Something not so coincidental happened recently because, I believe, the Universe has been witnessing my Renaissance with music: Pandora asked me to be a curator — that’s a songwriter, producer, blogger, or music enthusiast with a desire to connect with their followers through well, music.
If music delivered to us by an invisible digital stream was here to stay (and don’t get me wrong, I love streaming—it’s versatile, convenient and an all-you-can-eat buffet), then laws had to change to bring digital royalty distribution into a digital age. But how?
I seem to fit in better now. Maybe Nashville has changed. Or maybe I’VE changed. Or maybe I used to try too hard to fit in. Now I’m comfortable just being myself. Maybe that’s the key to life in general.
I’ve narrowed a 7 hour audio book down to an hour’s worth of the best bits. I put a mic and an amp in the corner of my office and every night I've been firing up the purple lights and running through the script. I'm enjoying myself immensely. So are my cats. I'm not sure how to proceed next, but I'll figure it out. One foot in front of the other. Like everything. If you build it they will come.
Indeed, life, career, love have their ups and downs. Perhaps the lulls are necessary, albeit not as thrilling, as the excitement. I’ve always enjoyed unscheduled time to collect my endless thoughts. Examining is where we get material. We need to take time to replenish.
Looking out the window of my west bound plane, taking in what just happened, I’m filled with so many thoughts. Adam is worried. He suggests after all the excitement and euphoria I’m going to crash. Post GRAMMY Depression. I won’t. I’m pretty sure I’ll be high for a while.
It’s important that the professional songwriter, and our story, be represented in the small group of audio books nominated for a GRAMMY. After all, the GRAMMYs is an award platform that revolves around the music industry. And songwriters are at the heart of it. Without songs there'd be no music business.
In any profession there’s always a force that must be reckoned with. That someone makes us better simply by the virtue of us always having to catch up with them. For me, that someone was, still is, Diane Warren.
I'm stepping off the Long Island Railroad and the first thing I see is the roof of what used to be Freeport Bowl, where girls made out with boys in cars—“Midnight Oasis” on the radio. “Put your camel to bed.” How about THAT for a lyric?
One of the participants at SongStudio asked what it would take for her to get in a room with me. I explained that we all have to work with writers of our own level and one day, something will happen out of the blue…an A&R might give her a favorable recommendation or a hit writer might love a song she wrote and voila, she’ll get her session with a more experienced songsmith. And she'll be Writing Up!
Serial Songwriters (The Bruce Springseens as well as the Suzie Smiths) have creative common threads. They just manifest themselves slightly differently in different souls. I like reading about these threads because I recognize myself as part of a larger Tribe. It’s like a link to a religion I belong to. I’m confirmed.
You may say this wasn’t my fault. But it was. I was constantly fidgeting with that stone and I recently I noticed that it was... well loose. When I tapped it, it made a little clicking sound. Not a good sign. I knew I had to have it fixed. What was I waiting for?
I am Meg Ryan in that famous scene from When Harry Met Sally where she’s slapping the table, faking a you-know-what, and shouting, “Yes! Yes!” And a diner at another table remarks in envy, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Four hours later my session is a total bust. Three ideas and we couldn’t get hard. We parted without any eargasm to speak of. Even well seasoned writers come up empty sometimes. They might not tell you that but I will.
Taylor. So happy for. Nobody could take it away. No Kanye in sight. You remind us that we are women hear us roar! But Taylor, how about the 10 male producers standing behind you? Where was the vagina? The Linda Perry? The Eve Nelson? Why all the testosterone?