feeling it.” Case’s latest CD, Let Us Now Praise Sleepy John, is named in homage to blues legend Sleepy John Estes. “Living a comfortable life isn’t always how you go about feeling it. It’s like in King Lear when the king says, ‘Expose me, so I feel what these wretched people feel.’ Shakespeare did it. Songwriting doesn’t come out of living faithfully or being really organized and doing everything at a particular time or in the right way or living a risk-free existence. It comes from putting yourself on the line, where your nerves are exposed and taking chances, and living your life. It comes from your dark side. And that’s what Hank Williams and Townes Van Zandt, and everyone who is a great songwriter, has been in touch with. When I was a teenager, I left family, my future, my education, and my friends, and my love life—everything secure— and went and lived on the street and made music. And that put me in a state where I could understand things.” “I didn’t have a choice; my life was already screwed up, so it wasn’t like I made a decision to do that or go to law school, but that’s what happened. Then the music enticed me in a very deep way. It was a powerful force. If you’re committed to it and make the decision for it in your life, I guess that’s how you get opened up so things can come in.” “If you’re busy and the songs can’t come in, and you live in Santa Monica (Peter Himmelman is over there, Bob Neuwirth, Jackson

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Browne), I’d better be awake at 3:00 a.m., ’cause if a song is passing through the ether, it’s not going to go into my house unless I’m awake and willing to get out of bed. In order to do that, you’ve got to be committed. You can’t force songwriting—the mind or soul adds stuff up so fast. The songs that just come to you are so much more detailed and fantastic than anything you can ever think of.” Shattering the Senses Like many of his contemporaries, especially those living a freewheeling life in heady San Francisco, Case encountered any number of mind-expanding substances including the hallucinogen du jour: LSD. “I wouldn’t say it was a help—it was a shattering experience. I dealt with what I got, but what I got was so huge, it was very dangerous. I’m glad I came through the way I did. It was awe inspiring, but it was such a painful form of help and so radical. I was a child when I took it. I took enough it to be there for life. I remember one time someone saying, ‘Acid teaches you things you would have learned with time anyway.’ I think it’s better not to learn it with drugs. I did quite a bit; sometimes it was fantastic, but it affected me for years. It contributed to my understanding to paths in life, trying to jump-start them. When songwriters are opened up, like the great ones who were opened up and vulnerable drank, Townes [Van Zandt] and Hank [Williams], if you can learn how to live and write and deal with your thing and not kill yourself, it’s difficult.” “The great stuff comes from some extremes in life. Bob Dylan is an extraordinary artist; you don’t know what he’s going through but he doesn’t end up in a car wreck, or in rehab, or publicly disgraced. He’s highly inspired and super dedicated to that and does something to keep that alive. It’s a good thing to study, but he comes from a great time, too.” “The time when I came up was the end of the 1960s. It was a different world, and people were not sitting there worrying about their popularity. Cell phones, MySpace, instant gratification, celebrity worship— they have nothing to do with music. When I was learning and playing on the street, all I wanted to do was music. I was completely obscure, and I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t think about getting famous ’til this guy

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from The Nerves said, ‘What are you going to do to make it?’ I never thought about it before. It looked like a good job, when I’d see a picture of John Lennon’s house, but my heroes were blues guys, completely committed to playing music in life no matter what the circumstances.” “In the American South in the early century, blues musicians didn’t want to be part of that labor force, to being treated as slaves, rounded up by the police and forced to do farm work. They were hiding out and making art, living a whole other style of life they felt was truer. I wasn’t going to be able to fit into the world that was coming down the pike for me in Buffalo, you know? I just jumped, and I never went back.” “I could teach a whole other class on how to have enough time to spend on songwriting. You spend all of your time dong something you don’t want to be doing, working at Intel? You can buy a fancy guitar, your own recording studio, and make your own album, but you don’t have enough time to do anything. You’re on call seven days a week. You have got to make a choice if you’re a musician. That’s a spiritual choice—you make a spiritual decision between being a drug dealer, a pornographer, an Intel worker, or a spiritual person. It really is a choice; it’s not there for everybody. Your life colors what happens to your imagination.” Father Figures “I was with him when he died,” Peter says of his father. “We’d had a horrible falling out back in the day. But we got together, on the right track, and then in the last period of his life, I spent a lot of time with him. We were talking about everything. We talked about his life because we’d never talked about it. He talked about people and things that had happened when he was five; it went on for weeks. He wanted to hear certain songs. He liked ‘Could’a Should’a Would’a.’” Case says that he and his father had little in common. “He would keep me home from school to see things on TV that were historical. He had an ice cream stand, so in the winter he was home sometimes. I saw the JFK inauguration. I got into Robert Frost, and he gave me a Robert Frost book for my birthday when I was a little kid. My family wasn’t pushing that angle. I liked Harry Belafonte and the Kingston Trio; I

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don’t think my folks understood how deep into it I was getting. When I dropped out of school, it couldn’t have been a worse thing.” Peter says that despite their differences, there is a physical resemblance in the members of his family. “I don’t know if I’m like him. I look like him. I’ve got a son now who is 32, and he looks like him, too; we’re all birds of a feather. My father instilled in me resentment against guys who were big shots. ‘That guy thinks he’s a big shot. Mr. Big Shot.’ It applies to management, ostentatiously rich people, and me. If I ever become too big headed, I hear my dad’s voice calling me a big shot. I inherited that kind of rebellion from him. I don’t like being told what to do.” Martyrs and Missions “I’m from when Kennedy’s picture was up in everybody’s house. When Kennedy was shot, it was extremely traumatic; and when Bobby was shot I woke up and my mother was crying. I never heard her cry before or since; she doesn’t even cry when people die. All the guys got shot— Martin Luther King, Medgar Evers, Bobby Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, John Lennon—all of the heroes were murdered.” “I grew up Unitarian. And you know what they say about the Unitarians? Dave Van Ronk told me when you move into a Unitarian neighborhood, they burn a question mark on your front lawn. My family is from New England, related to Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’m the descendant of a hymn writer, Hosea Ballou (1771–1852); he ended up being a free thinker. Some of the hymns are still popular in the hymnals and New England. All of my friends were Irish Catholic guys, everybody I knew. I wanted to be a Catholic, and I never was one.” The Dream of the Song In my first encounter with Case, he told me this about his songwriting process: “It’s all tricks. A lot of writing is to convince yourself to come in under your own self-consciousness, to do things before you know what they are and to trick yourself. I’ve written since I was a kid, but the first time I really wrote a bunch of songs back to back was in 1977. I was writing before that, but it wasn’t always coming together. I sat down, and I had this one song I wanted to finish. It had come to me in a dream. The dream was that I had skipped out of school and gone to a

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record shop, and in the record shop John Lennon came up to me and told me not to look at a certain record. And it was called Hothouse Madman by the Sergeants. But I took the record, and I put it on. It was this incredible song. I was in San Francisco when this happened, and I woke up and wrote that song down and started performing it.” But just because it came in a dream didn’t mean that everyone loved it. “For some reason the guys in the band hated it,” Case recalled. “It was so weird; it was a dream song. And I never rewrote it, but I wrote tons of these other songs. All the stuff the Plimsouls did on their first record—I was up in this room skipping out of this horrible task of trying to revise my subconscious.” But Case still sometimes uses this dream state as a source of inspiration. He confides, “I had a dream of a Townes Van Zandt song; it was just a whole, complete song. I have this one corner I go to in my dreams. It’s this one place—it looks like Mexico or something, just a couple of low buildings out in the middle, and it’s by a highway. I return to this place, and it’s always like a musical dream.” “You can only be ready for when it comes by being in shape as a writer. If you’re writing a lot, doing sketches, if you’re really living and breathing music all of the time, that’s when it happens—it only happens if you are really committed to the music. You have to be obsessed. I’ve had Townes Van Zandt come to me and play me songs in my dreams. It’s just because I’m so into it. But I can only feel and hear it; I couldn’t write it down.” Case contemplates the thought that the songs already exist and that the songwriter is simply channeling them. “Sometimes the songs come to you, and they come in so completely formed in such a way that it’s hard to argue with that. Some songs blow your mind because they come out whole, with all the phrasing, imagery, and everything. I’m not sure what that means. It happens now and again—you wake up and write the song in the middle of the night. I thought it was insomnia at first.” Transformations and Time Case believes that it is the duty of creative people to employ their gifts. “You’ve got a responsibility to create, to keep doing your thing and

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working. It might not seem important, but it is. There are a lot of things that can come and eat you up if you’re not using your gifts; one of them is depression, and it spreads out to other people and hurts them. I believe I have to write, to work, to reach out to people. I have to do what I can to make a difference.” “When I was in the Plimsouls, I went through a phrase where I was a Christian, a conventional Christian, for a while. Now I describe myself as an ‘unconventional left-wing Christian.’ I accepted the power that came to me at that period of my life, and it changed and transformed me. It’s not as easy. I don’t agree with what I hear on TV or on Oprah; it’s not about spiritual materialism or obeying someone else’s code. But one of the things I became convinced of in that period was that the way I had been living my life was affecting others, with waves going out, spreading out from me. I became convinced it was hurting a lot of people, the selfishness, and the lust, and the lure of money and other things I was locked into, really dark things, just the harshness of my appraisal of the world, in a way, and the darkness of it. I was out of control with my darkness at that point. And it was affecting people around me and people I hadn’t even met. That led to a big change.” As a kid, Case read the works of William Blake. “Blake said that the God a lot of people worship is like the devil as far as he can see. I’m just using that as an image, and I’m not sure how I want to put that. But if you believe that people should suffer eternally for their sins, or if someone doesn’t have the right code they’re going to burn or their children are going to burn, then you’re essentially worshipping Satan. Jesus came to preach forgiveness of sin. A lot of these guys are pointing a finger and trying to line people up for damnation; they’re just carrying the flag of the accuser, man. They worship the one that they proclaim themselves to be opposed to. If you read William Blake Marriage of Heaven and Hell, it will start you on that path. But there are a lot of things you can study in that area. There’s a great book (Fearful Symmetry) by a guy named Northrup Frye.” Spiritual Bondage Case casts an overview on the current American society that embodies what he deems “spiritual bondage.” He notes, “They hate us for our

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freedom, but people want to be free to gauge the world economically, free to deny poor people equal health treatment, free to pursue lust and celebrity worship. Call it want you want, but it isn’t freedom at all. Americans’ freedom is a joke. We have certain freedoms, but they’re being eroded. The freedom of assembly doesn’t exist anymore—you can’t go protest at the Republican Convention or at a Dick Cheney speech. The freedom of expression doesn’t exist if you’re a kid and you draw a cartoon, and you get held by the secret service and terrified for 16 hours—that’s not a freedom. If something can get you fired from your job teaching, like that Native American man over in Colorado [Ward Churchill]. You’re not really living in a land where there is any real freedom. Real freedom is all that really matters; fake freedom is bullshit.” “People talk about freedom and evildoers; the only way for our country is to pick up the path that a grownup has to pick up in the world, being responsible for your actions and how they affect other people. If you do something here, and it affects people all over the world, in a serious way, that ain’t right. That’s the problem we’re facing. Some of these guys step up, like the Kennedys. We’re going to fight communism with rockets and bombs, and we’re gong to fight it with positive things. The way to do that isn’t free market with corporate leaders, it’s got to be positive for the people.” Case takes aim on the corporate hierarchies. “Now the people are circumvented by the shareholders, and the shareholders are people who invested in the company 30 years ago, and it’s like some fiefdom. There is the divine right of the shareholder and the divine right of capital is what we worship in his country instead of the divine right of kings, which we got rid of. Now we’ve got the divine right of the shareholder and a big corporation, people who own shares in IBM are more important in the decision-making for the company than the people who have worked there for 30 years and made it valuable. If you look at the ledger books, the shareholders are in opposition to the people who work for the company.” “The current administration [supports] a huge bunch of people who invest and get the breaks, buy stuff from stores you’ve never seen the

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catalogs of, and they can afford things we can’t even imagine, while people who create the wealth of all of these companies can’t get sick leave or time to take care of a child being born. We’ve got a huge dichotomy of common sense. But I tell you, that is the major issue in America right now; it’s about money, and it’s the same one that was facing Roosevelt, and there is nobody on the horizon right now talking about it, except maybe John Edwards. If he’d start talking about this shit, he’d have so many enemies on both sides of the aisle.” “This country is in deep spiritual trouble because of all this. The decisions being made in Iraq are made by these huge interests and not governed by what is right for anybody. If the world gets destroyed, this will be the reason why. As Shakespeare said, ‘The time is out of joint.’ That’s what I’m saying in my music, you know?”

Rodney Crowell: Pentecostal Preachers and Music City Stars My first recollection of Rodney Crowell was seeing him on stage as the guitarist in Emmy Lou Harris’ Hot Band in a concert at New York’s Central Park. In the following years, Crowell made massive contributions to modern country music as a songwriter, a producer, and eventually as a recording artist with five consecutive number-one singles from his album Diamonds and Dirt. His songs are part of the great

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American soundscape: “Til I Gain Control Again” (Emmy Lou Harris, Willie Nelson), “Seven Year Ache” (recorded by his then wife, Roseanne Cash), “Leavin’ Louisiana in the Broad Daylight (Oak Ridge Boys), “Please Remember Me” (Tim McGraw), “Ain’t Livin’ Long Like This” (Waylon Jennings), and “Shame on the Moon” (Bob Seger). A recent hit, “Making Memories of Us” by Keith Urban, extends this hit-making legacy. Crowell had been out of the spotlight for some time when I received his career defining record, The Houston Kid. Financed with his own resources and released on an independent label, it was a stunning recollection of his childhood—a riveting white-trash saga of wife-beating, alcoholism, crime, prison, male prostitution, drug addiction, and AIDS—and it bore scant resemblance to what was passing itself off as country music in that sanitized era. Ironically, it was also an exuberant, revelatory album. “I must say, false modesty doesn’t serve me,” Crowell told me at the time. “I started doing music so I could do this.” I then met Rodney in the carousel house at the Santa Monica pier as we spent an afternoon discussing his new artistic endeavors, his publicist having earlier explained to me that he would only meet journalists in person. I later invited him to the studio to be interviewed for Salute to Songwriters, the show I was hosting on United Airlines inflight audio channel, the United Entertainment Network, and he mesmerized us with his wry Texas wit and masterful command of the idiom—not to mention his impressive knowledge of modern art. The Houston Kid begat two brilliant follow-up releases, The Outsider and Fate’s Right Hand, which confirmed that Crowell had tapped a rich creative vein. When I contacted him through his friend Beth Nielsen Chapman and invited him to be included in this book, his response was, “How may I be of service?” Chipping Away the Stone A mystical view and a practical approach, Crowell says, might be two reflective views of his songwriting methods. “It could be a lot like that famous story about Michelangelo and David. There is a big block of stone and the sculpture is in there—it’s removing those bits of stone that don’t make up the sculpture. I feel like the really good songs

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already exist for those of us who keep the craft alive. It’s also a mystical idea that I have, that out there in the universe is God or the creative energy. And for those who keep the channels open, inspiration will send you a dollop now and then, a second helping. When inspiration comes, those songs are there and formed, and it’s a matter of how well you do your job of getting them into that perfect form.” “I intend songwriting as my way of life: it is my intention that is what I do. Intention is a powerful thing. To me, writing or creating art is a creative process that is a sacred spiritual undertaking. I don’t think I’m ever happier or more myself, except when I’m in the circle of love that binds my family together—it is the act of creation. Writing a new song—there is no more elated state of existence than that for me, other than my family. Yesterday this song didn’t exist in this realm. Maybe later on today it does—it’s that mystical transport system that gets a work of art from having not existed to existing in this realm where we perceive, breathe, and love. That’s movies, books, anything that is created. That transformation—from having not existed to existence—is the most fascinating place for me.” “I intend to write songs that are somehow based on truth, so that precludes any notion of commerciality on the front side. If I write some song and I’m successful in creating what it is, and on the backside, if it happens to be a commercial thing, that’s all well and good—but it doesn’t work the other way around. I have to frame it—it doesn’t work for me. I think the heart is a far more articulate delivery system for art and music and songs than is the mind. I think at best the mind is just a real good editing tool.” “I drop all of my guards and talk about this—music, art, dance, acting literature, prose, documentary filmmaking, news reporting, anything written—to me, is an act of God. It is God. I’m looking at trees out of my window as I drive, and it’s God’s creation right there. So is art. We are just the anointed messengers.” Words of Faith and Tongues of Fire Crowell explains that his mother was a Pentecostal, and he attended church with her. “These Pentecostals I grew up around were highly emotional and highly imaginative. You’ve got to have a pretty vivid

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imagination to speak in tongues, following another line of reasoning there. It’s like Jerry Lee Lewis’s, ‘Goodness gracious great balls of fire.’ That was a Pentecostal moment. That fervor, on fire, and sizzling aspect of Pentecostalism—it’s very sexual. And it’s not repressed. It’s pretty out there in the open. At the time it was shoved down my throat as a child, but I’m really grateful that’s the way I grew up. I think it makes it easier for me to access the creative channels to do the work that I do.” “I saw the Pentecostal preachers jump down in the aisle, and some little Pentecostal lady would be speaking in tongues; he would hold his hand up in the air and divine, in English, what God was saying through this writhing creature. It was pretty cool. If you think about the creative process in there, it is basically what we’re doing when we’re writing songs—we’re making shit up.” “I rejected it. But I grew to really appreciate it. My appreciation is where drama and creativity intersect to create a happening. Little Richard, the energy of ‘Tutti Frutti’? That’s Pentecostal energy finding its way into popular music. The devils and God: those lines are drawn very clearly. I don’t know what that is about people; I guess it’s black and white. I prefer it in shades of grey.” Walking the Line When Rodney Crowell married Roseanne Cash and was inducted into the first family of country music, he experienced the mythical power of his father-in-law, Johnny Cash. “I read Keith Richards had said, ‘I come from pretty strong stock. I don’t suggest you try what I’ve done. I’m still alive.’ I think Johnny Cash came from pretty strong stock, too. The amount of drugs that boy took would have killed most of us. But he survived and reached other levels that were beautiful to watch. Even during my time with him—underneath the supposed clean years—there were times the boy was getting loaded, and everyone was acting like he was all cleaned up. He was on downers. Then he would emerge from that to a whole newer, higher level. He was a phoenix, Johnny Cash; he would rise from the ashes again and again. That rising from the ashes is a pretty powerful metaphor. Saturday night sin and Sunday morning redemption; being born again is equivalent to rising from the ashes.”

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Crowell substantiates his own history of drug use. “I know for a fact, drugs for me were used to invoke a mystical spiritual experience. And it is that altered state of consciousness that becomes habitual. My pathway out of that was that nothing was left devastated. My life wasn’t devastated, but I know people for whom addiction has destroyed their entire lives. The only medicine for survival is some connection to creation, or God, or whatever you want to call it. To me, those are fruitful times for making art.” “From The Houston Kid on, that was a rise from the ashes for me, in a different way. Everyone has his own way. If we look at Picasso, and he only had the early period where he was painting the guy with the guitar, the Blue Period, he might have been a footnote as a great painter. If you take Picasso and go through the stick figures, the distorted women, you know that this is art, his process, and then you total up the whole thing and it becomes greater, more mythic and more legendary than had he just painted that one period of really rich realistic paintings.” “I’m a great Dylan fan. When I heard ‘I used to care but things have changed,’ or ‘Someday baby you won’t have to worry for me anymore,’ that fulfilled my longing for ‘Mr. Tambourine Man.’ It’s as satisfying as the first time I heard that. And there’s 40 years in between. My relationship with myself, with those songs, completes my path. Had it all just stopped with ‘Mr. Tambourine Man,’ I wouldn’t have had that secondary inspiration of seeing someone I admire doing it again later on. I don’t want to write ‘I Used to Care’ and ‘Mr. Tambourine Man,’ but I want to have written ‘Til I Gain Control Again’ and then I want to have written ‘I’m Still Learning How to Fly’ so many years later. I didn’t copy Bob Dylan, but I found the experience in myself that I admired in another artist. And I think, to me, that is a spiritual experience.” The Flow on the Row Although Rodney makes his home in Nashville, he notes that there are many other capitols of creativity. “I’m aware of it on a global level. For me, it begins with Bob Dylan. He’s enigmatic and guarded about how he speaks about his process. But I find his lyrics and poetry to be

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entirely spiritual. And it resonates with me wholly on a spiritual level, as does Tom Waits. That, to me, is what comes from that path and how he creates—it’s entirely spiritual, it’s not intellectual. I think it’s a global community in that sense. Guy Clark, who to me is one of the great mystics, said to me early on, ‘You can be a star, or you can be an artist. And either one is good, but pick one and be it.’ I was thinking, ‘I want to be an artist!’ There are artists you call stars, but there are a lot of stars you wouldn’t call artists. To me Eminem’s work is spiritual. Prince’s work is spiritual, and so is Elvis Costello’s. You go down to Texas and Stoney LaRue’s work is a spiritual path for him. Emmy Lou Harris is the quintessentially spiritual artist. Her integrity and devotion and poetic soul are something that she has completely accessed.” Dreams of the Divine In my Santa Monica interview with Crowell, his reminiscences of his early life in Houston included violence, both physical and emotional. He told me, “I grew up with three generations of wife-beaters. It’s called domestic violence now, but back then it was wife-beating. My grandfather was, by his own admission, a sot drunk and a deacon of the church who led the choir and beat his wife. But there were other kids up and down the block living through the same shit. In the case of my father and mother, my father learned that dance from his father and mother. He learned how to be the perpetrator. And my mother learned that dance from her mother and father, how to be the recipient. I hated my mother more for taking it then I hated him for dishing it out; but I loved them both.” His parents, now both dead, came to him in a dream to inspire him to write a song titled “Love is All I Need,” which he then recreated verbatim. “That’s the most vivid time that it ever happened. I had a conversation: in that dream you can look at it as the souls of my dead parents actually came and visited me, which is perfectly fine, my reality can accept that. But the sense of being asleep and relaxed so that my creative process could deliver to me the song in its totality, that needed to be the coda to the record. I was scratching my head thinking, ‘Where is it? It’s around here somewhere.’ I think it was my creative process coming up with the final piece of the puzzle.”

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Silence and the Legacy When Crowell speaks of his own rising from the ashes to create a trio of albums, he notes that these were preceded by a period of internal examination. “Five years quiet, for one thing. The one thing I hold myself responsible for, and not the people around me at all, is that after I had a creative commercial spoke around Diamonds & Dirt, I was sort of on the cusp of beginning to be perceived as a country star. I wasn’t quite ready for that. It wasn’t my time, so it didn’t fully form. I moved away from it, and then I had a little flash of fear run through me that I needed to go back and complete that, to make myself a star. I went and made a couple records for MCA around 1994 or 1995 that I thought were the nadir of my creative path. I was trying to do something for the wrong reasons. It was fear-based, and I was operating out of my mind. And the one thing I know is that the good things don’t come from the mind—it’s just an editing tool. It’s the only time I was embarrassed for myself in terms of integrity. I went for the commerciality. And I tried to recreate something that was a natural by-product of doing my work. And I didn’t feel good about it.” “I went silent from 1995–2001. And in that time, I did a lot of soulsearching and spiritual work on myself, for my own reasons. I’m not religious—I’m just an artist. And being an artist is a spiritual journey. I started doing something, then I scrapped it, then I made The Houston Kid. I said to myself and to my children, ‘From now on I follow what I fear, and I make something out of it. I want all the work I do from this point on to be my real legacy.’”

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D

id your mother tell you never to discuss religion and politics in polite company? For good reason—it seems like nothing stokes the fires of controversy like these two subjects, especially when they are thrown together into one molten hot oven of emotion. As I related in the Preface to this book, I was raised in the Lutheran faith, and our hymns were suitably austere. The first time I heard a drum kit and a Hammond B3 through the open doors of a black church it was a revelation. I was honored to work on a project entitled “Church: Songs of Soul and Inspiration” with some notable luminaries, all of whom had come up in the church, including Patti LaBelle, Rev. Shirley Caesar, and Dr. Maya Angelou. In the process of researching my interviews, I did an extensive search of the origins of modern gospel music. For many faithful, there were only two types of music—God’s or the Devil’s—with no in-between. Early practitioners of rock ‘n’ roll, raised in the Southern Baptist tradition, truly believed they were damned because they chose the roadhouse over the choir loft. The three interviewees in this chapter all have wildly diverse views on the power of the spirit and its force through music: meet an evangelical agnostic, a honky-tonk hero, and a fiery iconoclast humbled by the choir.

Susan Werner: There Must Be a Time Listening to National Public Radio one morning, a voice floated to me from out of the electronic ether. It was the rich timbre of Susan Werner, a Chicago-based singer/songwriter who I knew only by 145

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reputation. She was singing a song that possessed elements of the purest of sentiments: “This must be a time/There must be a place/ When everyone will finally come together.” In her interview, she spoke of a new CD, The Gospel Truth, that was an exploration of the role of the church in present-day America. In listening to her, I realized that in many ways we seemed to be on parallel tracks—two Midwesterners reclaiming a segment of our spirituality that we had grown up with and recasting it within the parameters of our adult lives. “There is certainly an element in this project of reclamation, which is that as adults, those of us who don’t go to church, but who grew up in the church, realize that some of the things we learned in the church weren’t so horrible and may in fact be operating in positive ways in our lives every day. But for a while it felt like you were soft indeed if you acknowledged that as a part of your adult secular life, and I think there’s been a shift in the past couple of years where good values, however you came by them, are recognized to be essential,” Werner told me. “Writing is a spiritual practice. It’s a willingness to be around your deepest feelings and a willingness to be vulnerable and feel things you’ve been avoiding, which is why there is a certain type of trembling going on when we get close to the songs that are going to resonate with people. There’s a little fear. If songwriters deserve any credit

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whatsoever, it is for being willing to be there and feel like we’re coming apart. That’s the only credit songwriters should really get. I think songwriters are in every song they write, but there is an art in writing a song that can belong to everyone. That is why Electrify My Soul: Songwriters and the Spiritual Source was interesting to me.” Maps and Ministers In her exploration of modern-day religion, Werner visited different churches and experienced their rituals. “If you don’t go to church on Sunday morning, when do you take time to consider other people’s situations? I think church in America offers that. It is a place where you hear that Gladys went into the nursing home, and that is sad because it might be the beginning of the end for Gladys. And even though she lives across town, and you don’t see her that much, this is where you hear that. Maybe you hear someone’s son is sick. You consider other people’s situations in ways that you might not otherwise.” “It seems as if in the church in America you’ll have the dogma of Jesus, and the Father, and the Holy Spirit, and you have to buy into that to get the sense of community. That’s the intellectual price of joining the community, and that’s too bad. Because many of us have a hard time with that, but we long for community and a sense of belonging, a place where we feel we are plugged in to the lives of other people, where we can care, where we can give.” “I wanted to be honest with my CD project about addressing that hurdle. In gospel music, it is the elephant in the room: ‘Do you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?’ It is there with every gospel music concert and festival that you ever attend. I go to the House of Blues Gospel Brunch in Las Vegas. Sure enough, three quarters of the way through, here comes the altar call! You are sitting there with a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and it’s ‘What?’ But it’s part and parcel of gospel music in America. And with the church in America is this question that you can’t get around—what is your relationship with Jesus? And there is a right relationship and there’s a wrong relationship. And I wanted to create a cycle of songs that acknowledged and was honest about that, that feeling many of us have when we’re at any gospel performance or when someone begins to sing gospel. There is this feeling

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of discomfort, ‘Uh oh, here it comes.’ There is a right and a wrong way to live your life that is implicit in gospel music. I wanted to be honest about that moment of discomfort I experience and that I know many people experience.” Complex Creations With The Gospel Truth, Werner aligns songs of doubt and faith right next to each other. “Because that’s how I experience the church. I have been astounded to discover how many people in America experience the church in exactly the same way. I even write a few songs where doubt and faith sit together in the same song. If you look at the end of the song ‘Forgiveness,’ the singer does hope that one day God shows us how to manage all of this division and war over religion.” “The song ‘Our Father’ is a prayer that we could be of service in the world and to please deliver us from the hypocrites. I didn’t want the song to just be a complaint. I wanted it to serve as a reminder of the good of the church, that the church can call us to be of service. That is the part of the gospel that rings the most true to the most people. I think it was Jim Wallis (who wrote God’s Politics: Why the Right Gets It Wrong and the Left Doesn’t Get It) who said there are over 3,000 lines in the New Testament about poverty—what are you doing for the poor? That was Jesus’ number-one, number-two, number-three, number-four, and number-five message. But we all know that there are plenty of people using religion to purchase a Bentley or a Lexus. What does the Pope have? His Prada slippers.” Hallelujah and Halftime “There is a longing for something beyond the rational when it comes to Pentecostal Christians. I think a lot of us have that longing, but we might lose our minds rooting for the hometown team to win at the Chicago Bears game. There are many other ways to get there. Clubhopping, taking ecstasy, and dancing until four in the morning—these do not have 2,000 years of history behind them. And maybe the 2,000 years of history make you feel that you’re belong to something larger than yourself. It’s been happening for 2,000 years; the Bears are only 100 years old.”

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“It’s a permanent part of the American landscape, religion. I think to befriend it is to really enjoy what it is to be American. I think it is here to stay; and if we can lighten up and enjoy each other and express all of the things we want to be and hope to be, it makes the journey so much easier. That’s what this project has allowed me to do, to ease up about religion in America, to enjoy people and the manifestation of their enthusiasm, to enjoy the parade and get less freaked out and a little less righteous.” “There are many Americans who are assembling a faith for themselves. Americans improvise—we improvise in our music and our spiritual lives. [The Gospel Truth] project is an improvisation, assembling elements of faith and doubt in a way that works for me and works for a lot of people. A big part of this project was this desire to reclaim the good and to set aside what didn’t work for me anymore. Almost like going through your parent’s things, some things you will keep and treasure forever, and some things you will drop off at Goodwill. Every generation does this. For some of us, the church is there for us to consider.” Jesus and the Jihad Werner observes that the United States of America, currently in an undeclared war with a fundamentalist religion, might need to reconsider the exclusive ideology. “We need to evolve because the world needs to evolve. We are at war with the extreme sect of another religion. It is an opportunity for us to consider the extreme in ourselves. Do we want to resort to that to get results? Maybe that is not the way to go forward that creates lasting change. The forgiveness starts out with a person-to-person conversation, then expands to religion to religion. It is not just Christian fundamentalists in the United States and how they quote the Bible; it is extremists of all religions going after each other. This is big. It’s like the saying, ‘War— it isn’t just for Christians anymore.’” The Light from the Levee Werner avows that one of the more interesting mornings occurred in her quest as she was headed toward Hyde Park in Chicago to sit with

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the Quakers. “The Quakers are mostly white. However, Lakeshore Drive was closed for construction, and I had to head off on MLK (Martin Luther King) Drive through a less affluent part of town. I realized I was going to be late because it would take me so long to go through the lights. I passed a church at 42nd and MLK, the Evangel Assembly of God. There were two older guys out front with suits and ties, and they smiled at me as I drove past. I thought, ‘This is it—I’m going in there!’ It was the week after Hurricane Katrina. I went in, and the ushers had white dresses and white gloves. They showed me to my seat, and it was me, one other white lady, and 300 African-Americans talking about Katrina. This was a conversation I would not have had with the Quakers.” “It wasn’t white people who saw themselves in New Orleans. It was black. And it’s too bad that it takes some of us an extra step to get there, to really empathize, to really see it. The grief and the outrage was so intense, but the preacher stepped forward and said, ‘Something good will come of this; we will see that we have to take care of each other.’ He called it a spiritual opportunity. That kind of thinking creates political change that we want to relate to each other differently. A shift followed: as America, we failed ourselves, spiritually and economically. It was a rallying point, but it is sad that it comes to that.” Say Amen Somebody For The Gospel Truth, Werner enlisted the power of a full-on gospel choir to add the requisite spirit. “For any musical undertaking about church and music in America, you have got to have a gospel choir. The producer knew the Wilmington Mass Choir from Wilmington, Delaware, and they came up and sang. That put it over the top. We had a track down that they were reacting to, but then I had to go and sing it again because they raised the intensity so high. It was the equivalent of prom night for a singer. I have sung with orchestras and other choirs behind me, I have a master’s in classical voice, and I have sung opera, but this was the mother of all thrills. The heat of it is absolutely fantastic.” Joel Bryant, a minister in Philadelphia, played all of the keyboard and Hammond organ parts. “The Hammond has warmth to it; there might

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be a lot of tubes. The fact that it moves air makes it like a choir. That is the power of gospel—the human warmth. Part of why this music has so much appeal now is that we live in the iPod age. You download a file, put it in your iPod, put your ear buds in, and it’s you and your music. Gospel music is about hearing the person next to you singing along. There is a sense and a longing for community that gives this music its power. They’ll be having gospel music festivals 100 years from now.” Deities and Dan Werner says that she doesn’t have a preconceived notion of what a deity looks like. “I’m okay with a deity-free world. Maybe we should take some time off—a deity diet. We indulge too much. We went to war, and we’re being attacked by Islamic extremists. Let’s go on a fast: No Deities. Human beings are smart. We can do a lot—we came up with the MRI machine and ibuprofen. God didn’t bring it down.” She recalls a specific image of Jesus prevalent when she was growing up. “I call it, ‘The Dan Fogelberg Jesus.’ A smiling Jesus, blue eyes, brown hair, shown from the shoulders up. A commercially successful Jesus. Friendly, thoughtful, not violent. Green Jesus, romantic Jesus; he lights candles and rubs your feet.” “One failing of this project is that I didn’t get to write a song about God as a woman. I had an interesting conversation on Alvin Jones’ show on XM talk radio. This guy called in and said, ‘I understand your difficulty with the church. The priests aren’t women, and God isn’t a woman. Do you know how long it took me to understand that God should be a black man?’ Think of the pictures of Jesus— they are all white. I think it is easier for white guys to relate to God. We’ve got to leap all of these intellectual hurdles. He’s not like me; white guys don’t have to go through that because Jesus is a white guy. Women have to make the leap.” Inspired in Spirit Werner is cautious in her pronouncements of her own creative energies. “It’s even hard to describe. It feels like it’s a rising. Maybe like you’re a medium of some kind. It is hard to find words that aren’t

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burnt out. I’m sure I am not channeling anything. Maybe it’s a sense of occasion, like whatever is showing up will somehow be of use, that people will see themselves in the song, that it isn’t just me who is feeling this. You have a sense that it is somehow larger.” “There is only so much earnestness. I must say, ‘Together’ is the last song I wrote. It felt like many of the songs, ‘Here’s something coming up, and it is a little like a sneeze or throwing up. Something is happening and it will come out good. I’m a little afraid that this will be meaningful and will hold up.’ I’m not a religious person, but if I pray at all, it’s when I feel like a song is showing up. I suspect at times that a song will resonate with people, and I hope to God the song is good. That’s the only moment when I do hope to God about anything.” Not everyone appreciates Werner’s recent songs, explorations, and pronouncements at her concerts. “I’ve had people get up and walk out. For some people, everything sacred is sacred. I don’t think the spiritual food fight is going to work anymore, to stand on the extremes of the spectrum and hurl insults into the center isn’t helpful. In West Virginia on Saturday night, two people got up and walked out. I was talking to the promoter and I asked, ‘What did they say?’ And he said one word, ‘Heathens!’ It’s so over the top, but for some people, any criticism or doubt is intolerable. That is what’s going to do us in.” “I do this show all around the country. And people come up after the show to buy CDs, and they buy two of them. ‘Sign this one for me and sign this one for my pastor.’ I’m serious. ‘This is for Father Jim, sign this for Rev. Bill, sign this for Sister Carol.’ This shows me that professionals and clergy have doubts they can’t express in public. If you’ve got the collar on, you have got to represent, no matter what your private feelings are. It is interesting to discover that Mother Teresa had doubts. Even Mother Teresa was no Mother Teresa. We can all take comfort in that.” And Werner, whose family is Catholic, observes the reaction of her parents. “Such sweet wonderful people. I sent my mother the record, and she called me and said, ‘Well honey, thank you for sending the record. I hope it all works out for you.’ That to me is a sign of great progress.”

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Billy Joe Shaver: A Texas Troubadour’s Fire and Brimstone When I was a fledgling interviewer, I beseeched a local Los Angeles music magazine to allow me write a cover story on a man I consider an icon of the songwriting world, Billy Joe Shaver. The interview was scheduled after Billy Joe’s sound check at a Hollywood club, Jack’s Sugar Shack. At the appointed hour, I entered the dim recesses of the club and met Billy Joe who was then touring with a band that included his son Eddy. He was cordial as we sat down to begin the interview, but when I went to open my bag containing the tape recorder, the zipper refused to cooperate. Billy Joe took the bag and with his hands, made distinctive by a couple of fingers lost to a sawmill accident in his youth, proceeded to coax open the zipper. I related this memory to Billy when we began our most recent interview. “The zipper wouldn’t open, and I couldn’t get it out,” I recalled. “That’s what she said last night,” he retorted. Clearly, Billy Joe’s

Billy Joe Shaver

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edition of spirituality, like his songs, is flavored with the spice and salt of the world. Kris Kristofferson, Tom T. Hall, and Elvis Presley all covered Shaver songs over the years. Many others—Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Bobby Bare, Bob Dylan, Johnny Rodriguez, and The Allman Brothers—have also sung his words and music. It’s been a long and rocky road for the Texas-born troubadour, but he endures. Within one year he lost his son Eddy to a heroin overdose, his wife, Brenda Tindell Shaver, and his mother to cancer. He soon faced his own brush with mortality when he experienced an onstage heart attack, and he notes in this interview, his own history is riddled with years lost to drug addiction. And he’s no stranger to violence, as a recent charge for aggravated assault might indicate. It’s a cliche´ to be sure, but Billy Joe is a survivor. And as one of his best-loved songs, “I’m Going to Live Forever,” professes, he believes his music and his belief in Jesus Christ will grant him immortality. While many of his songs have referenced the spirit, Everybody’s Brother, produced by John Carter Cash, is an unabashed treatise on sin, the soul, and salvation. “The new project is spiritual, but kind of strong medicine,” Billy Joe confirms. Witness this song title: “If You Don’t Love Jesus Go to Hell.” “I’m talking to people where I play in honky-tonks, and they understand that stuff. I tell these people ‘Don’t worry about drinking. It ain’t what goes in your mouth; it’s what comes out.’ I feel like Jesus is inside everybody, and all you have to do is wake him up. I feel everybody is going to get into heaven, and I believe this earth might be hell with all the back-stabbing crazy stuff that goes on.” When Billy was deep in the throes of drug addition, he says he saw Jesus sitting on the end of his bed, “Just shaking his head, and wondering like, ‘How long are you going to keep doing this?’” This visitation was on a dark night of the soul for Billy Joe, just prior to when he climbed a mountain with the thought of committing suicide. “I was doing a bunch of drugs. I went out on a mountain on a cliff outside of Nashville, and I thought about jumping, and a lot of things happened. I remembered there was an altar up there, and it was dark as

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pitch in the middle of the night. I found myself turned around, asking God to forgive me for all the stuff I done. My boots, for some strange reason, were sitting there; apparently I took them off. But I put ’em back on and came down that cliff singing, ‘I’m just an old chunk of coal/But I’m gonna be a diamond someday.’ I got all the way down and I’d written half the song. I went and packed my family up and went cold turkey. I’d been doing a lot of things, man. We moved down to Houston, Texas, and they were all mad as hell at me because I was the next whoopty-doo in Nashville. I just dropped it all and left and got down there and went cold turkey. In about six or seven months, I dropped down to 150 pounds. I couldn’t keep food down. That ol’ stuff I was doing was real bad stuff. I didn’t know that there were rehab places, but I did know I had God and Jesus in my heart.” The song he penned that night, “I’m Just An Old Chunk of Coal,” became a huge hit for John Anderson. Hours of Honesty “It’s hard not to lie sometimes. I’ve lost a lot of what I thought were friends by telling them the truth. It helps them in the long run because they need to get it right away. I’m what you call brutally honest. Waylon [Jennings] was that way, too. Willie [Nelson] is too, but he’s not all that brutal; he’s just honest. You can’t hide from yourself; you can’t lie to yourself because it just don’t work. I rather put Satan into the position where I could deal with him. If someone broke it down and said, ‘Jesus was a psychologist,’ I’d say he’s real. There’s such a thing as black magic, and you should stay away from it.” “I can be in an old motel room picking guitar or just singing. It’s pretty good therapy and think everybody ought to write; everybody’s got it in them. If they did that, they would be more honest with themselves than they would with a psychiatrist. Write a song about it; it might be a hit. You find out there’s a lot of other people that’s in them same kind of shoes. I didn’t realize it, but I’m just trying to dig myself out of a hole. It happens that it helped a lot of other people, too. I wasn’t trying to be noble or anything like that, trying help everybody; I was trying to help myself stay alive.”

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Native Knowledge Billy Joe notes that his lineage includes the Native American people now referenced as the Blackfoot. Through a young Lakota fan in Wyoming, Billy has endured the Native American tradition of the sweat lodge, where a small group of people enter a virtually airless space and meditate amid the rising heat of superheated stones. “It gets just hot as heck in there, air-tight hot. We did 49 stones, and I almost lost my left eye over it. I thought, ‘They’re trying to kill me! Let’s kill the white guy!’ But I made it out in a whole lot better shape, looking at the world in a better way. They really are good people, real peaceful people. I can’t remember what we talked about, but we did get visits from different spirits and things. It’s really something: sweat, sweat, sweat. Man, you get down into that thing of some kind of euphoria comes, and you’re into a different area.”

The Gift of the Spirit “When I was a kid, I had a real close relationship to God,” Shaver recalls, “but I didn’t know Jesus. He had given me the gift of writing songs. I never tried to write for money or anything like that; I just tried to the write the best I could. I have always written the kind of songs I write, and they just happen to be not all that commercial, some of them. That’s all right. I’m happy with them. To be honest, I have to write about myself and the things that happen to me. I may look at a person thinking I know what’s going on and write a good song about it, but to tell you the truth it probably wouldn’t be completely honest because I don’t know that much and you can’t judge people. You can’t even judge yourself. So I just write what happens to me, and plenty happens to me. I’m really blessed to have this ability. I’d probably sell more records if I were dead. It’s rough being an outlaw—nah, I’m just joking! I’m gonna live if I want to or not.”

Michelle Shocked: White Girl, Black Church I had previously interviewed Michelle Shocked in luxurious surroundings in the office suites of a major Hollywood publicity firm—an odd environment, I thought, for such a roots-driven, anti-establishment

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Michelle Shocked

troubadour. But as I was to discover in speaking and writing about her, Michelle Shocked is no stranger to contradictions or controversy. In her self-penned “womanifesto” for her album ToHeavenURide, the iconoclastic singer/songwriter says, “Ask me about my religion. Of course, no one ever does.” This spiritual appointed segment of her musical career is part of the long musical journey of a songwriting trailblazer. “I was moved by the power of rock ‘n’ roll. And if you follow the trail from rock ‘n’ roll, it always leads you back to the blues, sweet soul music, and finally to the churches and gospel music,” she explains. It is this road that led to the West Angeles COGIC mass choir in the heart of South Central Los Angeles, where she now tries “living by the Good Book and putting out a gospel record.” A recording artist since 1986, in 2002, with the release of Deep Natural, Michelle established her own label, Mighty Sound, and re-issued expanded versions of her entire catalog, a plan made possible by having been sharp enough to retain ultimate ownership of her work when she signed with Mercury Records in 1987. After litigation dating back to Mercury’s refusal to release a gospel record, ownership reverted to her. (Shocked sued the label based on the violation of the 13th Amendment to the Constitution: Anti-slavery.)

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Sanctified Sound A vital touchstone for Shocked is the late shouter, Sister Rosetta Tharp, an electric guitar slinging, gospel wailing woman who often performed in her music in secular circumstances. Shocked draws clear lines of delineation between worldly and consecrated locales. “Churches are dedicated houses, sanctuaries for the sole purpose of glorifying God. Anything else might imply or be inspired by that, but I really take a pretty tough point of view on people who claim they have church in a nightclub.” Tough views come naturally to Shocked but so does her connection to the sacred. “There’s some bridging, inviting, evoking; there’s some wishing and praying. There are a lot of hurt people in this world, and you do catch on after a while that the humble and lowly job description as ‘entertainer,’ as opposed to the sacred and holy job description known as ‘pastor’ or ‘preacher,’ can come together in terms of the service and ministry. To people who are hurt or confused, music ministry is just pointing the way. There has been a great loss of faith between my audience and me. They are more interested in having me shut up about something I feel passionate about, like our misadventures in Iraq or about my personal relationship and discovery with God. I’m an equal opportunity offender—I piss them off left and right.” Idolatry and the Word “I was raised Mormon,” says Shocked. “This was a very fundamental type of Mormonism. When I rebelled against that, part of the doctrine was that God was a flat-out pure racist.” Attending an AfricanAmerican church might seem a stretch; at first, Shocked says, she kept a low profile, musically and otherwise. “My whole experience with being a member of West Angeles has been one of apprehension and tentativeness. I may go boldly in other realms, but in this one, I approached it with so much respect and reverence. I did not want to cause offense; I did not want in any way to reveal a type of pride or arrogance, and so I have been very deliberate and slow. I didn’t know how I would be accepted or perceived; I didn’t know how my gifts would be welcomed or threatening. I stood on God’s word, and I

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waited patiently. I have to say, I am overjoyed and satisfied with all the gifts that He has manifested to me as a part of participation in the ministry at West Angeles.” This church is inclusive, she believes. “From the outside looking in, it looks like it’s for the African-American community, predominantly. It has some kinds of cultural traditions. Every year they have Diversity Day—folks who had never been to Africa themselves, but feel that connection with that ancestry. As far as being an American goes, maybe we feel just as entitled to claim a birthright to a country we have never been to. I’m really hard pressed on Diversity Day; I don’t know what a person from my ethnic background is supposed to wear. It’s very muddled and confusing, as I expect many African-American backgrounds are, but I guess they’ve decided Kinte cloth and dashikis will get the job done.” Shocked notes that her father was Catholic. “Everyone I know who has come up Catholic seems permanently damaged to me. The mysticism is beautiful, and one of my favorite poets is T.S. Eliot who walked that same line as a literary intellectual and a devout Catholic that I try to walk with my ‘picker/poetness,’ but I do not think I have the temperament for Catholicism. You go to Guatemala where the saints, in an imperialistic sense, have transposed themselves on the culture. They took all of the pagan gods and called them after saints. So they are doing these worship ceremonies to St. Simon who was a very dark pagan god, Chango, or a derivative of that dark and evil god—spells, casting, demons, all that sort of thing. It’s alive and well, and Catholic mysticism is able to absorb all of that shock. Songs and Scriptures Shocked reads the Old Testament, with its vengeful God, plagues, dire prophecies, and transcendental poetry. “As my pastor points out, we read the Old Testament because of the New Testament. We care because of our faith in the new. I’ve read through the entire Bible several times; it’s like anything else, food or music, you get fixated and cravings; I crave the Book of John.” Moreover, the male-based view presented does not cause too many contradictions for a self-avowed feminist. “If it were in a white church, I’d be struggling much more

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with that patriarchal infrastructure that Christianity is based on. Since it is an African-American church, my mind is much more focused on the opportunity to explore the nuances of being a minority. I am there as a white woman, not as a woman. I have heard some rumblings, subterranean conversation, about women’s feelings about being in that patriarchal dominion. Now, even though I am their sister and I stand there with them, I do not have that history with black patriarchy. On the Rock Where Moses Stood “And Moses lifted his hand, and with his rod he smote the rock twice: and the water came out abundantly, and the congregation drank, and their beasts also.” —Numbers 20:11 Shocked talks freely about a spiritual breakthrough she experienced on a visit to the Grand Canyon. “I had an epiphany. I was sitting there, and having recently heard a sermon about the Old Testament, the Exodus, all of the murmuring and complaining, I think it was the rock at Meribah. They told Moses to strike the rock as he had done before, because they were thirsty and there was no water. It seemed like every time they were in a jam they’d say, ‘Take us back to Egypt—slavery is better than this.’ I was sitting in the Grand Canyon, and I’m looking at this monumental force of nature—at one point this rock was cut by water, and it carved out this mighty canyon. The rocks are bearing witness to God’s power. And my heart had been no less of a rock than those boulders, cliffs, and canyons that He had carved out of my heart with living water.” The Gift of the Song In the realm of songwriting, Shocked is attuned to the higher power of creativity. “You always have the sense of a song being a gift, and when you start out it’s like, ‘Where does this come from?’ All those same superstitions that baseball players get into—only wear your cap on odd numbered days, and chew your tobacco and spit three times. You do not know where the gift comes from, and it would be amazing to have that control, but it is not our realm. When I was invited to

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write ‘Quality of Mercy’ for the film Dead Man Walking, I was ready to shift the drama in my life from non-productive to productive; so I did the footwork, I read all the papers that the director had sent, background on the death penalty, and I watched the edit of the video, and then I prayed. My prayer was quite simple: ‘God, I’m ready to receive this song that You gave me.’ I wrote the song—it was as simple as that. Whether the song is inspired by an epiphany or stone-cutting craftsmanship, I think time is going to tell you. Sometimes you know right away, but often time will say whether or not it is a solid song.” Answered Prayers “I think I’m perfectly content with dwelling in the realm of the sprit because we really are spirit. God is as He should be, we are as we will become, and that for me is the manifestation of the miracle, that the spirit became flesh. They say prayer is a two-way conversation. The preacher talks about the man who wrote his prayers down, tacked them on the wall, and said, ‘There they are Lord; you can have them when you want them.’ Praying to me is just part of a process. Prayers get answered in advance of you praying, and prayers get answered years after you’ve prayed; and again, it becomes less important to me when and where the prayer has been answered, as it is to be transformed by the mind of Christ into someone who trusts in God’s word no matter what. Just stand on His word. I can tell you that. I know His word is true. It has never lied, and it has never failed—if He says He’s going to do something, and He does it.” “Quality announces itself quietly, and there is no greater quality than the light of God that shines through us—you hold up that kind of light to us and we become perfectly transparent. That’s my goal, my aspiration. So to whatever degree that transformation is being manifested in the life of one little picker/poet, thank God almighty—free at last.”

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The Power of Positive Music

P

ositive energy attracts positive people, and music and songs that have the power to uplift often impact the creator as much as they do the listener. Some songwriters have told me that they use songs to make sense of the world around them, while some have confided that they use songs to draw order in what exists within. Being a modern-day troubadour armed with just a guitar, keyboard, and a voice represents a supreme act of faith—believing that the messages of truth from one person can reach beyond the egos and limitations to find spiritual homes. Songs have wings; where they go, and what they do, is generally far outside of the realm of those who create and perform them. While songs often begin as tiny sparkles of illumination, they can become radiant expressions of hope and wonder. Harold Payne has an uncanny and instinctive ability to write songs intuitively, instantly, in front of live audiences. If songwriters ruled this world, Peter Himmelman, a thoughtful songwriter and an electric performer, would be royalty. Composer and songwriter Michael Silversher uses a broad palette of creative spirit to illuminate children, theater audiences, and families wracked by grief.

Harold Payne: Spiritual Grease and Elbow Grease It would not be possible to be a member of the Hollywood songwriting community and not somehow, somewhere, meet Harold Payne: he’s been in this game a long time. His sterling songwriting credits are certainly notable, but they’re only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Payne 163

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Harold Payne

performs an average of three nights a week in every conceivable environment, from concerts to funky beachside clubs to corporate events— where he creates custom songs on the spot—to Sunday church performances. And he’s been doing this for decades. When I was first beginning my career as a freelance writer, I was contacted by Harold to create his bio. In writing it, I tapped into an undeniable current of creative power that I channeled directly from his music. The resulting bio was both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, because it displayed my growing mastery of the written word in service to recording artists, and a curse, because every potential client subsequently expected me to create something equally powerful on his or her behalf. It began as follows: “One hundred years ago Harold Payne would have jumped freight trains or stowed away on tramp steamers. He would have written novels like Jack London, painted portraits of exotic womanhood like Paul Gaugin, and been a guide through steaming jungles from the farthest outposts of civilization. In these days of the jet plane, Harold Payne uses songs, his voice,

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and a guitar to traverse a global road from Chiang Mai to Moscow, from Bali to Bora-Bora. He’s sung in Singapore, strummed in Samoa, dreamed in Hindu temples, and jammed with itinerant street musicians in Ireland. He shares it all on his new Affinity Records release, Pass It On.” I learned a valuable lesson from imagining these words: a bio could only be as good as the artist, and it was Harold Payne’s music and soul that guided the prose. “Looking back, you realize everything you’re doing in your life is leading toward something,” Harold says. Indeed: I’m grateful for his friendship and proud to include him in these pages. Positive Payne Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent and G-Unit, Juelz Santana: the glowering line-up of urban artists on Harold Payne’s most recent hit list of 100+ songwriter credits may be a touch deceiving. “I have a long-time relationship with Bobby Womack,” explains Payne, “and a fair amount of rappers have either done our songs or sampled them.” It’s not just the hip-hop artists; more traditional singers, like Patti LaBelle and Rod Stewart, have recorded Harold Payne songs as well. He’s a regular performer in his native Los Angeles, and an artist who is undeniably comfortable onstage. Certainly everything about Harold Payne confirms the definition of Positive Music. Payne uses a subtle play on the term for the title of his latest release, Positively Live, an audio document on Affinity Records that presents the singer/songwriter doing what he does best: making that magical connection between songwriter, spirit, and audience. Hence, Payne’s affirmation of Positive Music, a description that he began using over a decade ago. He explains, “That was early on, early enough for me to get www.positivemusic.com.” Recycled Reverence “I believe in using my gifts for good—not assuming that I have any more gifts than anyone else,” Payne avows. “But people in the arts get a lot more attention, gratification, and feedback than somebody who raises kids quietly 12 hours a day. I wish there was an audience

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or a positive feedback grid that I could share with them for what they do, and I arbitrarily get attention for. So to an extent, part of my obligation is to enjoy the heck out of it and not be jaded by it, which I do. I recycle it into making more of it because I enjoy it. And whenever I get the chance to give back, with kids or someone I can mentor and pass something on to, maybe perform at a school—I don’t mind getting paid for things—but where there are opportunities, I do them as long as I have time.” With tracks taken from a variety of sources—some with Payne solo, some with backing vocalists, drummers, and keyboardists—Positively Live fits perfectly with Payne’s credo of authenticity. “I like the whole MP3, YouTube thing, where people are less concerned about the quality to a point and more concerned about the content,” Payne pronounces. “I’m more instinctively a live guy.” A modest understatement, since Payne usually performs a minimum of three nights a week, every week, in a variety of live situations. “It gives me a chance to get sweat on all of my songs, and get ideas for stuff,” he says. On Sundays, Payne performs in churches: New Thought, Church of Religious Science, Unitarian, Unity, and other non-denominational locales. “If it’s a positive place to play, and they want me, I’m there. About the time I put out my Power of Positive Music CD, which is a compilation of myself and the group Gravity (which includes Payne, vocalist Clydene Jackson Edwards, and percussionist Oliver C. Brown), and it opened up this opportunity.” Payne possesses a rare gift for writing instant songs: something that might come into play as he will listen to a speech or talk, and while doing so, write a song that reflects the theme to be performed in the service. “People go to New Thought churches because they like the message,” professes Payne. “They don’t have to go through any rituals in order to come.” When asked if he considers himself a Christian, Payne answers in the affirmative, albeit with qualifications. “I’m still on the path to discovering exactly what it is. I consider myself to be. If believing in the Christian ethic and most of what goes along with it, and believing in God, and some of the other things, then I’m definitely there. And I’m working on everything else. Sometimes I’m hesitant to say I’m

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Christian, but I guess within my definition I am. But I don’t exclude anyone from anything.” “I don’t have a ritual or a room with accouterments of a particular religion or spirituality, but I do feel that there’s too much going on this planet for there not to be some spiritual God-like entity. I feel whatever I can do to tap into that is a good thing and helpful. And it’s easier to tap into that with a guitar, a pencil, or a keyboard in hand. It’s a combination of spiritual grease and elbow grease I guess.” Positively Live contains the Payne classics “Pass It On” and “Music Speaks Louder Than Words” (a theme for several International Songwriter and Peace conference events, including the Soviet American Songwriter Summit) alongside newer songs like the stunning “Letting Go,” which speaks of a spirit surrendering this terrestrial plane in flight to the next level. Despite being gleaned from different performance venues at different times, the soulful sentiments and Payne’s expressive, bluesy voice is the shining thread that ties it all together into messages that are uniformly benevolent, never strident. “A lot of these things go in circles, and they help each other along,” professes Payne. “The fact that I’m writing songs all the time, and doing improv and custom songs and songs for projects all keep my writing muscles together—they maintain the direct line to whatever source allows me to do this. My personal philosophy is that whenever someone is putting out a positive message, it is an increment for positivity or goodness. Whatever specifics beyond that are not as important as that people are doing something good.” When I think of everyone who’s tried to help me It makes me wish that I could find A way to pay them back For all their little acts of kindness That helped me find my way When I was falling from the track Pass It On Harold Payne and Roy Bruder

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Peter Himmelman: The Deepest Parts Remain Unchanged Peter Himmelman is cooking up a batch of meatballs: ground turkey, a generous dose of garlic, herbed breadcrumbs, a wee bit of wine, brown sugar, lemon, and crushed tomatoes. He’s been on the road, you see, promoting his latest release The Pigeons Couldn’t Sleep, and it pleases him to return from the grind of touring to see his kitchen in order. In the background are the sounds of children, ravenous, no doubt, and a dog barking at the door, demanding entrance to sniff out the source of this savory smell. Describing Peter Himmelman’s career as “far-reaching” may be an understatement. His visibility as a modern-day troubadour commenced when he sprang seemingly full-blown from pre-hip Minneapolis. A veteran of the 1980s rock scene, which contributed such alternative heartland champions as Husker Du, Peter, with the band Sussman

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Lawrence and later solo, lent his rough voice and lyrical insights to an edgy aural soundscape. Now a long-time Los Angeles resident, Himmelman has scored a number of television shows and films, including the Disney series Bug Juice, NBC’s American Embassy, and the Touchstone film Crossing The Bridge. In 2002, he earned an Emmy nomination for his work on Judging Amy, a show he has scored since 1999. He is currently scoring the shows Bones on Fox, the ABC hit, Men In Trees, and Heartland for TNT. Writing for other mediums isn’t new to the troubadour whose earlier creative outlets included creating music for Swatch watches, Jordache jeans, and runway music for top fashion designer Issey Miyake back in New York in the 1980s. He’s also done national PSAs for drug awareness and written a series of songs for a teddy bear that’s currently being used to aid autistic children and rape victims. The title track of Peter’s first solo recording was a song called “This Father’s Day,” which Peter had written and recorded on a simple tape deck in the basement of his parents’ home. It would be the last Father’s Day he would ever celebrate with his dad. “The song created such a potent bond between my father and me…. He carried that cassette around in his breast pocket until he died,” Peter related. In 1985, Himmelman released “This Father’s Day,” which Rolling Stone called “stunning.” MTV even started playing the video for the song “Eleventh Confession” in regular rotation, and Island Records wound up signing Himmelman and reissuing the album. He released two more albums on Island before moving to Epic Records. Children’s music is another genre where Himmelman has experienced considerable success. He has made three children’s albums: My Best Friend Is A Salamander (1997), My Fabulous Plum (2000), My Lemonade Stand (2004), and recently My Green Kite, with both Plum and Salamander being recognized with Parents’ Choice Awards and Family Channel Seals Of Quality. Himmelman says that he finds children’s music “a vast and liberating universe of possibility.” On Himmelman’s website is this credo: “Do something that makes you cry, that makes you weep with awe. There is a state of humility where

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you can feel that something is coming from a dimension outside oneself. That recognition, that sense of awe, is what I use to make things,” Himmelman says. This no doubt includes the meatballs that he was cooking up in his Santa Monica, California, kitchen on the morning when we had this conversation. Outside the Self Peter Himmelman reluctantly admits that sometimes his creative notions will appear to emanate from an unexplained place. “It’s certainly something that ideally should happen all of the time. I recall it happening from time to time. I talk to professional athletes, and they have the same kind of thing—something comes down, you get out your bowl and catch it, and it’s usually pretty good. It comes from a deeper vein. I’ve thought about how I bring it on. You have to put yourself not in any kind of danger, but you have to go completely outside of where you normally are, like play for a group of sick kids in a hospital. The first time that happens, you feel a little bit changed. When you see a baby born, go to a funeral, even go scuba diving and come up, the world looks different. And those kind of little shocking distinctions, one period of time from another, they can serve to create an auspicious moment. But once things get ritualized, it already implies they’re planned. It takes the spontaneity away. You can certainly have some kind of an unexpected event during ritual, but it’s nothing you can really plan for.” In his twenties, Himmelman says, he had the luxury of sitting around all day writing songs, since he had little else to do. “Now, there are so many things vying for my time that I have to find that space. I think a lot of experiences are conceptions of ideas, and then they gestate over time. Then it’s time to go, and they all come out at once. It’s like the worms are breaking it down and altering it, turning it into something usable.” Creation in a dream state is something that Himmelman acknowledges, but he cautions, “Tell a dream and lose a reader.” Still, he continues with this anecdote: “Sometimes I’ll have dream where I’m sitting there with the guitar player, and of course the dream takes place in my own head. And the guitar player is playing the most

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awesome things I’ve ever heard—that I can’t even conceive of—and I’m on guitar playing the same 12 tired riffs, but this guy—I don’t even know where he’s coming from. And it’s all in my head, which I find very interesting and frustrating, and once in a while I’ll try to pull some lyrics out of a dream. I’ve only done so once, successfully, and that song (“If We Could Hold Each Other’s Hunger”) is on my new record.” Himmelman, facile in many endeavors, is leery of the concept of “the genius within.” “I’ve heard that charitable characterization of humanity at large. I don’t know—‘Everybody is a great athlete, it’s another form of genius.’ I’m not a great athlete. I never was and never will be. It’s not in me. I’m cool with that. I don’t believe everyone is a genius at heart. I know the expression, but in real life I don’t see it. Athleticism is a form of genius; of course you practice, but it’s either there or not. And the reason you got these negative messages was you probably sucked to begin with.”

Black Belts and Balladry Himmelman and his wife have been studying karate for some length of time. “It’s about removing yourself from your mind so that you can work with your visceral reactions to things. When it comes to physical combat and contest, it’s a whole other set of challenges that don’t exist with stage work or writing a song. It’s more difficult because there’s a threat of being hit, which I find compelling. ‘Mind of no mind’ is something that’s said. The same could be said of being on stage. If you’re any good, you have all of the set things you rehearse, this whole compendium of riffs, ideas and directions, and then, instantaneously, you apply them, especially in an improvisational context, like jazz. If you’re thinking of where you’re going next, you will always be behind.” Himmelman believes that a large percent of what everybody does is essentially the repetition of these well-worn patterns. “Even jazz musicians or karate musicians. Maybe 10 percent is true, actual creation that is ours and it’s a wonderful thing—it’s not dependent on old patterns.”

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Orthodox Origins Himmelman is a practicing Orthodox Jew, but he believes that journalists have sorely misrepresented this integral part of his life. “It’s like a cute, interesting footnote. In order to even explain what it is, it might take a couple of books. Whenever it comes up in the press, just the sound ‘Orthodox Jew’ is so devoid of all meaning, and the perception of that is so unknown and so wrong. From a cute Jew to some rightwing dogma: it hasn’t been covered very well.” “I’ll break it down, starting with a belief of God as an axiom. A sense that there is a creative force that creates everything: time, space, past, present—everything beyond that we can conceive of. And this creative force has a will, just as we have a will; some of us like almonds in our chocolate, some of us like peach ice cream—these inexplicable wills toward one thing or another. So the axiom goes that the creator also has a will and he’s outlined—not using the word ‘he’ in any anthropomorphic sense, but he, the creator—he has outlined specific aspects of his will for all mankind. And Jews have a lot more specific task, outlined in greater specificity. So in doing the will of someone you love, you become closer to the person, even if the will is unknown to you. ‘Why does she wake me up at 2 a.m. to have lime in hot tea?’ But if you love the person you get up anyway, even though you don’t know what’s driving that need. You do it just to attach to that person. Metaphorically speaking, you do it to attach to the creator. Does it make you happier? Probably not. Freer than the next guy? Probably not. It’s an end in itself.” “I’ll try to distill it back to what it’s not. Is it a pathway to the promise of liberation and freedom? When you read about these so-called spiritual methods, they all come down to the same damn thing, which is some self-serving aspect, which is therefore very conditional, and therefore of no service at all. Maybe it’s that you like to do a lot of blow and drive a Mercedes—another self-serving thing. So some guy goes and meditates on a hill. So what? None seems any better to me than the other. It’s not a good idea to trick yourself that because you’re a so-called spiritual seeker that you’re any better than that guy. Some of the most sickening people I’ve ever met are spiritual practitioners of one sort or another.”

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Historical Hysteria A trip to Israel with his family in 1968—one year after the 1967 Israeli war—was a galvanizing experience for the eight-year-old Peter. His cousin Adam, a budding teen musician, turned Himmelman on to Judaism. He subsequently pored over books and punched out the local anti-Semitic bully. Growing up in an area of Minneapolis called St. Louis Park, he recalls that detractors referred to it as “St. Jewish Park.” Himmelman’s given middle name may be the startlingly goyish “Matthew,” but he laughs about his Jewish moniker, Pesach Mordechai: “There has never been a more Jewish name.” After his conversion in the 1980s and signed to one of his first big-buck record deals, Himmelman was offered a tour opening for a mega-watt star of the day, Rod Stewart; but turned down the gig because he wouldn’t play on Friday nights, the beginning of the holy day, Shabbos. Although he maintains a strong Jewish identity, Himmelman scoffs at the notion that the ravages of Adolph Hitler’s genocide are present in people who didn’t experience this history. “It’s always these people talking about the Holocaust, and how the Holocaust has necessitated all of these changes. It’s like my uncle in Minneapolis telling me why he’s an atheist. I’m like, ‘Did you check yourself? You were born in Minneapolis. As far as I know, we have no relatives that we know by name affected by the Holocaust, so your connection is totally academic. How can you use that to get rid of God? The only reason you want to get rid of God is so you can continue with whatever lifestyle it is and not feel guilty about it. You have no real case: some guy who went through the Holocaust and lost his children— he’s free to become an atheist everyday of the year. I get it. Stand back. Be silent. But to take the Holocaust and to use it to justify softening down 3,000 years of Jewish tradition so that you can go out and get laid at the same time you’re getting a spiritual high— bullshit.’ I hear this all the time. But children of Holocaust survivors who went through it; they’re of a different ilk. They have a right to make those statements.” Stage Dives Himmelman has a well-deserved reputation for his raucous, unpredictable stage shows (he once took an entire audience to a restaurant).

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USA Today has hailed him as “one of rock’s most wildly imaginative performers.” He notes that his audiences have marked similarity. “Sadly, they’re mostly white people. Just this homogeneousness to the crowd that I’d like to see eliminated. They’re white, 30 and over, unless it’s a kids’ show, then of course they’re really young. Not that I’m sad by anybody showing up at the show. I’m super happy about every one. I’ll thank them all individually. It’s pretty mixed between blue collar and professionals. I don’t see a lot of people with cowboy hats.” What designates Himmelman’s show is a massive amount of energy. “Even now, in an interview, I’m much different than the regular Peter Himmelman because this is a subtle form of performance. On stage, oh my God—it’s almost like an altered state. There is very little connection with that state of mind and my normal ‘lumbering around the house.’ It couldn’t be more different. It’s highly energized—putting out, grasping, reaching out, wanting to be loved—using one of a thousand tried-and-true pathways to make connections, using all of these different experiences. It’s really working it in every single way, completely off stand by. And that’s not my normal way at all.” “Before I come on stage, invariably I’m sick; I don’t feel good. I just want to eat some cereal and read a book. I have no interest whatsoever in going on a stage. It takes about 12 seconds. I come out and transform, and it takes no effort on my part at all. There is about a 45-minute comedown from that. Usually the shows are really good, and sometimes they’re exceptional. I don’t miss. It’s like a pilot—he has no history of crashing.”

Michael Silversher: The Hand of God Is on Your Head I first met Michael Silversher when he was living in Northern California and was just beginning to make inroads into the Los Angeles songwriting universe. Suffice it to say, he was not yet a Grammy Award– winning songwriter (Elmo in Grouchland), with three primetime Emmy nominations, including two for Winnie-the-Pooh and one for the Muppets.

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Over time, in addition to writing the theme songs for Disney’s television series, Tale Spin and Gummi Bears, he has penned over 100 songs in the Disney catalog, has written over 42 musical theater works, and has worked extensively with Jim Henson Productions, MGM, Sony, Warner Bros., The Learning Channel, Kennedy Center, Los Angeles Opera, South Coast Repertory Theatre, Mark Taper Forum, and Sundance Institute. Michael is co-founder of the West Coast Songwriters’ Association (along with his writing partner, Patty) and an advisory board member of the Academy for New Musical Theatre. His projects include commissions from South Coast Repertory Theatre, educational shows for Kaiser Permanente, a new animated television show for children, several books, and other creative projects. He has also recorded a series of solo CDs. In an interview, Michael once told me this about writing songs for children: “When I was a kid I never wanted the nursery rhymes. It was Peter Pan and ‘Never Never Land.’ Kids will respond to music as music—it’s all degrees. A kid will listen to Bach and hear something great about it; as you get older, you understand the depth. You can’t

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assume that ‘cute’ is what a kid wants. What a kid wants is truth. We did a seminar and we were asked, ‘Do you think about writing for kids?’ I said, ‘No, I write for myself.’ If I love it, that’s the first step.” In our most recent conversation Michael spoke of something that had occurred the previous evening. “I met a guy who said, ‘You wrote The Gummi Bears? That was a big thing for me; it had a modulation.’ When I wrote that song, I was in a little room with my co-writer, Patty. We never see where that song goes. In the pop world you can hear it on the radio; I have things on TV that I can watch, but it makes me happy because I realize I’ve done something musically which isn’t about doing anything harmful. It’s about love and play and daring to be better.” “One of my favorite quotes from George Harrison is, ‘The Beatles are all about love; we didn’t put darkness in the world,’” continues Silversher. “Around September 11, 2001, Patty and I were working on Animal Jam for Jim Henson Studios and the Learning Channel, and we were writing music. The studio was shut down, and it was very hard to go back to work. About three days into it, I was writing a song and I thought, ‘This is wonderful. I’m doing something to help kids, to keep them healthy, to give them a positive thing in the world with all of the negatives around us.’ I was talking to someone who said, ‘How do you actually work?’ I said, ‘It’s easy; I feel like I’m doing a service.’ It was never in the foreground of my mind, the spiritual aspects of what I do, but I go back into my songs and discover this thread—and it’s always been there.” Michael possesses a blazing aura of creative energy. At the West Coast Songwriters Association Conference in Palo Alto, California, we came together over coffee one cloud-shrouded morning on a patio overlooking Cross Creek to talk about music, life, and spirituality. The View Through the Tent “I had a sickly childhood with asthma, and I had some of the psychological consequences of that, especially with the isolation. I always thought my music was this amazing gift. I was talking to my sister recently and she said, ‘Do you know that most people can’t hear music all of the time?’ Because everyone in my family does—my mother, my sister, my cousin, her kids, my father did, and I have

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always heard music my whole life. And it isn’t a given that everyone does that. And I think that is being in tune with God in a way. When I do something wrong in the world, the music goes away. It’s really true—the times I’ve had writer’s block are the times when I’ve done bad things, either to another person or to myself.” “I remember I was in the hospital one time, and my parents brought in Night on Bald Mountain by Mussorgsky, and they held it up to the oxygen tent I was in and said ‘When you come home, you can hear this.’ They held up that record and Victory at Sea by Richard Rodgers. My cousin gave me a bunch of 45s and Madame Butterfly. When LPs came out, I started getting samplers. The first album I remember was My Fair Lady. And then I got the movie soundtrack to Oklahoma, and I started listening to all of this when I was about six. My mother said that when I was a baby I would go to the kitchen, take the pot lids, and crash them together in time to the 1812 Overture. All of this surrounded me, plus what was going on in the inside. I started writing when I was eight. My sister had painted a picture of a guy sitting on a rock. And the song I wrote was called ‘Wasted Man.’ He sits on a lonely rock staring into the sea He touches no one and no one touches he He is a wasted man He asks the reason why People must live and die Why can’t they be immortal as he “Heavy thoughts for an eight year old. But I don’t turn music on and off; I’m hearing something all of the time. I like to go shop when I have a project to do. It fills the air with white noise, and whatever rises above the white noise is music I can use. And what I remember is the song I will write.” Songs in the Spirit Michael and Patty Silversher co-wrote the official Candlelight Vigil Song for Mothers Against Drunk Drivers (MADD), “We’ll Remember

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You.” Michael remembers the tragic impetus. “A friend of mine’s daughter was killed by a drunk driver. And I never thought of anything other than writing something for the memorial; then he and his wife gave the song to Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), and it has been their theme song for the past 20 years. It hasn’t been a moneymaking thing, but it wasn’t written that way.” “You have to write the song that is important for you to write; whatever cause it goes to or means something to will come later. But the important thing is to get a song that’s meaningful. I thought that was very true with our drunk driving song. I remember back in the mid1990s, Patty called me up and said, ‘Turn on Charles Kuralt.’ I did, and there was a group of young black kids in Harlem who’d all had a father, brother, or uncle killed in gang violence. And they were singing this same song. Whatever the song is, it makes some sort of impact.” The Silvershers subsequently penned a 10th anniversary song for MADD. On Michael Silversher’s website (www.michaelsilversher.com) he talks about the genesis of another timely song, “A Simple Prayer.” “As a songwriter, plenty of events spark the creative imagination, and I cannot help but write about it. It helps me put everything into perspective. But the events of September 11 were so huge, so horrible, so world-changing that they defy perspective. I was completely at a loss for words, and I couldn’t hear any music. So on Wednesday night, October 24, 2001, I was driving home over Laurel Canyon, listening to one of our local NPR stations. They were having a forum with representatives of the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim communities, discussing how they were dealing with their own people and also with each other in the wake of the tragedies. For some reason, the talk turned to the song ‘God Bless America’ by Irving Berlin. One caller said that she didn’t like the jingoistic nature of the song itself. Another guy said, ‘I’m an agnostic, but I don’t mind it. It’s like saying “have a nice day.”’ Then another caller came on the line and said, ‘Well, I don’t mind “God Bless America,” but I really think that we’re not the only place that needs to be blessed right now.’ By the time I reached my home 20 minutes later, the song was written.”

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Michael says that since then, this particular song has found a global audience. “It’s gone around the world with choirs. I didn’t write it for the commercial viability; I wrote it because I needed to say it. Whatever those songs do commercially is a side value. Because my intent for the writing of any of the songs is the same: you have to find something to make your heart soar and sing. You never know when a song is going to mean something to somebody. It may mean something you don’t intend in any way, but it does. The greatest hit songs do that as well.” A sense of community, such as that he encounters at songwriter events, symposiums, and retreats, is an energy that Silversher embraces. “It’s hard when I feel like I’m isolated. I have been feeling a bit isolated in the past few years. The writing itself is a reflection of experience, and if you are sitting at home, you can’t experience much. What you need to do is take the dry sponge out and let it get filled so you can squeegee it out and have something to say. It’s at least a two-step process. Life is lived in the present, but writing is lived in the past in some ways. Writing is a present reflection on the past. It has to capture it, or your perception of it. I think the song always knows something you don’t know. And trying to determine what it tells you is a fool’s art because the inspiration has to be a pure thing. You can hone it without the limits of what it tells you to do. If you try to go outside that limit, you end up with a piece of crap that doesn’t work for anybody. The writer’s duty is to the writing.” “I think one of the things you need to be able to do is to analyze what it is you want to say and what the best way to say it is. You have the original inspiration, and then figure out where the pieces fit together, not think about how to sell it. Once you’ve got it done, you can step back. But you have to work on the song that wants to be written; it doesn’t matter what point of view that is. It might be one person’s story, and that one story can work for so many people that it might be 20 stories. I had written a song about my grandfather called ‘Ellis Island.’ Patty called the Ellis Island Foundation, and it ended up opening Liberty week on ABC as a part of their coverage of Ellis Island. It found its place, and Patty had the power, energy, and guts to make it happen. It was personal song, and it ended up speaking for so many people.”

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“Sometimes when you write in the second person you write it in such a way that you’re singing to yourself. An example is ‘Hey Jude.’ Paul McCartney might have been writing for Julian Lennon, but he was writing it for himself. You can use that as long as you aren’t trying to preach.” Laws, Light, and the Sabbath Silversher, raised in a Jewish household, notes the correlation between his given religion and Buddhism. “The thing about Buddhism that has always been intriguing to me is the recognition of the suffering of life and also being compassionate. I find all of those elements in the Jewish religion as well. As I’ve been doing a lot of reading and going through things that sound like old-time religion to me. The curses and the 613 Laws of Deuteronomy (Deuteronomy 17:18-20) sound very harsh. Then I read the Talmud, and I find the commentary about it is a whole other spin. You have capital punishment, but the only way you can kill somebody, according to law, is so strict that it could never really happen. You have to have three witnesses to the actual crime. The way everything is laid out is in such a way as to do the right thing. It gives a moral compass and guidance, but it is the compassion of that is essential.” He also finds it helpful to meditate on music. “I listen to a piece by Ralph Vaughn Williams (1872–1958) called ‘A Lark Ascending’ and also to Music For 18 Musicians by Steve Reich, for a long, deep mediation. The first few minutes are busy, like clearing the brain out, then it goes to a part where the music keeps shifting. It’s a very active form of meditation.” And hearing the music through everything in his life keeps Silversher engaged in the creation of it. He is thankful as he gives credit to his creative source. “I hate to use the word ‘channeling’ because it sounds so new age, but it really feels like that. You realize that the hand of God is on your head, and you’re containing something that he’s allowing it to go through you so it has your own personality, which is one of the things I’ve always felt. I’ve always said music is the voice of God, and lyrics are how we explain to each other through language.”

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lthough dreams can result from a broad range of factors, more often than not, the dreams we recall upon waking can be understood. Dreams can give us great insights into what we’re dealing with in our lives at a particular moment in time. They can depict emotional struggles and problems within ourselves, depictions of what can be some of the most profound life changing messages ever received. In his book on mystic Edgar Cayce, Henry Reed talks about a higher self or “the witness,” which watches everything we do, say, feel, and think. Our higher self never goes to sleep; it is always awake, watching, processing, and seeing things from an objective perspective as we struggle through our lives. This higher self is aware of and connected with the creative energy of the universe. It uses this energy to get our lives back on track by sending us messages through our dreams. It is believed by some that our subconscious mind and our spirit are one in the same. Depending on their strength, strong messages can be sent to be distilled down into songs. Dreams, visions, and intuition—messages from within and without to illuminate the present and the future. Two songwriters bear witness.

Jeffrey Steele: Love, Loss, and the Light Jeffrey Steele is a formidable presence in modern songwriting whose words and music have sold millions for Rascal Flatts (“These Days”), Montgomery Gentry (“My Town”), Faith Hill (“When the Lights Go Down”), Tim McGraw (“The Cowboy in Me”), and a host of other notable artists. I have interviewed Jeffrey extensively, including two onstage events in L.A. where, sitting mere feet from him while he 181

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sang, it was obvious that the power of his words, melodies, and performance created an overwhelming physical force. But the vivid memory was his 2007 performance during Grammy week in Los Angeles when Broadcast Music Incorporated (BMI) assembled a stellar cast of songwriters for a special Saturday afternoon show, an event titled “How I Wrote That Song” at the Key Club on the Sunset Strip. John Legend, Kara DioGuardi, Dallas Austin, Butch Walker, Sean Garrett, and Patrick Stump from Fallout Boy joined Steele, who was nominated for a Grammy for the Rascal Flatts smash, “What Hurts the Most.” Taking the stage that afternoon with a glass of whiskey in hand, the usually robust Steele looked ashen. When it came his turn to sing, the reason why became painfully clear. “I wasn’t going to go here,” he said. ‘But two weeks ago I lost my 12-year-old son.” His subsequent performances of “What Hurts the Most” become much more than an

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elegy of a man singing about lost love; it was the heart-rending expression of a father’s grief. “Up to that moment it was just another song I wrote,” Steele recalls about that day. “Now, it’s Alex, my boy.” “I cancelled that show,” Steele remembers. “I called [BMI President] Del Bryant. I said, ‘There’s no way.’ Del said, ‘We don’t expect you to do it, but we’re going to leave the spot open.’ Something told me to do it. Maybe it was my boy saying, ‘Get up there and sing one for me.’ And honestly, he hated ‘What Hurts the Most.’ Alex had a teacher who used to sing it, and the teacher didn’t know I was his dad, and that I’d written it. Alex would say, ‘It’s so annoying.’” The Gift Only a month before the ATV accident that took Alex’s life, Steele was anticipating a Christmas holiday and sitting out in the yard with a rare day off from the sessions and studios that are his workplace. “I wasn’t really doing anything musically, just being with the family, and I got an idea for a song,” he recalls. “I started singing this thing, and it was, ‘Oh, no, not now.’ But it wouldn’t stop. So I picked up the phone and started dictating into it, and the next thing I knew I had 12 song files. And the lyric was ‘Son,’ about my son. The next two weeks something kept telling me, ‘Finish this song.’ And the words and ideas kept coming. And usually what I’ll do is say, ‘Hey, I’ll just bring this into town and write it with somebody and worry about it later.’ But I couldn’t stop myself; it was almost like this thing kept pushing me to write it. I finished it and played it for my wife, which I never do because I always want to hear what she thinks, and she gets pissed off ‘cause she just wants to enjoy it. But I played it for her, and she said, ‘It’s beautiful.’ And I said, “Is it right? Am I saying the right things? I want it to be for Alex.’ And then I played it for him. And I said, ‘This is kind of a cheesy thing I wrote for you.’ He said, ‘Yeah, it’s pretty cool.’ And then a month later he was gone. Now when I read the lyric, it was almost like the words were telling me ‘This is it.’ It’s a tribute. Did someone give this to me? Yeah, I think they did. I truly believe that.” Trials and Airs Predestination, the idea that events are planned out on some master grid, is a concept that Steele wrestles with in light of the song he

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wrote about his son. “In the last six months the way that things have changed in my life, and this song, maybe they are [predestined]. If you had asked me six months ago, I’d have said. ‘I work my ass off. And the harder I work the luckier I get.’—that kind of mentality. But I don’t know so much anymore. In a short time, it makes me look back at other songs and what preceded them. I’ve always been a hard worker, and obviously the more you do it, the better you get at it; but that one song, in particular, made me go back and think that maybe there’s a whole lot more to what I’m doing than what I think I’m doing. The lyrics scared me. I didn’t think anything was going to happen to him, but when I finished the song, I was thinking it was tribute song, without knowing, certainly, but it was odd. I was struggling with the bridge in my own head, and I wanted it to be, ‘one day, when I look back he’s grown up.” And something kept telling me it wasn’t the way to write it. And then a month later, it wasn’t.” “I didn’t get in the way of it. Those songs are always the ones that people relate to the strongest. Those are the most meaningful and the real ones. If there was any doubt in my mind before, I know now I’m channeling from somewhere—and I won’t be so quick to take pats on the back anymore. I’m just the monkey taking the notes.” The Mechanics of the Muse Steele notes that songs often come when he least expects them to. “That’s where the mechanics do play a role, where you have to be doing it so much. So when you read or do something, it channels through. When I’m working with co-writers and trying to write a song, someone will say something, or I’ll stumble onto something that is real. Like someone is saying, ‘Hey stupid!’ hitting me on the head, here’s what it is—this is the song you need to be working on, not some ABAB chorus thing you guys are working on and trying to get cut. I go through this with other writers, where they’re trying to write a song, and I’ll listen to what they’re saying and talking about, and then l hear someone say something, or it will hit me and I’ll know that’s what we should be doing. I’ll stop the session and say, ‘Here—we should be writing this.’”

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“I had a song on my last album that came that way. Someone was just talking and said, ‘I’m not that cruel.’ And I thought, ‘Wow! Not that cruel!’ And the next thing we wrote was this ‘fell out of the sky’ song. I’ve had that experience enough now. I try to keep my brain open enough to let it happen. I try not to get caught up in the mechanics of songwriting, even though it’s so natural to have that base; but you also have to know how to shut up and let things fall out of the sky— and they do. I’ve been preaching that to everybody when they ask me about how to do this and that and structure. You go, ‘Nah—all you need to do is think about it for a second. The words are falling in front of you—put your hand out and try to grab them.’” “A lot of us lifers, songwriters who are doing this, are observers. We are watching life, and it’s almost like we don’t participate as much as we observe. We stand back, look, and write about it. You write about your life and your own feelings, but as a general rule, when you write the song, you step back and get everybody’s emotions—step out of it and look into it. And that’s the special part of being a songwriter. But it’s a whole other thing when someone else comes in—some other form, God or some spiritual thing coming down—it just takes you over. And I’m seeing that now, where I never saw it before. And I’m not afraid of it. I’m trying to get more in tune. I see the responsibility of it. I need to tap in and see what it is.” Healing the Heart Writing songs to reveal emotions, putting real words out there, Steele acknowledges, is key to why songwriters do what they do, and he includes himself among this assembly. “But it’s definitely not in the actual finished process. It’s in the process of writing it, and you’re feeling like you really touch on something. And it comes out the right way, and there’s this sigh of relief, and you realize something in your own life as you’re writing it down—it’s really healing. For me, that was the euphoric feeling, of seeing people get some healing or feeling from it, a laugh from it, or happiness. But whatever I felt in terms of therapy was done. I never felt it from listening to the song because it was all in the process of doing it. Then someone comes up to you and says, ‘I just want to shake your hand—that song has changed my life.’ I was always

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baffled by that: ‘It’s just a fucking song, dude.’ You forget what you’re able to do. It’s like my wife is not sitting there writing songs everyday and getting therapeutic release from the loss she’s just suffered. And I see how I take it for granted. Most people don’t have that.” “I’ve written a million songs. Maybe 20 or 30 have been those true, divine songs, when someone hands me something and says, ‘Here it is—this is what you have to communicate.’ I look back over everything that’s happened, and it freaks me out. I never had that perspective, and I do now. I’m not afraid to talk about it. It’s almost like I have to listen harder and take it farther than I did before.” In memory of his son, and to honor Alex’s passion, Jeffrey has founded The Alex LeVasseur Skate Scholarship program, which will send kids to Woodward West skate camp in Southern California and to camps at 6th Avenue Skatepark in Nashville.

Karen Taylor-Good: Good Things Come to Those Who Wait “I think that in this lifetime, my job is to help people who can’t write songs and sing and need to say certain things that can only be said through music. When I was young, music was everything—it had everything to do with life. ‘Like a Rubber Ball,’ ‘My Boyfriend’s Back’—it’s like they were all speaking just to me, and probably just to you. All of a sudden I turned on the radio a couple of years ago, and no one was talking to me. I wasn’t breaking up with my boyfriend and wasn’t age 12 and ‘I can’t live without you.’ No. What was happening to me was my daughter was becoming an adolescent and driving me crazy, and my parents were getting older and my mother was experiencing Alzheimer’s.” “Who is writing about that? I am. And other songwriters are now sharing the realities of their lives, too.” When I first met Karen Taylor-Good, it was in the pressure cooker environment the “Salute to the American Songwriter” concert I coordinated for the National Academy of Songwriters (NAS), an event honoring Crosby, Stills, & Nash. Karen was with a contingent of woman songwriters from Nashville who performed during a special

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segment in the show. When I saw her again, it was at a songwriter night sponsored by SESAC, her performing rights organization in Universal City, California. With songs recorded by such artists as Laura Branigan, Melissa Manchester, Al Jarreau, Nana Mouskouri, Patty Loveless (“How Can I Help You Say Goodbye”), and a Grammy nomination, Karen’s sterling credits have propelled her to the forefront of the songwriting world. As a solo artist, she has released nine charting singles, and millions of listeners have heard her voice on innumerable jingles and singing with Dolly Parton, Al Green, Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers, and George Jones. Karen has parallel careers: she owns her own record label and publishing company, and she is the author of a collection of vignettes and songs about real-life situations titled On Angel’s Wings, which includes a companion CD. As a keynote speaker, Karen has inspired, motivated, encouraged, and entertained thousands, and she is in particular demand among women’s organizations. Karen donated her time and talent to “The Planet Earth Project.” The song (which she

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recorded in seven different languages) was set to footage furnished by NASA and won an International Video Award. Karen has donated her music to various hospice video productions, one of which recently won a Telly Award, as well as an International Film and Video Festival Award. Her songs have been adopted by non-profit organizations (The Compassionate Friends, ChildHelp USA, The National Hospice Foundation, and Habitat for Humanity). Karen’s songs are used by ministers, rabbis, therapists, and counselors in their healing work, and she regularly donates a percentage of her sales to non-profit and charitable organizations. Karen’s close friend and co-writer, Jason Blume, suggested that I speak with her about this book, and she was immediately on board. Karen is an engaging, energetic, and upbeat presence, and her devotion to her art and her listeners is inspiring and ongoing, as it echoes her motto, “Making a Difference… a song at a time!” Lone Star States Growing up in a non-practicing Jewish family in Texas, religion was not a significant part of Taylor-Good’s upbringing. “If I had been a religious Jew, it turns out I would have had all kinds of yummy God stuff and spiritual teachings,” she laughs. “But I grew up in a very nonreligious home. For me, a lot of spiritual thought came with therapy and the 12-step program.” She claims that when she was dragged into a Unity church in Nashville in the early 1980s, she couldn’t wait to leave. “I was mortified that I was in a church, and everything about it I hated. I was so uncomfortable. At the end of the service, everybody stood up, they held hands, and everyone sang ‘The Peace Song.’ And I said, ‘Get me out of here. This is the worst.’ Then they said this prayer of protection: The light of God surrounds us The love of God enfolds us, The power of God protects us, The presence of God watches over us wherever we are. God is and always will be.

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“And it was like a lightening bolt went past my noisy committee in my mind and right into my heart. It was the most gorgeous prayer. All of a sudden I knew at a gut level that I wasn’t just floating around in this big scary universe all by myself at random, but there was a plan and a purpose, and I was part of it and I was protected. It was a lovely moment. Being a stubborn person, I couldn’t believe I was going to attend that church because that was just too weird. It took me several months before I ever went back. But then I found Unity and Religious Science, all the ‘New Thought’ religions, and these really became a huge part of my life.” New Thought combined with ancient Hebrew texts brought TaylorGood full cycle. “One of my parents was ill, and I spent the night with them to help. There was nothing to read in their house, but when I looked over at their desk there was a bulletin from the temple, which they had joined in their later years. It was the only thing to read, so I read it cover to cover and about three quarters of the way through, there was this article that said, ‘Adult Bat Mitzvah Class.’ And something inside me said, ‘Yes.’ And I was going, ‘No! I’m too old, and I can’t learn Hebrew, and why do I want to do this anyway?’ It was one of those weird moments when my gut said I was supposed to do this. So I did. There were like 12 adults there, and we ranged in age from 21 to 68.” Passages Past and Present Taylor-Good’s father has now passed on, and her mother is currently living with Alzheimer’s Disease. “My mother has dementia, and it gets worse each day, but she’s still quite vibrant. She will be 92. I feel like part of my history was erased because she was such a force in my life and in my family. She was bright, active, and knew every piece of family history and everybody; she kept a lot of stuff together.” Through her parents, Taylor-Good has established strong bonds with their caregivers, and she often performs and shares at events especially for them. “Sometimes caregivers are overlooked, and what gives me the most joy and satisfaction is when I get to go share my music and talk with caregivers. One title of my talks is “The Wisdom of the Flight

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Attendant”—put your oxygen mask on first. I carry one with me that a flight attendant on Southwest gave me. I just sing to them and love on them, help them laugh and cry. When I perform for them, it’s a combination of music and the spoken word. When my dad was in a nursing home and then hospice care, those people caring for him were angels. Most of them don’t know how important they are, so I like to remind them.” Rising On Angel’s Wings Taylor-Good relates that she was having a difficult emotional time as her mother’s condition accelerated, and she shared this reality with a trusted co-writer. “I was watching her go from this bright, bright sharp person to something else. And since I love Jason Blume so much, we went into the writers room at SESAC where I went through half of a box of Kleenex, just sharing with him all this stuff and how it seemed so mean and I was pissed off at God and scared. But after getting through that, I really do believe it happens for a reason and there’s a plan. I said to Jason, ‘What could the plan be here? What could be good about this?’ We decided to write this song and see if we could get this answer.” The song is titled “On Angel’s Wings.” Says Taylor-Good, “It was given to us. I cannot tell you how the song helps people, myself included. It goes way beyond just playing a song because it was the truth that was sent through Jason and me. It’s just a God thing. It was too hard to see that as a human—this was part of the plan, that my mother had to let go of all these ties she had to this earth, to her MENSA membership, and to her incredible smarts that were keeping her to tied to this earth. How was she ever going to let go? She had to begin with her memories. It makes perfect sense.” Epiphanies at the Waffle House One of Music Row’s venerable eateries, the Waffle House, became a place of inspiration for the songwriter. “My sister, Bonnie, lost her son. My nephew Paul was murdered when he was 21. She found this organization, thank God, called The Compassionate Friends, an

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organization of bereaved parents. Because of them, my sister was able to continue living. She got really involved with them. Several years later they were going to be doing their conference in Nashville, and Bonnie was helping them put it together, and she asked me if I would come and sing. We thought about what song, and ‘How Can I Help You Say Goodbye’ came to mind. It’s pretty much a motherspecific song. It just didn’t seem right. I said ‘Bon, give me a couple of days.’ The next day my husband Dennis and I went to the Waffle House. We’re sitting there, I’m eating my waffle and bacon, Dennis is talking to me, and I start hearing this song. And I said to Dennis, ‘Wait a minute.’ And I grabbed a pen from the waitress, and a Waffle House napkin, and I started writing down this song. I heard the music, I heard the lyrics. Understand that I co-write 98 percent of my songs. This never happened, before or since. The whole song came in one piece. It’s called ‘Precious Child.’ I was looking at the guest book on my website the other day, and I get more response from this song than any other. It’s become like a flagship song for The Compassionate Friends. And people all over the world use it at memorial services for children.” In my dreams, you are alive and well Precious child, precious child In my mind, I see you clear as a bell Precious child, precious child In my soul, there is a hole That can never be filled But in my heart, there is hope ’Cause you are with me still In my heart, you live on Always there never gone Precious child, you left too soon Tho’ it may be true that we’re apart You will live forever… in my heart

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In my plans, I was the first to leave Precious child, precious child But in this world, I was left here to grieve Precious child, my precious child In my soul, there is a hole That can never be filled But in my heart there is hope And you are with me still In my heart you live on Always there, never gone Precious child, you left too soon, Tho’ it may be true that we’re apart You will live forever… in my heart God knows I want to hold you, See you, touch you And maybe there’s a heaven And someday I will again Please know you are not forgotten until then In my heart you live on Always there never gone Precious child, you left too soon Tho’ it may be true that we’re apart You will live forever … in my heart Precious Child Words and Music by Karen Taylor-Good “The thing is, everybody says to me, ‘It’s amazing; you know exactly what it feels like.’ And you know what? I don’t. My sister and I have had discussions, but you can’t know how that feels unless you lose

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your child. That song was sent to me for that purpose, to be used in the way that it’s being used.” A Father’s Journey Home Taylor-Good reflects on the nature of reincarnation and the enduring spirit. “That theory makes sense to me. The only thing I’m really sure of is that it doesn’t end when you die. I know this.” After studying books on life after death, she decided to share some of them with her father. “How could somebody die a Baptist or a Buddhist, and they all have the same experience? Some people see Jesus or see some Buddha, but it’s the same experience. My father gets these books, and he claims it’s a chemical reaction!” Taylor-Good was out of town when she received a call from a nursing home that her father was “non-responsive,” so she returned to Nashville where both of her parents were residing in different sections of the same facility. “My parents were married for 69 years, together for 71. My mom was in assisted living, and my dad was in the nursing home side. This is my first experience with death, period. I walk into his room, and I know my father is not in the room—there’s his body, but he’s gone. I checked him out; he wasn’t breathing. I spent some time there talking to him—to this body—then I called the nurses, and they stood around, and it was very sweet. Then I realized I had to go and tell my mother, and I didn’t want to. I walked into my mother’s apartment and with her dementia she said, “Karen, daddy was just here. I was in the kitchen, and he put his hands on my shoulders and said some wise thing about the teapot.’ I see that as my daddy, in his classy wonderful way—after me trying to prove too him for 25 years that you don’t just die and go into oblivion—that indeed, we do keep on.” Answered Prayers Of her own circuitous career journey, Taylor-Good tells this story. “I was up for an Academy of Country Music Award for best new female in 1984. And back then I was still kind of a sick puppy—that’s before a lot of major therapy and self-growth work. I was in this business because I thought I was supposed to be famous and cute and sexy, and it was a pretty painful place to be. A lot of people thought I should

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have won this award—I’d had a lot more success than a lot of people who were up for it, and I’d even paid good money to a psychic who said I was going to win. I went to L.A. for the big televised thing, and I’m waiting for my name to be called, and the announcer said, ‘And the winner is… Nicolette Larson.’ And it sent me into a huge tailspin and a huge depression. I didn’t get out from under the covers for a month.” “I had borrowed a lot of money to start this record company because Nashville didn’t know what to make of me. And this was all on my independent label. And if I didn’t win this award, and therefore get signed to a major, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was lost. In the pain of this happening, I found myself writing stuff down because if I didn’t I thought I was going to die, or explode. But I wasn’t a songwriter, I was the chick singer. I thought songwriters were from another planet.” “I looked at these writings. And one night I was at my piano, and I put my hands on the keyboard, and the words started singing and became songs, and I went, ‘Wow—I’m a songwriter.’ If I had won that award, I would now be a has-been country singer. I wouldn’t have found I had the gift I had to be a songwriter. That’s the old ‘God closes one door…’—albeit painfully—but man, did a much more beautiful door open to me. Let’s be honest—what is the shelf life of a chick singer? I can be the Grandma Moses of the songwriting world. You can write songs when you’re 90.” Inside the Voice “When I sing now, even a funny song like ‘God’s Refrigerator,’ half of the people who listen cry. There’s something about my voice. And when I used to audition for jingles, I’d lose the auditions. The producer would be in there saying, ‘Can you sing it any other way? We’re in here crying, and we can’t be crying about the Barbie dolls.’” “If I go back in time, when I was six years old, sitting on the playground of my elementary school in El Paso, Texas, all I wanted to do was sit by myself and sing, and I would make myself cry. Now what is that? Did I live in another time and had things I needed to express? What I hope is that the minute we die, we had better get all the answers—I want to know everything right away!”

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The following information is from The Compassionate Friends web site (www.compassionatefriends.org). “The mission of The Compassionate Friends is to assist families toward the positive resolution of grief following the death of a child of any age and to provide information to help others be supportive.” “The Compassionate Friends is a national nonprofit, self-help support organization that offers friendship, understanding, and hope to bereaved parents, grandparents and siblings. There is no religious affiliation and there are no membership dues or fees.” “The secret of TCF’s success is simple: As seasoned grievers reach out to the newly bereaved, energy that has been directed inward begins to flow outward and both are helped to heal. The vision of The Compassionate Friends is that everyone who needs us will find us and everyone who finds us will be helped.”

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Conclusion In reading over the 65, 000þ words that make up the text of this book, I am well aware of the through lines that connect my interview subjects to themselves and to the subject: their willingness to be open, an acknowledgement of the power and purpose of their songs, a sense of creative vulnerability, and an understanding of a higher power. In many ways, creating this book, my fifth, was a smoother road, simply because of the guidance I was receiving on all of these levels every step of the way. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy as doors swung open, connections were made, and lines of communication were opened far beyond what I could have accomplished on my own. As I mentioned in the Preface, I don’t believe that random patterns dictate our lives; I believe that we are all here for a purpose, and divining that purpose, some reason for our existence and creation, is what has always given voice to art and music. As affecting as these conversations were—and more than one interview subject reacted by breaking into tears—what inspired me most was listening to the music of the songwriters prior to, during, and after our conversations. Just as it is difficult to funnel the force of the spirit into the words of language, it is equally difficult to discuss songwriting logically, a practice that Rodney Crowell once explained to me was “like doing card tricks on the radio.” The exhilaration of speaking on this subject was my own process of “electrification.” And my interview subject Susan Werner described it thus: ultimately any author, no matter what his subject, is in essence injecting himself into everything that he writes. And the questions that I asked the songwriters are the questions that I ask myself. Thank you, reader, for your willingness to be part of this process. The listener is the only one who can complete the creative cycle. 196

Index

ASCAP Awards, 18, 74 As the World Turns, 26 Atkins, Trace, 17 Atlanta Songwriters Association, 3 attitude, 5 ATV Music Publishing, 3 audience, 4–5 auspicious coincidence, 29–30 Austin, Dallas, 182 The Awakening (Etheridge, Melissa), 80 Axton, Hoyt, 123

5 Points Records, 26 6 Steps to Songwriting Success: The Comprehensive Guide to Writing and Marketing Hit Songs (Blume, Jason), 98 50 Cent, 165 1794 Treaty of Greenville, 11 1812 Overture, 177

A ABC Dunhill Publishing, 95 ABC-TV, 3 ACM awards, 18, 21 Adamson, Stuart, 54, 60 adversities, 40, 102–103 African-American churches Florida, 35 influence, 158–159 “Ain’t Livin’ Long Like This” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 Alabama, 53 alcoholism, 12–13, 82–85 Alex LeVasseur Skate Scholarship program, 186 Allen, Lily, 80 “All I Need To Know” (Seskin, Steve), 48 The Allman Brothers, 154 Almo/Irving-Rondor, 17 A & M Records, 82, 112 American Embassy, 169 Anderson, John, 155 Animal Jam, 176 approach, 45–46 Arista Records, 3 The Art of Writing Great Lyrics (Oland, Pamela Phillips), 107 The Art of Writing Love Songs (Oland, Pamela Phillips), 107 artist versus songwriter, 55–56 artistic impulse, 114 “As I Lay Me Down” (Hawkins, Sophie B.), 112–113

B Baby Daddy, 80 Backstreet Boys, 99, 103 Bailey, Alice, 95 Baker, Sam, 67–72 compression, 68–69 healing qualities of songwriting, 70–71 journalistic style, 68–69 liturgical melodies, 71 messages, 72 nature of art, 72 near-death experience, 69–70 Ballou, Hosea, 134 Bare, Bobby, 154 Beach Boys, 3 Be-Bop Your Best! (Oland, Pamela Phillips), 107 Bee Gees, 3 Belafonte, Harry, 133 Berklee College of Music, 28, 76 “Believe” (Wiseman, Craig), 20–21 Bible, 59–60, 159–160 Big Country, 60 Big Loud Shirt, 16 Billboard magazine, 3 Blake, William, 136 Blaskey, Lindy, 95 “Bless the Broken Road” (Hummon, Marcus), 53

197

198

Index

Blume, Jason, 98–105, 189–190 adversity, 102–103 communication, 104 co-writers, 105 craft, 104 numerology, 101–102 reincarnation, 101–102 religion, 100–101 responsibility, 105 spirituality, 99–101 Bones, 169 Braheny, JoAnn, 1–8 craft, honing, 6 creative currents, 5–6 critic, inner, 6–7 higher power, 7–8 left brain function, 6 right brain function, 6 ritual, 8 talent, wasted, 7–8 zone, 8 Braheny, John, 1–8, 122 attitude, 5 audience, 4–5 creative currents, 6 higher power, 7–8 ritual, 8 talent, wasted, 7–8 zone, 8 Brand New Heavies, 27 Branigan, Laura, 187 Bromberg, David, 27 Brooks and Dunn, 17, 20, 96 Brooks, Garth, 123 Brown, Samm, 2 Browne, Jackson, 131–132 Bruder, Roy, 167 Bryant, Joel, 150–151 Brymer, Mark, 107 Bryson, Peabo, 107 Buddhism, 27–28 Bug Juice, 169 Bugsy Malone, 81 The Burbank Studios, 3 Butterfield, Paul, 129 The Byrds, 94

C cancer, 43–45 caregivers, 189–190 Carpenter, Richard, 107 The Carpenters, 30 Carter, Deanna, 17

Case, Peter, 129–138 chances, taking, 131–132 commitment, 132 drug use, 132–133 father figures, 133–134 process, 134–135 religion, 134 senses, 132–133 spiritual bondage, 136–138 street singers, 129–130 time, 135–136 transformations, 135–136 Cash, John Carter, 154 Cash, Johnny, 6, 141, 154 Cash, Roseanne, 139, 141 Cayce, Edgar, 181 CBS Records, 3 Cedar Dream Songs (Miller, Bill), 9 ceremonies, Native American, 16 chances, taking, 131–132 Chandler, Len, 122 change, 110–111 Chapin, Harry, 3 Chapman, Beth Nielsen, 39–47 adversities, 40 approach, 45–46 cancer, 43–45 classroom experiences, 41–42 critic, 45 foretelling, 42–43 inspiration, 41–42, 46–47 journey of writing, 44–45 Chattanooga’s Riverbend Festival, 64 Chesney, Kenny, 17, 22–23, 48 The Chieftains, 27 children’s music, 169–170, 175–176 Cho¨gyam Trungpa Rinpoche Shambhala, 27 Christianity, 57–58 church dynamic, 25–26 Churchill, Ward, 137 Cinderella Liberty, 81 Clark, Guy, 57 classroom experiences, 41–42 CMA awards, 18, 21 CMJ Music Marathon, 4 Cocker, Joe, 96 Columbia, 55 “Come to My Window” (Etheridge, Melissa), 78 commitment, 56–57, 132 communication, 104 community, sense of, 179 The Compassionate Friends, 190, 195 compression, 68–69 Confederate Railroad, 17

Index

contemporary country music, 61–62 “The Cowboy in Me” (Steele, Jeffrey), 181 co-writers, 33, 50–51, 105, 123, 128 craft, honing, 6, 104 The Craft and Business of Songwriting (Braheny, John), 2 Crawford, Randy, 30 creative choices, 29 creative currents, 5–6 creative process, 143 creative source, 93–119 Blume, Jason, 98–105 Hawkins, Sophie B., 112–119 Himmelman, Peter, 170–171 Moore, Daniel, 93–98 Oland, Pamela Phillips, 106–112 Steele, Jeffrey, 184–185 creative space, 125–126 creativity, 1–8, 33, 111–112, 160–161 “Cried Like a Baby” (Williams, Paul), 81 critic, inner, 6–7, 45 Crosby, Sills, & Nash, 186 Crossing the Bridge, 169 Crowell, Rodney, 121, 138–144, 196 creative process, 143 drug use, 141–142 God, 140 nonproductivity, 144 process, 139–140 religion, 140–141 spirituality, 142–143 truth, 140 Crystal, Billy, 27

D “Daddy’s Money” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” (Hawkins, Sophie B.), 112–113 Dass, Ram, 88 Davies, Chris Baker, 71 Deep Natural (Shocked, Michelle), 157 Deeper Still (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 43–45 Dennis, Elma, 20–21, 24–25 destiny, 84 Dharma Moon, 26 Diamond Rio, 17 Diamonds and Dirt (Crowell, Rodney), 138, 144 Dick Clark Productions, 3 “Digga Digga Dog” (Oland, Pamela Phillips), 107 DioGuardia, Kara, 182 DiPiero, Bob, 18

Discovery Channel, 16 divine creation, 123 Dixie Chicks, 53, 61 “Dock of the Bay,” 36 Dohas, 28 “Don’t Laugh at Me” (Seskin, Steve), 47–48, 50–53 dreams, 181–195 Steele, Jeffrey, 181–186 Taylor-Good, Karen, 186–195 Dr. John, 27 drug use, 132–133, 141–142 drums, African, 116 Dunn, Ronnie, 20–21 Dylan, Bob, 43, 132, 142–143, 154

E Edwards, Clydene Jackson, 166 Edwards, John, 138 Eliot, T. S., 159 “Ellis Island” (Silversher, Michael), 179 Elmo in Grouchland (Silversher, Michael), 174 Ely, Joe, 61 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 134 Emmy awards, 27 emotional sparks, 75–76 The End, 81 energy, 126 erratic singers, 32 Estes, Sleepy John, 131 Etheridge, Melissa, 2, 73–80, 112 emotional sparks, 75–76 foretelling, 78–79 healing, emotional, 77 healing, physical, 78 honesty, 76–77 metaphysics, 79 solitude, mental, 78 spirituality, 77, 79 excellence, looking for, 13 Evans, Sara, 53 “Evergreen” (Williams, Paul), 80 Evers, Medgar, 134 “Every December Sky” (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 44 Everybody’s Brother (Shaver, Billy Joe), 154 “Eye of the Hurricane,” 5

F faith, 19–21, 24–25 Fallout Boy, 182 “Family of Man” (Williams, Paul), 81

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200

Index

Fate’s Right Hand (Crowell, Rodney), 139 father figures, 133–134 feedback, 165–166 Fellini, Federico, 121 Ferry, Bryan, 114 “For a Change” (Seskin, Steve), 48 foretelling, 42–43, 78–79, 183 For the Record (Brown, Samm), 2 fortitude, 24–25 Foster, David, 4 foundation, spiritual, 88–89 Franklin, Aretha, 107 Frost, Robert, 133 fundamentalist religion, 149

G Garcia, Jerry, 27 Garrett, Sean, 182 “Geronimo’s Cadillac” (Quarto, Charles John), 122 Gill, Vince, 14 Ginsberg, Allen, 28 The Giveaway (Moore, Daniel), 96 “God, Love, and Rock ‘n’ Roll” (Teegarden and Van Winkle), 94 God, higher power, 112, 119, 140, 151, 172 God’s reflection, 15–16 Gore, Al, 79 Gospel music, 147–150 The Gospel Truth (Werner, Susan), 146 Graceful Passages (Malkin, Gary), 88 Grammer, Red, 107 Grammy awards, 9, 18, 53, 73, 79 gratitude, 85 Green, Al, 187 Greenbaum, Norman, 94 GRC Records, 3 Great American Country network, 18 Griffin, Patty, 61 Grisman, David, 27 “Grown Men Don’t Cry” (Seskin, Steve), 48 Guest, Christopher, 27 Gummi Bears, 175 G-Unit, 165 Guthrie, Woody, 5, 129

H Habitat for Humanity, 24 Hall, Tom T., 154 Hammond instruments, 35 Happy Days, 80 Harriman, Tom, 106

Harris, Emmy Lou, 138–139 Harrison, George, 176 Hawkins, Sophie B., 112–119 artistic impulse, 114 creative source, 114–116 drums, African, 116 God, higher power, 119 patterns, 118–119 purpose, 118–119 spirituality, 117 “Heal Me” (Etheridge, Melissa), 77, 79 healing qualities of music, 35–36, 73–91 emotional, 77, 82, 86–88, 185–186 environmental, 91 Etheridge, Melissa, 73–80 Malkin, Gary, 86–91 physical, 78, 176–177 Williams, Paul, 80–85 healing qualities of songwriting, 70–71 Heartland, 169 Hebrew Bible, 59–60 Henley, Don, 17 “Hey Jude” (McCartney, Paul), 180 higher power, 7–8 Hill, Faith, 17, 39–40, 46, 61, 181 Himmelman, Peter, 131, 163, 168–174 children’s music, 169–170 creative source, 170–171 God, higher power, 172 Holocaust, 173 patterns, 171 religion, 172 stage show, 173–174 The Hitmen of Music Row, 18, 22–24 Hog Creek Reservation, 11 Hollandsworth, Mike, 103–104 Hollywood Squares, 81 Holocaust, 173 honesty, 76–77, 96, 110, 155 Hopper, Dennis, 3 Hothouse Madman (Sergeants), 135 The Houston Kid (Crowell, Rodney), 139, 144 Houston, Whitney, 107 “How Can I Help You Say Goodbye” (Taylor-Good, Karen), 187 humility, 36 Hummon, Marcus, 53–62 artist versus songwriter, 55–56 Bible, 59–60 Christianity, 57–58 commitment, 56–57 contemporary country music, 61–62 Hebrew Bible, 59–60 Jesus, 57–58

Index

radical love, 58 religion, 58–59 sacrifices, 56–57 struggles, 54–55 suicide, expressing grief about, 60–61 Husker Du, 168

I I Ching, 73 “I’ll Always Be There for You” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “IF We Could Hold Each Other’s Hunger” (Himmelman, Peter), 171 “If You Don’t Love Jesus, Go to Hell” (Shaver, Billy Joe), 154 “If You’ve Got Love” (Seskin, Steve), 48 Iglesias, Julio, 3 “I’m Just an Old Chunk of Coal” (Shaver, Billy Joe), 155 An Inconvenient Truth, 74 Indian Removal Act, 11 individuality, 1 “I Need to Wake Up” (Etheridge, Melissa), 74, 79–80 innocence, creative spirit, 18–19 Inside Songwriting: Getting to the Heart of Creativity (Blume, Jason), 98 inspiration, 41–42, 46–47, 49, 108, 121–144 Case, Peter, 129–138 Crowell, Rodney, 138–144 Quarto, Charles John, 122–128 Werner, Susan, 151–152 Iron Maiden, 4 Ishtar, 81 Island Music, 3 “I Think About You” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “It’s Going to Hurt to Go There” (Seskin, Steve), 50 “I Won’t Last a Day Without You” (Williams, Paul), 80

J Jackson Browne, 31 “Jacob’s Ladder,” 71 Jarreau, Al, 3, 187 Jennings, Waylon, 123, 139, 154–155 Jensen Communications, 3 Jesus, 57–58 “Jesus Is Just Alright” (The Byrds), 94 Jihad, 149 Jim Henson Productions, 175 John, Elton, 40 Johnstone, Jude, 6

Jones, Alan, 88, 90 Jones, George, 187 Jones, Tom, 30 Joplin, Janice, 73 Jordan, Mark T., 30–37 African-American churches, Florida, 35 co-writers, 33 creativity, 33 erratic singers, 32 healing qualities of music, 35–36 humility, 36 pitfalls, 34–35 spirituality, 36–37 spouses, 34–35 Journal of Advanced Nursing, 73 journalistic style, 68–69 journey of writing, 44–45 Judging Amy, 169 Jung, Carl, 1

K Kaiser Permanente, 175 Kane, Christine, 63–67 preachiness, 65 rituals, 66–67 spirituality, 65 talent, 66 writer’s block, 67 Kate Wolf Festival, 64 Katrina, hurricane, 149–150 Kennedy Center, 175 Kennedy, John F., 134 Kennedy, Robert, 134 Kennedy, Ted, 3 Ketchum, Hal, 123 Keys, Alicia, 21 King, B. B., 3 King, Martin Luther, 14, 134 Kingston Trio, 133 “Kiss Me” (Etheridge, Melissa), 75 KPFK radio station, 2 Kristofferson, Kris, 3, 154 Kubler-Ross, Elisabeth, 88

L LaBelle, Patti, 165 “A Lark Ascending” (Williams, Ralph Vaughn), 180 “The Lazarus Principle,” 85 The Learning Channel, 175 “Leavin’ Louisiana in the Broad Daylight” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 left brain function, 6 Legend, John, 182

201

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Index

Lennon, John, 57, 133–135 Lerner, Robin, 40 “Let Me Be the One” (Williams, Paul), 80–81 Let Us Now Praise Sleepy John (Case, Peter), 131 Lewis, Jerry Lee, 141 light, 126 limitations, 124 Little Richard, 141 liturgical melodies, 71 “Live Like You Were Dying” (Wiseman, Craig), 18–19, 21 Lonestar, 17 Los Angeles Opera, 175 Los Angeles Songwriters Showcase, 2, 4 loss, dealing with, 87–88, 182–183, 190–193 The Love Boat (Williams, Paul), 80 “Love Dance” (Williams, Paul), 81 love, learning to, 14–15 Loveless, Patty, 53, 187 Lovett, Lyle, 31 Lowen & Navarro, 123 “Lucky” (Etheridge, Melissa), 75 LuPone, Patti, 27

M MacIntyre, Reba, 22 Madame Butterfly, 177 “Making Memories of Us” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 Malkin, Gary, 86–91 foundation, spiritual, 88–89 healing, emotional, 86–88 healing, environmental, 91 loss, dealing with, 87–88 media, 88–90 religion, 91 spirituality, 88 transitions, 87–88 Manchester, Melissa, 187 Mancini, Henry, 3 Manhattan Transfer, 4 Manilow, Barry, 3 Mark Taper Forum, 175 Marshall, Garry, 80 Mason, Dave, 30, 34 Mattea, Kathy, 53, 66 Mayer, John, 21 Max, Peter, 3 McCartney, Paul, 3, 180 McComas, Brian, 48 McCoy, Neil, 48

The McGarrigles, 27 McGraw, Tim, 17–18, 22, 48, 139, 181 McKenna, Lori, 61 media, 88–90 meditation, 180 Men In Trees, 169 mercy (Baker, Sam), 68 Mercury Records, 157 messages, 51–52, 72 metaphysics, 79 MGM, 175 Michael, archangel, 128 Michaels, Tammy Lynn, 74 Midler, Bette, 3, 6, 39 “Midnight at the Oasis” (Nichtern, David), 26 Mighty Sound, 157 Miller, Bill, 9–16 alcoholism, 12–13 ceremonies, 16 excellence, looking for, 13 God’s reflection, 15–16 love, learning to, 14–15 reconciliation, 12–15 rejection, 11–12 spiritual growth, 13–14 Victory Zone, 12 Milton, John, 121 Miyake, Issey, 169 “Mr. Tambourine Man” (Dylan, Bob), 142 Mohican Indians, 9–16 Montgomery Gentry, 17, 181 Montgomery, John Michael, 48 Moore, Daniel, 93–98 honesty, 96 “Shambala,” 94–95, 98 spirituality, 96–97 subconscious, 97 Mother Teresa, 152 Mothers Against Drunk Drivers (MADD), 177–178 Mouskouri, Nana, 187 Mozart, 35 Muldaur, Maria, 27 Mullins, Tony, 18 A Muppet Christmas Carol, 81, 83–84 The Muppet Movie, 81 Murphy, Michael Martin, 122 Murray, Anne, 3 Music Connection magazine, 99, 114 Music for 18 Musicians (Reich, Steve), 180 “Music Speaks Louder Than Words” (Payne, Harold), 167 My Best Friend Is a Salamander (Himmelman, Peter), 169

Index

My Fabulous Plum (Himmelman, Peter), 169 My Fair Lady, 177 “My Fair Share” (Williams, Paul), 81 My Green Kite (Himmelman, Peter), 169 My Lemonade Stand (Himmelman, Peter), 169 “My Maria” (Moore, Daniel), 94 Mystery Girl (Orbison, Roy), 17 “My Town” (Steele, Jeffrey), 181

N Nash, Graham, 123 National Academy of Songwriters, 47 Native Americans, 156 nature of art, 72 Navaho Indians, 16 NBC-TV, 3 near-death experience, 69–70 Nelson, Willie, 45, 139, 155, 187 The Nerves, 129, 133 Neuwirth, Bob, 131 Newton-John, Olivia, 3, 31 “Nice to Be Around” (Williams, Paul), 81 Nichols, Tim, 18 Nichtern, Cyndi Lee, 27 Nichtern, David, 26–30 auspicious coincidence, 29–30 creative choices, 29 spiritual alignment, 30 Nicks, Stevie, 6 Night on Bald Mountain (Mussorgsky), 177 Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 53 “No Doubt About It” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “No Man’s Land” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “No One Knows But You” (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 43 Nudgie Music LLC, 26 Nudgie Records and Tapes, 26 numerology, 101–102

O Oak Ridge Boys, 99, 139 Oklahoma, 177 Oland, Pamela Phillips, 106–112 change, 110–111 creativity, 111–112 God, 112 honesty, 110 inspiration, 108 point of view, 109 religion, 108–110 responsibility, 109 truth, 110

Olatunji, Baba, 116 “An Old Fashioned Love Song” (Williams, Paul), 80 “On Angel’s Wings” (Blume, Jason), 105 “On Angel’s Wings” (Taylor-Good, Karen), 187, 190 One Life to Live, 26 One on One, 81 “The Only One” (Wiseman, Craig), 17 Orbison, Roy, 17 “Orphan” (Baker, Sam), 71 Oscar awards, 79 Overstreet, Paul, 107 “Out in the Country” (Williams, Paul), 81 The Outsider (Crowell, Rodney), 139 Osbourne, Ozzy, 4

P Paradise Lost, 121 Parents’ Choice Awards, 169 Parks, Dean, 95 Parton, Dolly, 187 Pass It On (Payne, Harold), 165, 167 path to creative success, 9 patterns, 118–119, 171 Paul & Mary, 3 Payne, Harold, 163–167 church performances, 166 feedback, 165–166 religion, 166–167 responsibility, 165 Positive Music, 165 People magazine, 25 performance of songwriters, 22–23 Phantom of the Paradise, 81 “Pictures” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “Piece of My Heart” (Joplin, Janice), 73 The Pier (Hummon, Marcus), 60–61 The Pigeons Couldn’t Sleep (Himmelman, Peter), 168 pitfalls, 34–35 “The Planet Earth Project” (Taylor-Good, Karen), 187 Playboy Mansion, 3 “Please Remember Me” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 The Plimsouls, 129, 135–136 Podler, Richie, 95 poetics, 125 point of view, 109 positive music, 163–180 Himmelman, Peter, 163, 168–174 Payne, Harold, 163–167 Silversher, Michael, 163, 174–180

203

204

Index

Positively Live (Payne, Harold), 166–167 Power of Positive Music (Payne, Harold), 166 prayer, 161, 193–194 preachiness, 65 “Precious Child” (Taylor-Good, Karen), 191–192 predestination, 183–184 Preminger, Otto, 3 Presley, Elvis, 154 pretty world (Baker, Sam), 68 Prism (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 41 process, writing, 134–135, 139–140 productivity, lack of, 144 purpose, 118–119

Q “Quality of Mercy” (Shocked, Michelle), 161 Quarto, Charles John, 31, 33–34, 122–128 divine creation, 123 co-writers, 123, 128 creative space, 125–126 energy, 126 light, 126 limitations, 124 Michael, archangel, 128 poetics, 125 silence, 126 tone, 127 topic, 127 truth, 127 visions, retaining, 127–128

R radical love, 58 “The Rainbow Connection” (Williams, Paul), 80 “Rainy Days and Mondays” (Williams, Paul), 80 Raitt, Bonnie, 6, 30–31, 96 The Raphaels, 54 Rascal, Dizzee, 80 Rascal Flatts, 17, 53, 181–182 Raven in the Snow (Miller, Bill), 10 Raye, Colin, 48, 99, 103, 105 realities, 1–8 reconciliation, 12–15 Reed, Henry, 181 Reich, Steve, 180 reincarnation, 101–102, 193 rejection, 11–12, 82 religion, 51, 58–59, 91, 100–101, 108–110, 134, 140–141, 145–161, 172, 180

fundamentalist, 149 New Thought, 188–189 Payne, Harold, 166–167 Shaver, Billy Joe, 153–156 Shocked, Michelle, 156–161 Werner, Susan, 145–152 responsibility, 105, 109, 165 Richards, Keith, 141 Ricochet, 48 right brain function, 6 Right Outta Nowhere (Kane, Christine), 67 Rimes, LeAnn, 17 rituals, 1–8 Braheny, JoAnn and John, 8 Kane, Christine, 66–67 Werner, Susan, 147–148 Roboff, Annie, 40 rock ‘n’ roll influence, 157 Rocky Mountain Folks Festival, 64 Rodriguez, Johnny, 154 Rogers & Cowan, 3 Rogers, Kenny, 17, 187 “Roll the Holy Bones” (Moore, Daniel), 97 Rolling Stone magazine, 169 The Rosicrucian Cosmo-Conception: Mystic Christianity, 97 Ryan, Gordy, 116

S sacrifices, 56–57 “Sand and Water” (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 40, 42–43 Santana, Carlos, 36 Santana, Juelz, 165 Schachter-Shalomi, Zalman, 88 Scissor Sisters, 80 Scott, Darrell, 61 Seeger, Pete, 129 Seidel, Marti, 61 Selena, 107 self-medicating, 82–84 Seger, Bob, 139 senses, 132–133 SESAC, 187 Seskin, Steve, 47–53, 64, 66 co-writers, 50–51 inspiration, 49 messages, 51–52 religion, versus spirituality, 51 Song God, 49–50 spirituality, 49–50 service, 158 “Seven Shades of Blue” (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 43

Index

“Seven Year Ache” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 Shakespeare, William, 131 “Shambala” (Moore, Daniel), 94–95, 98 Shamblin, Alan, 50 “Shame on the Moon” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 Shaver, Billy Joe, 153–156 honesty, 155 Native Americans, 156 spirituality, 156 Shawnee Indians, 11, 156 Shears, Jake, 80 “She’s Going to Fly” (Blume, Jason), 105 Shocked, Michelle, 156–161 African-American church influence, 158–159 Bible, 159–160 creativity, 160–161 prayer, 161 rock ‘n’ roll influence, 157 service, 158 spirituality, 160 silence, 126 Silversher, Michael, 163, 174–180 children’s music, 175–176 community, sense of, 179 healing qualities of music, physical, 176–177 meditation, 180 Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), 177–178 religion, 180 spiritual songs, 177–180 website, 178 Simon, Paul, 27 “A Simple Prayer” (Silversher, Michael), 178 Simpson, Casey, 66 Sinatra, Frank, 107 Skin (Etheridge, Melissa), 77, 79 “Slots” (Baker, Sam), 71 Snoop Dogg, 165 solitude, mental, 78 Song God, 49–50 The Songwriters Expo, 2, 47 Songwriters Musepaper, 2 Sony, 175 source, creative, 93–119 Blume, Jason, 98–105 Hawkins, Sophie B., 112–119 Moore, Daniel, 93–98 Oland, Pamela Phillips, 106–112 South Coast Repertory Theatre, 175 Spears, Britney, 99, 103 The Spinners, 107

“Spirit in the Sky” (Greenbaum, Norman), 94 spiritual alignment, 30 spiritual awareness, 84–85 spiritual bondage, 136–138 spiritual growth, 13–14 spirituality, 21–22, 36–37, 49–50, 65, 77, 79, 88, 96–97, 99–101, 117, 142–143, 146–147, 156, 160 spiritual songs, 177–180 spouses, 34–35 A Star Is Born, 81 Steele, Jeffrey, 18, 181–186 creative source, 184–185 foretelling, 183 healing qualities of music, emotional, 185–186 loss, 182–183 predestination, 183–184 Stevens, Becca, 54 Stevenson, B. W., 94 Stewart, Rod, 3, 165 Stillwater, Michael, 86 Strait, George, 22 street singers, 129–130 struggles, 54–55 Stump, Patrick, 182 subconscious, 83–84, 97, 181–196 Steele, Jeffrey, 181–186 Taylor-Good, Karen, 186–195 suicide, expressing grief about, 60–61 Sundance Institute, 175 Sussman, Lawrence, 168–169 “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” 71

T Taj Mahal, 30 talent responsibilities, 66 wasted, 7–8 Tale Spin, 175 Taylor-Good, Karen, 105, 186–195 caregivers, 189–190 loss, 190–193 prayers, 193–194 reincarnation, 193 religion, New Thought, 188–189 Tebey, 48 Teegarden and Van Winkle, 94 Tharp, Sister Rosetta, 158 “These Days” (Steele, Jeffrey), 181 Thich Nhat Hanh, 88 “This Father’s Day” (Himmelman, Peter), 169

205

206

Index

“This Kiss” (Chapman, Beth Nielsen), 40, 46 Three Dog Night, 94–95 “’Til I Gain Control Again” (Crowell, Rodney), 139 time, 135–136 Time magazine, 24 “Together” (Werner, Susan), 152 ToHeavenURide (Shocked, Michelle), 157 tone, 127 topic, 127 transformation, 63–72, 135–136 Baker, Sam, 67–72 defined, 63 Kane, Christine, 63–67 transitions, 87–88 Travis, Randy, 17 Treatise on White Magic (Bailey, Alice), 95 truth, 110, 127, 140 Tucker, Tanya, 39 The Turtles, 82 This Business of Songwriting: A Practical Guide to Doing Business as a Songwriter (Blume, Jason), 98–99

U United Airlines, 3 United Entertainment Network, 3 Urban, Keith, 139

V van Eck, Diederick, 106 Van Gogh by Van Eck, 106 Van Morrison, 31 Van Ronk, Dave, 134 Van Zandt, Townes, 131–132, 135 Varley, Jim, 95 Vassar, Phil, 17 Victory at Sea (Rodgers, Richard), 177 Victory Zone, 12 visions, retaining, 127–128

W Walker, Butch, 182 Walt Disney Imagineering (WDI), 4 Wariner, Steve, 53 Warner Bros. Records and Pictures, 3, 34, 175 Warnes, Jennifer, 6 “Wasted Man” (Silversher, Michael), 177 Wasp, 4 “We’ll Remember You” (Silversher, Michael), 177–178

Werner, Susan, 145–152 fundamentalist religion, 149 God/higher power, 151 Gospel music, 147–150 inspiration, 151–152 Jihad, 149 Katrina, hurricane, 149–150 rituals, 147–148 spirituality, 146–147 “We Shook Hands” (Seskin, Steve), 48 “We’ve Only Just Begun” (Williams, Paul), 80 “What Hurts the Most” (Steele, Jeffrey), 181 “When the Lights Go Down” (Steele, Jeffrey), 181 The Whispers, 107 White, Bryan, 53 Wilcox, David, 5 Williams, Hank, 131–132 Williams, Paul, 80–85 alcoholism, 82–85 destiny, 84 gratitude, 85 healing, emotional, 82 “The Lazarus Principle,” 85 rejection, 82 self-medicating, 82–84 spiritual awareness, 84–85 subconscious, 83–84 Williams, Ralph Vaughn, 180 Willis, Mark, 48, 50 Wiseman, Craig, 16–26 church dynamic, 25–26 faith, 19–21, 24–25 fortitude, 24–25 The Hitmen of Music Row, 18, 22–24 innocence, creative spirit, 18–19 spirituality, 21–22 Womack, Bobby, 165 Wonder, Stevie, 27 writer’s block, 67 Wynonna, 31, 53

X–Y Yearwood, Trisha, 6, 17, 39, 123 “You and Me Against the World” (Williams, Paul), 80 “You’re Gone” (Williams, Paul), 80

Z Zawinul, Joe, 115 Zip, Eddie, 95 Zomba Music, 103 zone, 8