In Defense of Music

I’ve not been fully truthful with you already. The last blog I posted here was admirable in its scope and enthusiasm, if a little arrogant, but in many ways it failed to address the more current and personal issues that are fueling my move to Nashville. I’ll spare you the heartache and the heavy-handed mysticism (at least until you buy my albums), but I will be very, very real about one thing: music.

I’ve encountered many folks, some of whom I truly respect, who hold the view that Nashville is “the place where music goes to die” (this was actually said to me backstage by a very kind and talented artist from another town in Tennessee shortly before I informed him that I would be moving to said music-destroying city). In many ways, I can understand why so many might feel this way: the blood-curtling sameness of the last two decades of popular country music; the idea that musical decisions could be made preemptively for the sole purpose of effecting sales; that songwriters could be working with the mission to hit on the lowest common human denominator in order to sell music to Wal-Mart-shopping meatheads who wouldn’t know the difference between a guitar and shovel. I know, sometimes the world makes things suck.

But let me suggest this: regardless of your place in the world—whether you can hop in your SUV and blast the new Sting record on your way to the Yuppie Organics Marketplace or you’re spending twelve hours a day wading knee deep in rice paddies and you’ve never seen a TV—we’re all just trying to get by and find happiness, even if we don’t understand what that means. Give professional artists a break. We can’t all get by on our eccentricities and be critically lauded for wearing monkey suits onstage and being utterly, disarmingly stoned off our rockers the rest of the time in our chic London apartments. We all, whether we acknowledge it or not, have to compromise. For example, aforementioned stoner-rock-star-artist-savant is likely to die young, leaving behind a trail of failed relationships and a catalog of music that is unlikely to outlive his or her tabloid persona. That sure sounds like a compromise to me.

Or how about this: one of my best friends is a chef in the greater Seattle area. If it were up to him, he’d be challenging diners every night of the week, giving them reason to think outside the box, to be open to new and unusual ingredients, or to take the time to appreciate simple, classic comfort food in a new way. Unfortunately for him, and for the rest of us, most folks don’t like to be challenged. It would be nice to think that we could relax, and trust, and learn—as we surely could from someone who has spent the better part of their adult life learning the intricacies of this one tiny part of the human experience—but no. Some folks just want the same well-done steak or chicken Parmesan. Let me put is this way: why would you bother to take a history course in college if you assumed that you knew more that the professor who had spent years studying his or her subject? Do us all a favor--next time you fork over thirty bucks for a meal, suggest that the chef cook you something of his or her preference; the knowledge and passion that will go into that meal just might help you to learn something.

Let’s get back to music. I have another bone to pick, and this is a rather large one. The number one reason why I’m moving to Nashville is the people--the thousands of uber-talented practiced, enthusiastic, and professional people who are there to make music, and understand that compromise is sometimes okay (and in this world, essentially necessary). I need to emphasize just how professional they are, and not because they are talented and gifted and knowledgeable. They are professional simply because of their attitude; because they are willing to relax, to trust, to learn; because they realized that music is bigger than they are, than their egos, than their misguided hopes for immortality. Does this sound a bit like Kundera’s “Unbearable Lightness of Being” (see previous entry)? Well, it is.

Do you want to know how not to get work in Nashville? Have a big ego. Think that what you do is important, and that someone else couldn’t do what you are there to do. You’ll find yourself at home, the phone won’t be ringing, and thousands of other talented, knowledgeable, and humble people will be out there getting your work.

Now I’m no music veteran. I’ve been playing professionally for almost nine years now, which I suppose is respectable for someone who has yet to turn twenty-four, but certainly I’m not alone in the regard. However, I’ve have had the simple good fortune to be put into situations time and time again with people older, better, and more professional than me that I learned these things fast, and while I was still young. I was never given the opportunity to think I was special, or that the gig or the world wouldn’t keep on rolling without me. I’ve tried to be in many bands in the last nine years, and in Ohio, especially in my tiny little town, there are a lot of talented, well-intentioned folks making art who have not had the opportunity to learn these lessons. Want to know what hell will be like? Try starting a band with a bunch of undergrads weaned on their parents coddling and a steady diet of tabloidal MTV and Rolling Stone magazine tales of musical illustriousness. If I have any advice for musicians, young or old, it is this: like a diner at a fine restaurant, or a traveler to foreign lands, learn to relax, and trust, and learn. Music is bigger than you and me, and it is worthy of your attention and humble dedication.