The seeds of songs.

Tags

music, seedlings, seeds, songs, songwriting, spring

I know it’s an overused analogy, but it’s true – songs really are like seeds, and you have no idea how – or even if – they will find fertile soil, take root, and push their way up towards the sun.

Last week I wrote about how one of my songs is doing just that, and I taught and shared that same song again at this past Thursday’s session of the Daily Antidote of Song. That action seems to have put some other things in motion, one of which is an invitation to lead a weekend-long singing retreat whenever schedules can align to make that happen. Really exciting!

In looking back over the past week, there were other signs of song seedlings taking root.

I had a couple of really enjoyable rehearsals for two very different musical projects – one for this week’s Mardi Gras show, and another with Leah for our Peaceful Means project – both of which were deeply inspiring and invigorating. What a thrill to work with drummer Jared Steer for the first time and to hear how ‘The Gumbo’s Too Hot‘ took root in his mind and expressed itself through his chops! (Craig – have an awesome vacation this week, buddy! We miss ya!). And then to work on originals with Leah and continue planning the release of our debut recording later this year, a song from which Leah shared recently in her work as an NVC trainer and was asked, ‘I’d love to be able to use that song for meditation. Is it available anywhere?’ Not yet, but it will be! Another thrill!

The other day I went looking through a song notebook for something else, only to rediscover a song I’d started writing last fall that I’d kinda forgotten about, and spent about an hour coaxing that one a little further out of the ground.

I had another studio session this week with my dear friend Jan who is finally recording a collection of her songs, some of which she wrote decades ago! There’s one song of hers called ‘Deep Beginning’ that I have fond memories of singing with her and with Circle Voice Singers, the community singing group we were both members of over 20 years ago. Another thrill indeed to put down the backbone of this particular song, and to plan for and imagine the voices that will soon be added to ours in the magical space of the recording studio!

Four of us convened at Davy’s the other night to flesh out, jam on, and record several versions of an instrumental that the composer (Davy) has plans for. It was so fun and freeing to show up, plug in, sit down, read down a chart, and create groove after groove with three of my favorite musicians and humans – something for the seed stores.

I’m surely thinking along these lines this morning because the first day of spring is in view, and the hours of sunlight are steadily increasing; the birds in our yard are singing more, eating more; the sunlight is stronger; the pace of everything in the natural world seems to be ramping up. And I’m helplessly – joyfully – being pulled along that current of life, singing as I go.

Riding on the wind

Tags

music

I spent some time last week with a borrowed electric guitar while I was ‘helping’ Shawn choose some plugins for the home studio set up. (All that means is, Shawn was dialing in sounds while I was playing along with old Judas Priest and Metallica, haha)

Suddenly, I was a young teenager again, with my SG plugged into a Marshall Valvestate combo, rocking out to all my old favorites. Songs that were and are loud and intricate and raucous – and so deeply satisfying.

On this recent occasion, Shawn put the album on and cranked it up as I took this borrowed axe into my lap, hunched over it, hair covering my face – just as it did 30+ years ago – and somehow, like riding a bike, my fingers remembered where to go, stumbling a bit here and there, and each crunchy power chord thrilled me just as much now as it did then when those same big six-string yells cut through the drafty old house of my childhood. I played along as best as I could with Glenn and KK’s relentless riffs, all while singing along with Rob Halford’s shattering voice:

Well I’m riding / riding on the wind
Yes I’m riding / riding on the wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind

holding that last note forever right along with Metal God…

Contrast that recent experience to the one I had this past Saturday night, when my friend Leah and I were making our debut as our new duo, Peaceful Means. No raucous power chords that night. Originals that are all about peace and harmony – and covers, too, by folks like John Gorka, The Indigo Girls, Bill Withers. These notes were all sweet and gentle and joyous – and just as deeply satisfying.

I met Leah around the same time that I was playing along with those headbangers. She and I started off in a rock band together, and then our musical relationship evolved and moved into other places, most of which involved singing in intricate vocal harmonies with each other.

As I get older, I realize that, for me, there is no bright line between all these forms of music, these dialects of the same shared language. Music that moves is music that moves. Why not recite every word of N.W.A.’s Straight Outta Compton album and then sing every single note of every instrument of The Allman Brothers At Fillmore East? Or scream along with Rob and scat along with Ella, hang on to every slip note of Floyd Cramer’s and then marvel at Oscar or at Art Tatum? Life’s too short to do otherwise.

So whether I’m rockin’ out at home, or sharing the stage with a dear friend, I intend to keep on riding on the wiiiiiiiiiiiiiind………!

The stories behind the sounds behind the stories.

Tags

life, music, pandemic

(Friday night sunset at the pond)

As I sit outside and type these words, I am surrounded by sounds – a growing chorus of crickets; the mesmerizing sounds of a hermit thrush just south of the yard; the laughing call of a nuthatch, not too far from the thrush; a neighbor mowing his lawn; the din of a nearby window A/C; a far-off fire truck siren; the clacking of my fingers on the laptop.

Each sound is an invitation to curiosity:

I wonder how many crickets are singing right now? Dozens? Hundreds? How many more will join in?

Will the birds find their mates?

Is the neighbor enjoying his time mowing, or is he worrying about things in his life?

Is someone in the room that’s being air-conditioned, or is the room sitting empty?

Where is the fire truck going? I hope everyone is okay.

And the sounds of typing. Small and snappy and satisfying, giving voice to curiosity, and to longings and aspirations. Telling the story behind the sound behind the story. Spiraling down into the heart of things as far as I can go and then back out again.

I’ve been doing a lot of typing lately – working and answering emails and journaling, responding to the outpouring of support of the decision the guys and I made last week to cancel our southeast tour this month. I’m sad as hell, but I love what I do and the people that I do it with and for too much to risk going out on the road in this latest surge of the pandemic.

Other things are coming off the calendar as well. A private singing retreat that I’d been really looking forward to in early September has been cancelled, and I’m seeing more folks pulling back on travel plans and gatherings for the time being.

So, with hours and days opening up the rest of this month and into the next, there is time now to pay attention to the sounds that have been living in my mind and telling stories of their own – old songs that could use a polish, new songs and works in progress that have been vying for my attention. For the next little while, when I’m not working on other projects, I’ll likely be at the keyboard or with a guitar in my lap, doing what I once heard Maya de Vitry call ‘some diggin’ in the air.’

We all know what it means.

Tags

life, love, music, New Orleans

I’m excited for tomorrow night’s live-stream show with my quartet. We’re doing a special Mardi Gras show from the stage of The Majestic Theatre here in Conway, NH. We’ve been rehearsing, masked up and distanced, for a couple of weeks now, and I think we’re sounding pretty damn good. After months of being apart, it’s amazing to be making music and fun with these fellas again.

In the process of getting ready for this show, I’ve been looking through photos from many New Orleans adventures, to share before and during the live-stream, and I came across this one:

and immediately my heart ached, but in a beautiful way. This was a moment that I’ll cherish forever – Shawn and I in 2012, first year campers at the New Orleans Trad Jazz Camp, having just performed a set of fun music with new friends at the legendary Preservation Hall. We were hot as hell, and excited. Are there marks on my arm from me pinching myself?!

It’s amazing how a photograph can instantly transport you, to conjure a cascade of fond and forgotten memories. I see our faces here, just a couple years into our relationship. I think now of the miles and years and adventures that lay ahead for those two young’ns – the touring and the songs and the adventures – and the gray that has crept into more recent photos, but the smiles and the joy and the love remain. We still return, year after year (except 2020), to the city that continues surprise and delight and challenge us. We bring our love of this place to every stage, every song, every performance, and to many of our moments together in our day to day life.

As the song asks and I answer: Yes, I do know what it means to miss New Orleans. Each of us misses some place, too – a place that makes your heart sing at the mere thought of it. Maybe that place isn’t geographical – maybe it’s in the eyes or the arms of those from whom you’ve been separated during this strange and challenging year we’ve been living through. We all know what it means to miss hugging the people we love, and to miss gathering with friends and like minds around the things we love, like music and art and food, and connection.

I really miss those crystalline moments in which I’m able to create those unique experiences on a stage in a venue with friends and strangers alike, swimming in that beautiful alchemy that is only possible in live performance. There, there are no edits, no take-backs, no second chances. It’s a kind of high wire act that, if performed with levity and love, is the most magical thing I’ve ever experienced.

I’m so grateful to get a taste of that magic this week, celebrating the musical traditions of a place I love with people that I love just as much, and for the opportunity to share what we pull out of our hats. I really enjoy the emotions that a single photograph can inspire!

In memory of Gregg Allman.

Tags

Allman Brothers, Gregg Allman, music

I was listening to the Allman Brothers in the womb.  

My parents were both huge fans of music, and there were always lots of records in rotation. The ones that were always near the top of the stack were Eat A Peach, Brothers and Sisters, and the one that loomed most largely in my life, At Fillmore East.  

By the time I was born in 1976, Duane and Berry were already dead; their status as legends, particularly Duane’s, was an indelible imprint on my young mind. Their music was the soundtrack of my life, and it proved to me over and over again with each listen, I grew to understand, that you could apply a jazz improv, nothing-but-feel sensibility to rock n roll.  

I went through a lot phases with my tastes growing up: pop, heavy metal, punk rock, classical, jazz, electronica, hip hop – but I always returned, again and again, to those records made by those long haired country boys from Georgia.

One of my fondest memories is of the early morning car rides with my dad when I was in high school. I wasn’t yet driving, and I was sick of riding the bus to school, so Dad would drop me off early before going to work at the machine shop. Every cold and dewy morning, he’d back the old Nissan out of the driveway, Camel straight in hand, window barely cracked, and we’d listen in silent awe to At Fillmore East on cassette.

“Okay, the Allman Brothers Band,” the album starts. You hear the ringing for a split second of someone’s open A string, and the very gentle tapping of a hi hat before launching into “Statesboro Blues”. We knew this album so well we didn’t even need to listen to it. We knew every note and phrase, every gritty vocal and screaming guitar note, every organ swell, every strike of Butch’s sticks and Jaimo’s hands, every moment of applause.  

But when something is that great, you just can’t get enough of it.  

Dad’s free hand, once we were in fifth gear, would rest in a place on the lower left hand side of the steering wheel, fingering along with Duane and Dickey. My right hand would play along with Gregg on my right thigh. Dad and I would glance knowingly at each other at our favorite moments – Duane’s first solo on “Statesboro”, the entrance of Dickey’s mournful guitar on “Elizabeth Reed”, and on and on. 

But there was a moment that used to really piss me off. 

Like my dad used to say, “Hire a teenager now while they still know everything.”

I was a smart aleck musical whiz kid. I took classical piano lessons for a lot of years, and I was really good. I wasn’t arrogant about it, in fact I was painfully shy, especially about my singing voice, but I thought I knew more than I actually did. The eternal affliction of youth.  

On “One Way Out”, coming out of Butch and Jaimo’s drum and percussion solo, Dickey and Duane, in that order, would trade fours. And then on the last four, Duane ups the ante with this killer syncopated line, and then what does Berry do? He comes in a beat early and fucks it all up! This was another moment when Dad and I would look at each other, every time. Sometimes I would comment, “Aw, why?” And though Dad would smile, he otherwise never showed any agreement.  

It took me years to see the beauty in that moment. 

I used to think Neil Young was awful. I would snobbishly say, “He can’t sing or play worth a damn.” And maybe, technically, that is true, but when I saw him perform on TV in 1993, just him and his piano, it hit me hard. The raw, pure emotion of his performance got me in the gut. Though I didn’t become a huge fan of his, I never again criticized him. How could I? He was and is brilliant.  

Yes, Berry’s early note on “One Way Out” is technically a mistake. But what I finally realized one day is that my annoyance at this moment had melted away, to the point where it may just be my favorite moment on the Fillmore record. Because after the early note, you hear Duane continuing to dazzle as if nothing has happened, and you hear the rest of the band making tiny little adjustments to make it all turn out right by the time they get back to the root. Just four bars and all was right with the world again.  

The lesson there was so simple. Music for a musician is not just about playing. It’s about listening! Listening as if you have never heard the song, the chord, the moment before, and just bringing your skills to bear on each and every one.  

Gregg is gone now. Another brilliant voice gone silent. Thank goodness we have all those perfect/imperfect records to listen to and rejoice in and shoot for.  

Why I stopped celebrating Christmas.

Tags

Christmas, family, friends, gift-giving, gifts, holidays, music

Sometime in the month of December 1998, I was standing in a very long, slowly-moving line at Borders in South Portland, ME.   I was clutching a couple of books in my hands — one for my mom and another for my boyfriend Scott — that I intended to give as Christmas gifts.

I’ll never forget how severely depressed I was in that moment.  My father had just died of cancer in November.  My mother was, of course, a wreck, and my job of consoling her was impossible.  And in those days, I was living on my own (mostly) in a rathole of an apartment in Lewiston, working in retail (which meant, in December, working nearly every waking moment of every day), and struggling to pay my bills.

I could barely afford the books I was holding in my hand.  I could barely stand there and endure the holiday music that blared incessantly from the wall-mounted speakers.  I did, however, manage to gaze around me at the dozens of tables of last-minute impulse buys and brightly colored bargain books around which we in line were all snaking our way toward the registers, and I did also manage to notice the looks on the faces of nearly everyone else in that line — unsmiling, unfriendly, exhausted.  “Let’s just get this over with,” we all seemed to be thinking.

And then, I had an idea.  I will get this over with.  I stepped out of my place in line, placed the two books back where I found them, and walked out of the store with an incredible sense of relief.

It was at that moment that I pretty much dropped out of Christmas.

The one thing I wanted — and that my mother wanted — more than anything was to have my father back.   How was a stupid book about cats going to assuage that?

She and I didn’t exchange gifts that year.  It seemed pointless.  It was pointless.

There have been a few exceptions over the last fifteen years — including a gift or two for my mother before her death in 2007 — but very few.

As the old cliche goes, the best things in life aren’t things.  Yes, things are nice.  Some things are even necessary.  But I find the idea of compulsory gift-giving to be a grotesque one.  The giving of gifts should be a joy in and of itself, not a stress-filled obligation.

Many do agree with this sentiment.  Others point to the religious origins of the holiday as a respite.  I am not a religious person, so I find no consolation in these various myths.

But there is music.

For the last four Christmas seasons, I’ve been a part of a tradition of sharing the music of Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas in a live concert setting.   The message of the original TV special was that of that same exasperation that I felt standing in that long line at Borders all those years ago — commercialism run amok.  I’ve heard many folks say to me that it has made their whole holiday season, that it has brought the true spirit of Christmas back into their lives.  Music has the power — and, indeed, the tendency — to do just that.

So, I won’t be giving any store-bought gifts tomorrow.  Hopefully, I won’t be receiving any either.  The only gift I want — tomorrow and every day — is the loving presence of dear friends and loved ones.  That should be enough for anyone!  It’s certainly more than enough for me.

Saturday Morning Musings – Forever returning.

Tags

happiness, Heather Pierson, here and now, life, music, perspective, present moment

Hello!  I’m back.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Where to begin?  I’ll be very brief.  A successful SERFA conference in May with Shawn and Davy.  Six wonderful weeks in New Orleans.  Four years and counting with my sweetheart.  More traveling to more shows all over the country.  A new record in the works.  So much excitement and joy!

It’s incredible to think of how unhappy I used to be a lot of the time and how, unfortunately, the residue of those unhappy times had indelibly stained much of the rest of my life.

But that stain is slowly fading — I see it in photos, in the mirror, in my improving posture.

I’m smiling more than I ever used to.  I’m growing more confident.

Wynton Marsalis once said, “In jazz, every moment is a crisis and you bring all your skill to bear on the crisis.”  Life can be a crisis too, can’t it?  Hard work for sure.

I feel like I’m forever returning — to the piano, to melody and harmony, to the blank page, to here and now — and when I arrive, all I can do is just try to figure out what needs to be done next.

In the meantime — which is also here and now — I hope to continue to hone my skills and bring them to bear as wisely as I can.

And keep smiling!  🙂

Saturday Morning Musings – To move the heart of a child.

Tags

child, children, kids, music, parenting, We All Have A Song

For the past week, an elementary school in Wisconsin has been faithfully rehearsing one of my songs – “We All Have A Song” – for their spring concert. Under the guidance of a one Ms. G, these kids are lending their voices to the following words:

We all have a rhythm
And we all have a pulse
And we all have a song to sing
So find your heartsong
Your heart is the drumbeat
You are as strong
As the earth beneath your feet

It’s amazing to me how this came about.  I received an email a couple of weeks ago from Ms. G (an elementary school music teacher) asking for my permission to teach the song to her students.  “Of course!” I replied.

She learned the song several years ago from a music therapist in Michigan.  That in itself is pretty cool.

Then, on Tuesday, I received this message from her: “[o]ne of my favorite reactions was from one of my third graders. He is such a sweetheart and tries very hard, but doesn’t always succeed. As we were lining up while singing to the end of We All Have A Song, he looked super excited. When the song ended, he exclaimed, ‘Ms. G, I’ve never sang that good before! I love this song!’ Thank you for inspiring my kiddos.”

Wow.  How can I get an email like that and not cry?  So humbling and inspiring.

Last night was a regular night at the hotel, solo piano, six to ten.  I’ve been playing there for nearly eleven years now – holy smokes – and my favorite moments are always the ones that involve children.   Over this past decade, I’ve had many kids come up and sit at the bench with me, talk with me, ask questions, request “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and the like, their little legs swinging in the air under the bench.

Then, there are the ones like the little girl who sat at the table directly next to me last night… who kneel on their chairs while they eat, so that they can better see my fingers and then absent-mindedly put down their forks and move their finger tips on the table top, pretending, who blush when I look their way, too shy to come up and say hello.

So precious.

In my six years as a children’s librarian, I read stories, worked on craft projects, sang songs, banged on plastic tambourines, helped with homework, checked out books, collected hugs.   After much soul searching, I left that job nearly four years ago in order to go after the musical golden ring.  It was certainly the right thing to do, but I really miss working with young kids every day.  Luckily, Shawn and I live downstairs from an amazing family with three young daughters, so I get my kid fix somewhat regularly.

Those moments, when you can witness, in real time, the demonstrable positive effects of your actions in the life of a young child – is there anything better or more worthwhile than that?

I admit – as much as I love children, I’ve always been a little too frightened of the awesome responsibility of bringing a new life into the world.  And yes, I realize I’m not getting any younger, either – but I’ve never had a sense of that ticking clock about which many other women speak.  Maybe my clock was never wound up.  Maybe that sense of urgency just isn’t wired into my DNA.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this… with these words and thoughts, or intentions, or lack thereof.   All I know is that whenever I’ve touched the life of a child in some meaningful way, there is simply no better feeling.

To move the heart of a child?  That is the definition of success.

Now, if only I could be in Wisconsin to hear those kids sing my song…

 

Saturday Morning Musings – Remnants of stars reuniting.

Tags

gig, gigs, life, music, musician, singer, singing, song, songs, songwriting, touring

Writing from the road again.  This morning I am in Northampton, MA at my friend Carrie Ferguson‘s house.  She’s a wonderful soul and songwriter.  I fell in love with her songwriting at NERFA in 2012.  Her song “Paris” is an aching ode, mourning the obsession that often overtakes the mind when your lover leaves you.  The first time I heard her sing it, I was hooked.

We became quick friends that weekend.

Last night, we played a show together in Becket, MA at a wonderful gem of a place called The Dream Away Lodge.  We swapped five-song sets all night.  Attentive crowd, snapping fireplace, glowing smiles, full bellies, beaming hearts.

I tried out a brand new song last night.  “Like You’re Already Gone.”  It’s dark and it’s heavy.  The moment that I strummed that last E7 and the applause came, a man said, “Wow, is that your song?”  I told him it was.

It really got to him.

Two nights ago, Shawn, Davy and I saw The Stray Birds in Portland.  Incredible night of music.  For me, my love for them began the first time I ever heard their “Dream In Blue”.

What is it about a song?  The emotional power of just a few chords, a melody and, sometimes, some words; an instrument in the hands of a performer; voices echoing; vibrations rising in the air; ears, minds and hearts to receive it.  All of it remnants of stars reuniting.

All of us singers and songwriters are after that special bit of stardust.  Joni sang about it this way: “The lights go down / And it’s just you up there / Getting them to feel like that.”

Carrie and I captured a little bit of that tonight.  Tonight, we’ll go after it again in Portland, ME, then tomorrow night in Portsmouth, NH.

Then.. in the intervals between gigs, I’m sure we’ll each, in our own way, seek to capture that lightning bug in the jars of our hearts, kindle the flame long enough to set another heart ablaze in another room somewhere, sometime.

I love my job.

 

 

 

Saturday Morning Musings – The most important moments.

Tags

community, family, friendship, life, love, music, Nashville, NERFA, traveling

I’ve been zigzagging all over the map this week. It’s exciting to visit unfamiliar and new places. It’s inspiring to see the lay of the land, to see more of what the glaciers did, and then to experience what we humans have erected in the valleys and hills in their wake.

Last weekend was my second (and Shawn’s first) NERFA conference in Kerhonkson, New York. In a sentence? It’s a four-day-long, folk-music-filled sleep deprivation experiment. All eight hundred of us in attendance sang, played, listened, ate, laughed, talked and connected with one another.

So many moments:

There was Alan who remembered me from last year and couldn’t wait to hear my version of Norwegian Wood on the hotel lobby’s piano again.

I discovered the incredible poetry of a folk singer named Ian Fitzgerald. The line I can’t shake: “A dollar ain’t worth nothing ’cause it can’t buy any time.”

Spontaneous jam sessions with so many musicians, including with a cellist and flautist to create a beautiful rendition of Autumn Leaves.

Hearing a six-string violin sing beautifully like a humpback whale.

Lots of hugs and smiles from equally overtired attendees.

Sharing my bag of clementines with a fellow singer who felt herself coming down with a cold.

From there, we loaded up and hit the road for Nashville for our very first visit. One of my best friends from childhood lives just north of Music City and I finally took her up on her offer of her spare bedroom for a few nights.

More moments:

Waiting in line for nearly two hours with over a hundred others to get into The Bluebird Cafe for open mic, only to not make the cut. (I did get a stamp for next time though, and we got to see a gorgeous sunset while we waited.)

Overcoming my lifelong fear of horses and going for a horseback ride on Megan and Matt’s farm.  Jake (the horse) was truly awesome.

Jawbreakers at Savannah’s Candy Kitchen the size of pool cues. (No I didn’t eat one!)

Seeing Johnny Cash’s guitars and his trademark black suit at the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Singing two songs at Douglas Corner Cafe and hearing a hush fall over the bar.

Teaching Megan’s daughter Chloe how to play the C major scale on the piano.

Three year old Carly asking us to play “Roll Off Your Back” and hearing her little voice singing along.

I’m back home now, staring at a to-do list about a mile long: follow up phone calls and emails, laundry, new song ideas percolating.

My favorite moment from this adventure?  It’s hard to choose, but among the most moving – receiving this text from Megan yesterday morning: “We already miss you guys. Chloe and I are going to buy a yamaha keyboard this morning.”