Rerecord and Reminisce

As I opened up one of my earlier tracks, one desperately needing a complete vocal redo, I noticed the corners of my mouth forming a soft smile as I recalled the process of putting the initial recording together. Nearly a month has passed since the last time I chiseled away at the sound of this song, called Thursday.

The lyrics aim to capture the confusing emotions surrounding the gospel accounts of Jesus Christ and the disciples as they celebrate the Jewish holiday of Passover. It is a story that even the decidedly irreligious have heard in some form, and yet its facets remain a foggy riddle. Why must the Christ die? For what crime is he being crucified? Why does one disciple hand him over to the authorities? Why does another pretend he never knew the man?

And why would Jesus sweat bullets in the Garden of Gethsemane as he prayed the night before his death sentence? Didn't he know the end of the story?

There are tidy, pious answers to all of these questions, but I must admit that most leave me feeling flat and unsatisfied. The song I am honing tonight speaks about this overwhelming story and the sobering emotions that are packaged with it.

A snippet:
Weeping lead, sweating drops of blood
Wielding piece, fear I caused the flood
The rain must fall
inside the garden wall

Some believe vehemently that the story is the gospel truth. Others claim it never happened. Hardly anyone is neutral on the matter - such a polarizing event and poignant story. I am honored to join thousands of artists throughout history that each tell the tale from a slightly different angle, and I can not wait until the day that everyone can hear my take.

Lessons from Glen and Marketa

To say that I had a great time on America's highways over the weekend would be a grand understatement. The Redline Project is not a venue for personal pontification, so I will reserve my bouquet of wanderlust tales for blogs that exist elsewhere.

The trip's relevance to the Redline Project is somewhat limited as I did not write songs, record tracks, or research software techniques while away. In short, a fuse in my mind had blown, and I gave the old brain a weekend off. I am pleased to report that my cranium is operating at full tilt, and I am ready once again to dive into the deep end of this project.

Of all the dashboard crooners that meandered around the Gulf Coast with me, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova spent a considerable amount of time singing through a stack of songs from the movie, "Once."

Have you seen the film? If you have not, go rent it tonight. If you are busy tonight, put it on the list for tomorrow. "Once" is the story of two brokenhearted musicians who meet each other in Dublin, Ireland. The two form a beautiful collaboration and discover a life-giving friendship in the process. The film is gorgeous, the plot delicious, and the music sumptuous. One lovely detail about the movie: the main actors realized their music was meant to exist past the scope of the picture and started a band that still performs today.

Why are you still reading this blog post? Go to the rental store now, or at least hit up your Netflix queue.

Beyond enjoying the music at face value, I spent ample time listening deeply to Glen and Marketa, trying to understand lyrics and their constructions, considering song structures, analyzing chords, pondering vocal techniques.

Neither Glen Hansard or Marketa Irglova have perfect voices. On the recordings, there are notes out of tune, phrases unaligned rhythmically, and even an occasional wrong note. Why then is the music so gripping, so compelling, so haunting?

Part of the answer lies in the performers' abilities to bring their songs to life with emotional conviction. Their voices cry in sad moments and rip during choruses of rage. The two singers invite the listener on a journey into the story behind the song, and it is impossible not to taste the bittersweet sentiments carefully penned for such a purpose.

I have over-thought every lyric I have written for this project, trying to saturate every line with as much meaning and emotion as it could hold. Because I deem my voice an unworthy instrument, I have relied on words alone to create meaning in the songs I am trying to sing.

With Glen and Marketa as role models, I am going to practice using whatever voice I have to deliver compelling performances of the poetry I am working so diligently to write. I would like nothing better than for my songs to be compelling and perfect, but since I have to choose, compelling may be the way to go.

Thursday

Progress on the latest song has been moving along at a crawl, though I finally have something presentable to show. The verses are a bit naked as they wait for their chorus to be written, but I am going to post the mostly baked, still doughy lyrics here in the name of process.

This song has a working title of Thursday, alluding to the jarring observance of Holy Week that is once again in our midst. The phrases are not meant to become preachy or even to have any sort of message or motive. Instead, I have tried to deal with the confounding emotions present in this bewildering progression of holidays.

Loose ideas are jotted into a Microsoft Word document for the chorus, though I am only halfway satisfied with the outcome. Here is the song in progress:

Thursday

Clock says three; I can barely breathe
Words a knife; pierce me in my sleep
Broken loaf; drunk on heavy wine
Trembling fist; dipped his bread with mine

The rain must fall
Inside the garden wall

Weeping lead; sweating drops of blood
Wielding peace, fear I caused a flood
Decades fade; time has gone so fast
Tangled in fishing nets I’ve cast

The rain must fall
Inside the garden wall

Fall on my double-edged sword
Pay the price only I afford
Muscles seize; fingers start to writhe
Almost dead; barely still alive

The rain must fall
Inside the garden wall

Song Ideas

Yesterday I described the backwards process through which I am writing my latest song. Though I have composed an entire song form (melody, harmony, chord structure, and instrumentation), I am lacking lyrics. Only two lines are filled in thus far:

Clock reads three; I can barely breathe.
Words a knife; pierce me in my sleep.

How may a song flow from this concept? Is this a tale autobiographically describing any instance of sleepless, stressful nights? Do these words describe my struggle with fear? With failure? With feelings of inadequacy?

Maybe these lines are not about me at all. Perhaps they are about a buddy of mine who wonders if anyone likes him. If anyone wants to be his friend. Or is it about a youth in the Communicycle program whose dad has departed the house leaving a mother to care for three children?

What if the lines begin to describe the horror of betrayal on Maundy Thursday leading to the death of Friday?

I am slowly realizing the value of a generic lyric - one that can be bent and flexed to mean any number of things in the mind of the listener. As details fill the gaps of a story, the number of listeners able to internalize it will undoubtedly decrease.

Bit Backwards

I have romantic notions about how a song comes into existence. Perhaps the composer draws from the simplicity of childhood, the pain of the teenage years, the angst of a friend, the joy of a monumental success. Picking up a guitar, words flow out of her like warm honey and spill onto the page of a parchment journal. A melody descends from the sky, cloaking the meaningful stanzas in simple elegance. A song is born; divine.

My developing process of songwriting has absolutely nothing in common with this hypothetical approach. I trend toward a backwards approach, commencing with a musical idea or texture, humming a melody, and then frantically searching for halfway-meaningful words to accompany the musical environment.

Yesterday, I jaunted down the same old songwriting path with a bit of a twist. After laying down some sonic concepts and singing through a handful of potential melodies, my mind conjured exactly two lines of a verse; nothing more, nothing less.

Here they are:
Clock reads three; I can barely breathe.
Words a knife; pierce me in my sleep.

That's it... the whole banana. A confession: I already love this song. There is melody, harmony, chordal structure, and an array of musical ideas piled into my head and stacked onto tracks in Logic. The music even echoed off the shower walls as I wailed into the shampoo microphone this morning.

None of this is negative, except that a concept for the song's direction would be a pleasant development. If I am going to reverse-engineer a complete song from this tiny seed, some concept formulation is needed first. Look for the development of this idea tomorrow - same time, same channel.

Paradox

Do you remember when questions had one answer? Every aspect of my life was marked by right or wrong until the day I graduated college. Remember when red checkmarks peppered the pages of stapled exams? Remember bubble sheets and percentiles? Remember when two and two equaled four?

I believe good and evil war with each other. Though this is an abrasive fact of life, I am resigned to know nothing can change this reality.

Complexity is a web of sticky strands that spins thicker each day, and nothing is ever quite as it appears. On occasion, the underbelly of evil and the essence of good both cameo in the same scene, leaving spectators in a confounded haze.

By way of example, I heard a story about a young lady who was raped in an alley. In the aftermath, scars of fear permanently gnarled the woman's soul, leaving her emotionally paralyzed and unable to leave the apartment. The baby she bore as a result of the horrific incident is her greatest source of hope. Though she would never choose to relive the panic of the rape, she can not fathom life without her precious daughter.

I inked up a sheet of my sketch book in search of a song that deals with instances of this paradox. Though I am yet to find adequate words, the ideas are converging into a string of questions for which there are no answers. I can not wait to sing this song; hopefully it will take shape soon.

Jack Shivers

Around three weeks ago, someone broke into the Communicycle Co-op and stole all of our tools. Our shop is located in a ministry center where a couple of churches and other groups meet, and several of these spaces were robbed on subsequent days. Eventually the man taking from the building was caught and has found himself locked behind steel bars.

Without tools at the shop, we have been spending time with the youth participants in other ways. Tonight, we brought them all to the building's concrete basketball court, where we enjoyed a crisp spring evening shooting hoops.

One fellow became bored and started rummaging around near the building's dumpster where a miscellany of discarded construction supplies were stacked in messy piles. He returned to the concrete slab a few minutes later announcing that he found a really cool sweater that he intended to keep.

My heart sank when I saw the garment in his hands, because it was a sweater that once belonged to me. In a flash, I was transported back to a January night of record cold when a man named Jack found his way into the shop. He was looking for coffee and a place to get warm as his makeshift home behind our building offered zero protection from the freeze.

I had nothing to offer him that night except for the thin blue sweater I was wearing. I shook it gently in front of him in insistence that he accept what little warmth it might offer. After we switched the lights off and locked the door, I shuffled around town gathering sweaters and blankets from my closet, a roast beef sub from the deli, and a tall cup of joe from the convenience mart.

As I returned to the Communicycle lot, Jack's tall silhouette appeared in the shadow of my high beams. I handed the humble gifts to him, praying that he would find the warmth to make his way through the frosty night. How crestfallen I was to learn that Jack returned to the Communicycle shop a few days later, shattering glass to enter and departing with handfuls of community-owned tools and supplies.

I never anticipated laying eyes on my blue, striped sweater again, but there it was tonight, tossed aside and dusted with fragments of last autumn's brittle leaves. I felt equally discarded by the unwelcome discovery, and anger began bubbling into my throat.

My emotions would have remained through the night had it not been for the marvelous Communicycle youth. These friends rallied around me as I told them the story, sympathetically resonating with my discomfort and frustration. I am watching these teens take ownership and pride in the program we are building together, and I could not be more elated at their sense of investment.

What do these meandering paragraphs have to do with the Redline Project, or with music of any form? Everything, really.

I drove home that frigid January evening through sheets of blurry tears, and not knowing how else to process the pains and injustice unfolding before my eyes, I grabbed a pen and scratched some lyrics onto a blank journal page. I have much to consider now about the direction this song should head. Initially it was a song of observations and simple lines that stated my confusion from a disconnected stance. The subject matter has since become deeply personal, and I am more a part of the story than I ever anticipated or wished to be.

Where to go from here? I don't know.


Jack Shivers

Jack shivers in the frigid night
Blue sweater, he is not all right
Black coffee, awake till dawn
Not alive, but not quite gone

Massive Milestone

What would probably be a measly accomplishment for most professional recording artists feels downright monumental to me. This morning at 11:00 am, I wrapped up a preliminary song track for the Redline Project final recording.

Is the song actually finished and ready for mastering? Hopefully not. I intend to learn a massive amount between now and the album's final mixdown, and I anticipate looking back at this track with loathing at some point during the project's course.

So why the jubilee? This first complete track represents what I once considered all but impossible. A mere three months ago, I hadn't the vaguest sense of how to get the music of my imagination into listenable form. As I type today, I am hearing the tangible decibels of a song I wrote and recorded. Each instrument (about 15 total) heard is something I played, and the vocals, though heavily edited, are mine too. What a buzz.

The complete song is called Barefoot Commons. Its story portrays a girl and a boy from dramatically different backgrounds who discover equally intense pains and joys in life. Here is a selection of phrases:

Little black boy from Roxbury Station
Little white girl from the highrise on the hill
Black hand, white hand, gripping each other
Fifteen miles, a world apart
Drink the moment at the barefoot Commons

For complete lyrics, click here.

The song's characters are children from the city of Boston. Beyond the traditional instruments utilized in the recording, I selected sonics that reflect the playfulness of childhood and speak of the urban setting, including the percussive banging of kitchen pans and a carefully-placed elevator bell sound.

Any elation I feel in this moment is met with great trepidation as I consider my next steps. If I am to accomplish the release of a full-length album, I will have to walk this winding road at least a dozen more times during the next six months. This seems a good thought for tomorrow; today I shall bask in the bliss of this small but significant step.

Idea Dump

The post you are reading is the 50th to appear on the Redline Project. By the time 315 more are composed, I will know if this initiative was a massive success or an abject failure. Fingers are crossed for the former.

With general artistic direction in place for the final recording, I have spent the awake portions of the past 24 hours thinking of song concepts, phrases, and hooks that may tell stories of justice and tales of peace. Instead of storing the ideas on cerebellum shelves, I am posting a handful for all to view.

A concept is not automatically on the album simply because it is here, and there is great likelihood that many new inspirations are yet to emerge. Brainstorming is both important and fun, and I invite you into the process. Concepts for songs are foundational ideas upon which lyrics can be built, phrases are loose language that may fit with an eventual song concept, and hooks are particularly catchy ideas that makes songs memorable. The phrases and hooks typed below resulted from a mere exercise in creativity and are not all destined to become cornerstones of songs.


Song Concepts

1) There is a man living in the woods behind the church I attend, and the frigid temperatures have added further complexity to his already trying situation. This story haunts me, and song seems like an appropriate venue for the emotions attached to it.

2) I know several preteen youth that continue to move closer towards criminal activity and acceptance into gangs despite their mentors' greatest efforts to teach the consequences of these harsh, unforgiving choices. I would like to write a song that deals with this palpable inevitability.

3) A raging pandemic of child slavery, trafficking, and prostitution haunts every corner of the globe. My home town of Atlanta, with one of the world's busiest airports, is a hub for these unthinkable atrocities. Perhaps there is a song that may sensitively deal with the agony and unfairness of the topic.

4) I have an endless list of questions for which there are not answers, or at least not tidy ones. A song of questions may be a venue for associated fears and uncertainties to be expressed.

5) A song about adoption, identity, and belonging would be a fitting outpouring of life as my wife and I prepare for our first child to come home from South Korea.

6) Time slipping away is a fascinating topic to me, and I am interested in writing a song about the process of aging and how years passing offers changed perspectives.

7) A story of kings and queens, or other royalty, would make an intriguing song, especially if the verses slowly reveal the listener to be the person of fame.

8) I am intrigued by the plants that manage to grow in the cracks of sidewalks. This displays great persistence, innovation, and the ability to thrive in adverse conditions. Perhaps worth a lyrical exploration.

9) What about lyrics that use images from nature? In less than poetic terms, a 'we all live under the same stars, the same sun setting on the chalets and shacks' sort of song.

10) I wonder about city pigeons sometimes. Where do they dwell? How do they find dependable food sources? Why is everything about their appearance gray and matted except for their red feet? Why do they only seem to live in cities? This concept could offer an urban slant to the 'consider the birds of the air...' reference.


Phrases or Hooks

1) Ashes to ashes, dust to dust [...] we all fall down

2) Nickel, nine to five, and dime

3) Jack shivers

4) Wisp of a leaf in the crack of the concrete

5) Minutes confirm what months may doubt as years coax a different truth out

6) Caged angel

7) Find a place in a place away

8) Asphalt nest in the telephone box

9) Clouds raining shadows on both sides of the tracks

10) Twenty dollar bill burns a hole in my pocket

If you are a songwriter and you take these ideas from me, you will always have to live with the nagging guilt that your work is unoriginal, which should be punishment enough. Please accept my open invitation to critique the ideas here or add your own to the mix. If your idea is utilized, you will appear in the credits.

The Shadows in the Room

It was one of those moments when something came together so strong, so powerful, so unexpected. I was thrown off balance.

Late last night I was attempting to add a second vocal track to a scratch recording of a song I jotted while up in the mountains this past weekend. If you read yesterday's post, and I encourage you to do so, you know that the lyrics I pieced together find their genesis in a harsh story that is all too true.

Midnight. Singing a harmony line into the mic, I forget where I am and lose myself in the truth behind the song. Glass shatters, screams, violence. The bandit snatches more from a little girl than a few valued possessions; he grabs her slumber, nabs her sense of peace and security. Through eyes that refuse to blink, she gapes at the shards on the floor, sharp fragments of life that was whole just moments ago. In time, the gripping panic will fade, leaving in its wake a dull nag that will not allow much needed sleep to come for months and months. Fear remains.

As I open my mouth to sing, I sense the shadows in my basement moving around me, whispering the evils of the world in silent groans. I tremble. A lone tear departs the corner of my eye, encouraging a flood of others to drip to the floor. I am sobbing, weeping. And the recording is lost.

Or is it? You decide.

What you will hear below is a solid distance from perfect, but it captures the essence of the song's purpose. I hope it will remind you that even in life's most fragile moments, we can find a shred of courage as we sing 'la la la' to the shadows in the room.

My friends Ruthie and Ian work with 30 kids in an adjacent community. They keep a blog telling marvelous stories of justice and mercy. If you like what you are reading here, you will enjoy visiting Refugee Arts.

Blinking Cursors of Fury

Radio songs are beloved for a variety of reasons. In most cases, a cherished track earns its way into the hearts of its listeners by being relatable, telling a story, painting a picture. Maybe a lyric resonates with a current situation, or perhaps it evokes a daydream that enables an escape from the doldrums.

I am fascinated by lyrics and often get lost in the middle of one, reflecting myself into its message and considering the lesson it aims to communicate. Check this verse by John Mayer:

We see everything that's going wrong
With the world and those who lead it,
We feel like we don't have the means
To rise above and beat it.

It's not that we don't care,
We just know that the fight ain't fair.
We keep on waiting,
Waiting on the world to change.

I love this catchy song, the bouncy rhythms, the pop of the guitar overdrive - perfect for a road trip on a sunny afternoon. But I keep coming back to it, thanks not only to its irresistible groove, but because it succinctly expresses a sentiment that I feel every day.

What can we actually do when we are frustrated by systemic injustices? Write a congressperson? Sign a petition? Sip java and grumble about it with similarly helpless friends? The song is widely embraced because it voices a relatable message.

Music can operate like a virus. Initially infectious, it may eventually burrow to the soul, inspiring contemplation and perhaps even life change. While compositions can be heady, esoteric, and inaccessible, lyrics are an open door through which music's consumers can enter.

I believe in the importance of a musician connecting with a listener. For precisely this reason, I am trembling in my socks today.

Last night, I took three swings at putting together a few verses. Over and again, the blasted cursor blinked fury from its stationary spot in the upper left hand corner of an extremely blank screen. The backspace button fired away like a semi-automatic weapon, and the two hour search for something worth keeping ended with hands empty and brows furrowed.

I like the article on WikiHow that describes the songwriting process. It goes something like this:

First, select a cool topic that everyone will like. Second, write a few verses about the topic. It can rhyme, or it doesn't have to. Up to you. Then write a chorus. This is an important part of the song because it is repeated two or three times. After that, you will want to write a bridge. Something catchy is good here because your listeners will like it. Once you have all of that written down, you should record it. Then take the recording to the local record shop and have them give it a listen. If they like it, and they probably will, they will submit it to some agencies because they know many famous people in the music industry. The last step is that you or someone else famous sings your song on the radio. La chaim!

I wish I were kidding.

Needless to say, articles like these are not moving my would-be songwriter career in a positive direction. So what will? How do I get a handle on this important topic? More to follow.

The Importance of Song

From my first days sitting at a piano, with my kindergarten-sized legs swinging around unable to reach the pedals, I have always been moved by the sounds of the different instruments. As this fascination developed into a love, I became continually more serious about studying instrumental music. Matter of fact, I did not stop until I had a bachelors degree hanging on the wall and a masters degree tied in a neat roll on the counter.

A quick tangent and a true story worth telling: It was not more than a few days after I received my official masters degree from Fedex that I left the house to run a brief errand. When I returned 20 minutes later, I found a guilty-looking beagle, my pooch Daisy, slunk across her pillow. When she wouldn't look me in the eye, I knew it was time to survey the damage. Sure enough, I found what remained of my diploma on the floor. Daisy had consumed most of it, including the official school seal and the presidential signatures. Pffft.

For every moment I am working on these posts or researching musical gear, I am finding at least five more to contemplate my approach to creating an album of music.

The main problem: I can't sing. Not an underestimation, I know how I want the emanations of my mouth to sound, but my vocal chords refuse to cooperate. My voice is wispy and feeble, and hardly ever squarely on pitch. Hence the instrumental bent I suppose. It only follows that I have no experience writing lyrics or composing song structures.

A quick jostle through the radio dial reveals the truth anyone could have guessed: music that connects with most people has lyrics, tells a story, is sung.

Big questions loom. As I begin to put together an approach to the product of this project, will I somehow include singing and songwriting? Stick with my instrumental comfort zone? Some combination of the two? And even larger, what is the story I am trying to tell here? What is the picture I am trying to paint?

Just for giggles I sat with the blinking cursor yesterday and scribbled out a few verses. Instead of my custom of being embarrassed, I am going to make a practice of putting my scratches out there for everyone to dissect. If there are any poets or lyricists out there, feel free to dig your nails in.

Who are you? Lost around the world.

Without a face. Without a trace.

A lonely space echoes back the silence.

Years slip by without a word.

Lost into the past.

Just dial tone on the telephone.

The mailbox rattles in the wind.

Come home. Who are you?

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