About a year and a half ago, I fired up music again after a very long hiatus. I started it off with my proverbial hat in hand. This time around, I didn't want to go into it with grandiose plans: I wasn't going to dabble with sampling, synthesizers, woodwinds, and a half dozen other instruments. I wouldn't even play electric guitar (yet), nor get lost in a jungle of pedals and distractions. In fact, my ambition was to simply play and perform at our local open mic. I would also set strict limitations on myself to avoid the mire of infinite choices that plagued me in the past: I was allowed to play acoustic guitar and sing. Nothing else. At this point, I hadn't written a song in many years. I had fresh and unexpected inspiration and desire suddenly, but desire in particular can be a fickle mistress. The last thing I wanted to do was to dash this sudden motivation against the rocks of severity and pretense, and to again disappoint myself. In other words, I did not want to take myself too seriously this time around.

A few months into this coy approach, the urge to write (not just play) had returned. It started relatively small, as I had so many cobwebs to shake off, not to mention new skills to acquire, both as a guitarist as well as a singer. I started by writing a single song, followed by another shortly thereafter, and then another. Within several months, it became clear to me that this foray into music was unlike other times. Something dramatic, if not mythic, had occurred inside of me. The inspiration, creativity, and desire had become a reliable triad and formed a firestorm. I didn't just want to write; I couldn't stop it, nor did I want to. I felt as if I were being carried by a tremendous wave. I couldn't see where it would take me. The shore was hardly visible anymore, but I wanted to be taken, so I simply let go. 

Several months into open mics, I played my first show on acoustic guitar. That first gig was the launching point for all the others that followed. Since then, many new songs have been written and many small and smallish shows have been played. My limited instrument format is somewhat intact, but I have over a dozen new, complete tunes and many ideas. In fact, the only reason I don't have more songs is because I need to put the brakes on in order to record an album. If I am constantly writing, I'll find myself tempted to discard songs before they ever make it to the studio (a common problem for songwriters). I also need to expand the scope and impact of my live performances. My songs would benefit from additional instrumentation when performed live. This requires a new band of talented, skilled, and reliable people. Thankfully, I am now working with a very good drummer and bassist who are elevating my tunes at practice. Soon we'll be playing shows together as a unit, and even sooner we’ll be in the studio recording. I am also fortunate to be working with multiple other amazing instrumentalists and fellow songwriters who bring so much force and texture to my tunes in the studio. Much has changed in the past year. I have been very productive musically and have made so many wonderful connections, both musicians and non-musicians alike. I still find myself standing in awe of it all.

There are a few lessons to take from this. 

The first is to never take the thing that brings you joy and turn it into a chore. Keep it fun and loose. Interestingly, my best work (and not just in music) came out of a light approach, not light in terms of intensity and frequency, but light in terms of attitude. We achieve a greater state of flow through presence, not through grind. Grind has its place: It can get us temporarily through bouts of writer's block and (sometimes) depression, but grind is a survival tool, a means of hanging on and not a means to flourish. To flourish, we must approach creation and life the way a child does: with looseness and play. This isn't to say we shouldn't also be constantly improving and expanding our skills. We need to do this as well as to create more effectively, but in creation (and in life), it is crucial to let go. Even in our most serious work, we must let go for it to reach its full potential. As someone who used to train in an MMA gym, I can tell you looseness is everything. When I was tight on the mat, I exhausted myself or was more injury-prone. That said, like MMA, kickboxing, and grappling, in music, you still have to show up to practice regularly. You have to put in the work, or you'll just be another talent with no hustle and a long list of "what ifs." 

The next lesson is to lean into community and relationships when it comes to music, not to mention life. As a solo artist, I'll be the first to tell you I am not "solo." In most cases, "solo artist" is a misnomer. Trent Reznor (AKA, Nine Inch Nails), for example, may be one of the most "solo" artists in history, but he has had tremendous help in his process. For me, being a solo artist means I write and structure the songs as well as act as a sort of creative director or producer. In a more traditional band format, there is often a degree of democracy. This has a lot of value, particularly when each member of the band pulls their own respective weight. It can expedite the songwriting process, but it can also hamper it and water down a creation. One is not better than the other. Like all things, it depends. As for me, acting as both the songwriter and producer ensures my visions won't be watered down by potential ego battles, at least in the current format. That said, a good producer does not necessarily compose all of the various layers and instruments in the song. Quite the contrary. A good producer will lean on the expertise of his or her collaborators (Hans Zimmer is a master at this, as I understand it). This approach does require a considerable degree of coordination, not to mention relationships built on trust and mutual support (especially if you don't have Hans Zimmer pockets). For myself, I have been fortunate enough to make incredible friends in our PNW music communities over the past year. Many of these individuals, as you'll see in the coming months, take my songs from the stripped-down acoustic + vocal space, to much bigger full-featured songs. In some cases, I compose their contributions, but in many, I give a rough idea and let them run loose with their amazing skills and creativity. Even in a hypothetical, near-impossible world where I played every single instrument well, I would not have the same mind and heart as the other person.

Here is an ADHD-colored example:

Yesterday I wrapped up recording for an acoustic version of "Strange Winds," a song I wrote last year. It was originally just a live couch take of the song. Two layers: vocals and acoustic guitar on my part. I didn't even intend to use it as a release, but I reached out to my friend and fellow songwriter, Lucas Hobbs, to add harmonies to it. He did a great job. Then, while attending my friends Brian and Elise's (AKA the Love Grubs) engagement party (congrats you two!), I mentioned the idea of adding female choral backing vocals. Elise, being a stellar singer, offered to do the job. Her friend Emily (Ovall), also a great singer, offered to sing alongside her and harmonize. Within the week, we had them both recorded. I was stunned by what they achieved in unison. Things were now sounding very cool, but I knew the song needed more, so I reached out to my friend and local guitar and songwriting hero, Jerry Battista, to add lead melodies to accompany my guitar. We recorded him, and it was amazing. It then dawned on me that all of these layers would benefit from some percussion. While cajón was the initial strategy, I didn't record this to a click (a general no-no), but I listened to the song so many times that I became acquainted with all my wonky tempo variations, so I took a stab at it with the djembe that my drummer Kenneth had left at my house. After a week of practicing with it and finally recording, the djembe suited just fine, but now I was getting greedy. I heard cello in my head... I didn't play cello. I didn't even have friends who still played cello, but I remembered a referral from my friend Joe (also a local musician) to an amazing cellist in our area: Anastasiia Ermolaeva / AKA Dolorress. Sure enough, she delivered in droves. After her incredible playing was tracked, the song, which had started as a mere couch take with a single mic and DI'd guitar, was beginning to take on a much larger scope. But wait! Now I heard tambourine... After battling with it for some time, I settled on how I'd use it, but as I didn't have a ribbon mic nor feel like purchasing one, I was battling the tambourine's harsh, bright tones in my condenser mic, so what to do? I reached out to a great engineer I had worked with in the past and will be working with again soon: Robbie Houston, and asked two questions: “Do you think tambourine is suitable for this song and, if so, what mic'ing techniques do you suggest using?” He answered yes to the first question and, to the second, ample distance was suggested. Next, I recorded tambourine. What followed was hours and hours of manual alignment of hits, beats, etc, as was done with many of the other percussion tracks due to my lack of initial click. This may have taken me 6-8 hours per track. No joke (Word of the wise: If you have the ability but not Kanye money, do as many production .wav form edits yourself before shipping your stems to the mixing engineer wizard… also, use a click wherever it is suitable). 

So that was long-winded. I am not going to force you to count how many people were listed above. Including myself there are 8. This does not include the mixing/mastering engineer who will work his magic on the audio stems, nor my wife who has graciously given me the time to hyperfocus like a madman on all of these tasks. It also doesn't include the amazing people in my community who rooted and cheered for me before I did, and inspired me to begin this journey.

This doesn't sound a lot like a "solo" project, does it? In my mind, a solo artist has only a few fundamental requirements: Original songwriter/composer (sorry, corporate and media-backed pop artists... You're out), instrumentalist, and producer. Too many of these so-called "solo" artists do not give enough credit to the amazing people who take their songs to the next level. I'm here doing it, because without the amazing people above, my songs would be limited in breadth. There is nothing wrong with stripped-down acoustic and vocals. In fact, it can add a level of intimacy, but when my brain is screaming "CELLO" and my guitar keeps sounding like a guitar, I am going to reach out to an amazing cellist (Thank you, Anastasiia/Dolorress). 

One final point on the above: Offer to pay the musicians who are contributing to your work. If they are content with you offering equal value in some way (free studio time, an exchange of musical cameos), that's fine, but make sure they are okay with it. Musicians, like all artists, should be compensated for their work or at least have the option of being compensated in some form. 

Anyway, this was supposed to be a few paragraphs, but it became a long-winded rant. If you made it this far, hats off to you. Welcome to my brain (It’s a wilderness). I refuse to use AI to write my blogs, so you are left with this.

Have a great week! If you are in the greater Seattle/Snoco area, I hope to see you at the October 27th show at the historic Oxford Saloon in Snohomish with The Love Grubs, otherwise, I'll have a series of Seattle gigs in the months that follow.