So What to Do, How to Act?

Part of the reason for the continuing disappointment with every session, project, or band that was mentioned last blog is the differing expectations of all the parties involved. I have a repuation for being emotionally invested in the projects I do, and that comes about as a defence mechanism for not being paid, or being paid very little. Because the reward is seldom financial in the artists I take on, I have to come up with another reason for doing it. That reason must boil down to the integrity, artistic value, or potential commercial success of what I'm setting out to do. I have to get a picture in my head of the way things will go, as well as the result of all that effort.

That's the genesis of the dilemma, because the artist I'm working with may have the identical vision at the beginning, but art being what it is, their vision changes over time. It may turn out that they're not as prepared as they thought, or that they don't like some of the songs they thought they'd like, or that the project shouldn't be released. This is all natural, as it happens in any business, so it's even more likely to happen in the Arts.

But... when it does happen, which is every time, it takes me by surprise. I've spent so much time beforehand preparing mentally and professionally for a specific outcome brought about because of specific work habits and specific steps, that the artist can't compete with my planning and expectations. They invariably haven't rehearsed enough, or don't have a clear picture of their objectives and what it will take to reach them. That part of it is unlike the business world, where much more professionalism is typically expected. But in music, when the big red light turns on, there's no more opportunity to fake it. If you haven't prepared, it suddenly becomes obvious, and now everyone is stuck with your lack of ability.

Hey, I was ready, why weren't you? I spent hours and hours, sometimes days, making sure that everything you need for recording is ready for you, including not only preapring the studio, but also recording tracks for you to use, never at any extra charge. When you don't prepare the same way, that's insulting to me, and it causes me to not want to work with you any more. The fact that most musicians are like that is immaterial.

There are only three solutions:

1. Shut up and take it. Well, I've been doing this for thirty-five years, so that's no longer an option.

2. Work with other people. Where are these other people? Wherever they may be, my ability to work with them has not panned out. Whether that's my fault, or just the luck of the draw, doesn't matter now.

3. Stop. There we go. That's the one. You win. So long, music. You suck. You seduced me for most of my life with the promise of creating art, of wanting me to be a part of you, and always bringing me back when I felt the need to turn away. No more. I'm on to you now. You're no better than a stripper! You make me believe I'm important to you, continually making me think I had something important inside me, waiting to be released by you and you alone.

I was wrong. There's no more music inside of me, and if there is, it's dead and buried. I don't even enjoy listening to music any more. Why should I? If a woman leaves you, you certainly don't relish the thought of looking at her picture all the time. Music is just painful now, a force to be avoided.

No, I Wasn't Wrong

After much introspection regarding last blog's possible realization, the only true realization I've come up with is that I wasn't wrong in the first place. Granted, Blake has shown me that there's another facet to the music business - a facet that devotes itself to fun, and a paycheck. Allowing someone to have fun was never my problem. I want people to have fun. My issue was with having fun at the expense of the professionalism of trying to begin an ambitious career, and I was confusing that with the moment-to-moment experience of actually doing the job.

My feeling is, and always has been, that there's no difference between the job and the career. That every job has to be taken seriously enough to cause it to be a stepping stone for bigger things. Although I cannot, and do not wish to, change that aspect of my personality, I now accept that others may not feel the same way. Ironically, that allows them to be much more happy and satisfied in their day-to-day life, taking joy in doing a job well. My ambition causes me to not be happy with the simplicity of the mundane. Instead, I'm always looking forward, and when things don't go well in the movement, I get affected emotionally.

That doesn't mean I was wrong, and it doesn't mean Blake is wrong. We both just have a different approach. While I still believe mine is the route necessary for growth and progress, his makes him more happy.

So there you have it. We can both be right. But where does this leave me in following the remnants of a thus-far failure of a career? I could have been working in bars, being happy, if I was like other people. But in wanting more, and not being able to achieve it, I have a little dilemma.

More on that next time.

A Possible Realization, Thanks to an Old Adversary

Something happened just a few days ago that made me rethink my attitude to my own fallibility. Kirk, a friend of mine from Private School, now plays with a new band called Audio Crime. We got in touch through a Facebook group called Denver's Rock Bands of the 80's, a group dedicated to posting embarrassing pictures of all of us lucky enough to be in the Denver scene back in the day.

Kirk, being of a mind to record an eventual album at Fun House Studios, PME's in-house recording complex, invited us out to a club he was playing over 4th of July weekend. The club, called Eck's, is a mainstay of the South Denver music scene, and walking in, it's not hard to see why. It's an enormous, sprawling club, with a section dedicated just to hearing the band. If you don't want to hear the band, just hoof it over to another section, and you won't be bothered. There are at least a dozen pool tables sequestered in various locations, four foosball tables (I had no idea they still existed), and a dining area, which also implies a kitchen.

About three seconds after the soundman started to announce the band, I knew exactly who it was, even though I hadn't heard the voice in almost twenty years. When I left The Method, Blake was the drummer, and the leaving went less than cordially. Details will come at another time, but it's sufficient to say that Blake and I have not remained friends, not remained in contact, and probably wouldn't have crossed the street to relieve ourselves on the other one if they were on fire.

I had heard from other sources that Blake continued to run sound in clubs, and in that I revelled. Clubs were supposed to be a stepping stone to other levels of the music biz, and nothing more. I played as little as possible in clubs after the Denver scene collapsed, mostly because I felt as though it would be yet more irrefutable proof that I had failed. That I had not used the clubs effectively in the next step, which was to not have to play the clubs.

I watched Blake interact with people that obviously knew him, and one thing really struck me. He was happy. He expressed recognition towards the people who came up to him. He was friendly and engaging when someone interrupted him, which was something I always hated when I was running sound. I was working, after all. I didn't come in and tap on their shoulder at Allstate - I was trying to concentrate on a job that I took very seriously. Every band I worked with expected me to take it seriously, or at least that's what I always thought. Sure, I let people talk to me, and I responded as best I could, trying to smile. For me, running sound or playing wasn't about the social aspect. It was about the music, and trying to do it the best I possib ly could, no matter what the circumstance. So ultimately, I wanted them to let me do my job. I didn't appreciate their interruption. But Blake not only didn't mind, it seemed as though he actually enjoyed the interaction.

So now I'm not so sure about my assessment of the various arms of the industry. Perhaps there was a whole arm, in the bars, that was actually a part of the industry, not just a stepping stone. Not a place to be reviled, rather a place to be embraced. These people are extremely lucky, not only to have jobs, but also to have jobs doing something they love, something that allows them to interact with their social strata freely and easily, instead of having to contact one another via Facebook, trying to squeak a couple of minutes out of their day to spirit phone calls to people outside their workplace. And not only does their employer not frown upon this interaction, they actually encourage it. It turns out that perhaps the social part of the job is what keeps the whole scene glued together.

So had I been wrong?

Introductions All Around

The world was filled with promise on a hot, sunny day in September of 1981. I had just graduated from High School, and had enrolled in the University of Colorado under a full academic scholarship. Other schools had been interested in me, most notably Harvard, but I would have none of that. Harvard didn't even have a music school! CU, on the other hand, had one of the two or three most prestigious recording schools in the country. Since I had grown up in Evergreen, less than an hour from the CU Denver campus, it seemed an obvious choice.

CU didn't have on-campus housing, so during the Summer I had looked around for a house to rent. I found a beautiful little place, tucked away in the trees just off of Wadsworth Boulevard, right next to Crown Hill Cemetery.

By an odd coincidence, a good friend of mine who had killed himself in High School was buried there. I had attended his memorial, but couldn't bring myself to attend the burial. Thus, I didn't know where he was buried until some time after I moved into the house on Wadsworth.

In between moving my gear into the house and getting to know my new roommate, I was on the phone constantly with my best friend John. A bass player I had been in a couple of bands with already, he was a year younger, so he was just beginning his senior year of High School. Somehow, he had gotten wind of a local band that needed a bass player, and he needed me to drive him to one of their gigs. John had a driver's license. What he lacked was a car.

"So tell me about the band," I asked. Of course I wanted John to get a gig, but the bottom line was that I was more interested in getting one myself.

Knowing immediately my motive in discovering more about "his" opportunity, he responded with "Well, they're called Strider, and they don't have a keyboard player."

The casual observer would think that was a door-closer, but I couldn't help but think that they must really need a keyboard player. How could you possibly have a band in the new decade without one? I was perfect for the job - no one to compare to, I had only to prove myself.

"What's the name mean?"

"It's a character from Lord of the Rings. They're playing Saturday at Loretto Heights, you wanna go?" The translation of course was "You wanna take me?"

"Sure, let's do it," I responded faux-enthusiastically.

Loretto Heights is a small college that was having a meet-and-greet for the new students, with a metal band called Strider playing the main stage. The main stage consisted of a couple of choir risers stacked on top of each other on the main lawn with no lighting and no canopy, during an afternoon that seemed unusually warm for September in Colorado.

These guys were the real deal to me. All of them had long hair, they had real guitars, real Marshall amps, a soundman, and to a college puke who had never been in a band that played Blue Oyster Cult, they were awesome. They were loud, they knew the tunes much better than the bands I had been in, and most importantly, they had the rock 'n roll attitude. I was speechless as I listened to them pound through AC/DC, April Wine, UFO, Tommy Bolan, and many others I didn't even recognize.

Holy Hell! There was so much power in what they were doing! Not just volume (though there was definitely that), but a palpable force of nature that was being channeled through them. I felt energized listening to them, like something was being unleashed within me. Something that had been waiting for years to get out, and only made itself known when I was listening to music as loud as I could stand it through headphones. I felt like I could listen for hours, but when they finally went on break, I did notice that my ears were starting to ring. I didn't care. I was all about the ringing.

"Hey, I'm Michael." came a friendly, forceful voice, directed at John. "Did I talk to you on the phone?" He shook John's hand with the biggest forearm I had ever seen in real life. It was much larger than it should have been for the rest of his body. I would learn later that he had been a professional arm wrestler sometime in the past.

"Yeah, I'm John. This is Craig, he drove me here."

Michael glossed over the ridiculousness of the statement by asking us what we thought of the band. We practically fell over ourselves inside, but we didn't want to appear too fawning or anxious, so we just said "You guys sound great!" In unison. Idiots.

This was my destiny. I could FEEL it! Nothing could stop me from forcing myself upon the Strider organization, and bringing their sound to a whole new level with my talent and attitude. I was on my way, finally, after five years of practicing, hoping, dreaming. I was about to make it!

"All right! Thanks for coming out. Well, this is our last gig. We're breaking up."

New Website Up and Running

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the www.craigpatterson.com website is up and running. Whee!

The main purpose is to try to bring together the many disparate projects I've always got going on. Remnants of them are in various locations around the Web, but it always seems haphazard. craigpatterson.com will be a central point that can be referred to at any given time, to see what's happening in my current world.

For quite some time, the only endeavor I had on the Web was the record label, PME Records. It could, and can, be found at www.pmerecords.com. At one point there was a MySpace page also devoted to the label, but MySpace had become such a digital ghetto by the middle of 2009 that it no longer seemed worthwhile.

The projects fall into several categories: Images, films, music, video, and this blog. Within those categories are several subcategories. The music projects, for example, are composed of the label, my own recordings, and licenseable music from Easter Island. All of those are accessible from the main page of craigpatterson.com.

The same is true of the films, which are in various stages of pre and post production. Descriptions of the three films I and my team are working on are reachable from the main page, so I won't go into them here.

Video clips are licenseable from a British company called Pond5, and the entire range is just a click away from the main page. There are other clips as well, posted on YouTube. These other clips include clips that won't be available on Pond5 (because they're being saved for a longer film). Trailers and interviews will be uploaded as they become available.

Images are also licenseable, from a separate company called Alamy. You can also license directly from the main page at craigpatterson.com, though the functionality to fully monetize that portion has not yet been delivered by our developer. He's not that easy to work with, and he has other projects that often take up his time, so sometimes he gets cranky when asked to rewrite the web page. As if you hadn't guessed, I'm the developer.

The most current image project, which will take years to fully develop, is timelapse night shots of various geological formations around the United States. These timelapses will then be put into video clips, showing the movement of the night sky in relation to the formations. Ultimately, they'll be put into a short film, and released to festivals, and also be available for sale. But the nature of the type of filming makes the process very time-consuming, and each clip can take weeks to prepare. So while each clip will be on YouTube as it's completed, the final result won't be available for quite some time.

The final piece of the puzzle, this blog, is a little harder to pin down. It may eventually become a memoir of my time in the music industry, or it may become a collection of short stories. Or perhaps a cookbook. There's really no way of knowing, until it's been around for much longer than it has.

It seems like I've spent a fair amount of space just describing the things that are up there, and yet there's so much more to each that I could go on and on. So why do all this?

I dunno. I guess I have to. I can't *not* do it. Don't be afraid to write, either via email or facebook, and let me know your thoughts on the site.

My Indoctrination To the Road

It was an exciting day, filled with promise. It was the first road trip for Stacey Blade, a metal band in the 80's, that had come from the ruins of another band called Strider. There had been more rehearsals than Lars Uhlrich would need for a Fanny Bryce revival, and we were finally ready to rock. For anyone, anywhere. A ramshackle basement-level club called The Operating Room would be our first out-of-towner. The guys who had been in Strider were familiar with the room, so they brought along bodyguards for the band, but the rest of us were mentally unprepared.

The O.R., as it was called, actually was a pretty happening place, at least for Laramie Wyoming. One thing people in Wyoming know how to do is drink. In the 80's Wyoming was just coming down from the twin booms of oil and coal exploration. There was still plenty of both, and plenty of jobs, but the huge money that was there in the 70's was starting to leave, and people could feel that the boom was starting to subside. That feeling, along with the typical party atmosphere of roughnecks, made for nightclub action that was not to be outdone. The murals at Pompeii seemed like the musings of a rank amateur next to the bars in Wyoming.

I was a mere lad of eighteen, hailing from small-town USA, and excited at the prospect of becoming a rock star. I was on my way, finally going out on the concert trail to meet the people I'd always heard about. But why did we need bodyguards?

The answer came the very first night, as a small fight broke out on the dance floor during the second set. By "small," I mean eight or ten people, lots of yelling, bottles flying, and blood spatters on various people, as well as on the floor. The club's bouncers eventually broke it all up and threw a ton of people out. Who started it? One of our bodyguards. His version was different, and was bolstered by the fact that his face and body were far bloodier than anyone else's. Nonetheless, he wasn't allowed back in. Ever. So he left the next morning for Denver, and we didn't see him until our next in-town gig.

After the melee and the next pretend-like-nothing-happened set were over, we repaired to the band house to revel in our new-found glory. In that period, it was commonplace for bands to travel constantly, and motel costs could add up fast. Add to that the club's realization that they never really knew where the bands were, and the logical conclusion was to rent a single house for all the bands to stay in. Some weren't all that bad. But the pairing of the club owner being a cheapskate, and most bands' penchant for destruction, meant that most bandhouses weren't places you'd want to spend more than ten minutes running through. Picture a junkyard of mobile homes, with a wall or two of each torn down, wet insulation exposed, kitchen fixtures torn out, and few, if any, working light bulbs. Now take two of those trailers and bolt them together. Voila. Band house.

Like the club, the O.R. band house was underground, and God help whomever it was that lived upstairs. It may have even been abandoned. We never bothered to find out. There was a multitude of bedrooms in this particular example, along with a very large common room that the uninitiated may have called a Living Room. Our singer, Ronald, had found some lovely young nymph who seemed very interested in him, and brought her back with us for some socialization. Ah, we must have talked for hours. Actually, we did. One by one, each of the band members would retire from the Living Room to their respective bedrooms, saying goodnight, or not, per their own preference. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, it was just me, Ronald, and the nymph. Her name was Eve, and yes, that's her real name.

I'm not very good with names, and even after knowing someone for a year or more, I may not remember their actual name. It's nothing personal - I just have some kind of block in that portion of my brain. Someone can tell me their name, and literally one second later, I don't recall what name they gave. But I remember Eve.

That length of time that seemed like a lifetime to me, must have seemed even longer to Ronald, as well as to certain other band members. For it turns out that, even though there were many bedrooms, there weren't quite enough for all of us - six band members and two crew. (The bodyguards were wisely staying in a motel.) While I, in my small-town naivete, was socializing with our guest, the reality that escaped me was that I was in Ronald's bedroom, and he and Eve would certainly like to be using it as such. I should leave. But why would I do that? She's a guest - it's rude to go to bed while guests are still there, and after all, she may need some assistance getting back home. With everyone else in bed, and our singer not having a driver's license, I figured I would be needed. At some point.

Some conversation and laughter could be heard from one of the bedrooms, where our soundman, Brian, had drawn a couple of other members to confer. They called me in. Initially I refused. How rude that would be, to leave our guest! Why couldn't they come out to the Living Room? Desipte my protestations, they eventually convinced me to leave the Living Room, even if only for a moment.

They then explained to me, between their fits of apparently uncontrollable laughter, what was really going on. It actually took me quite a while to be convinced that I was in the wrong - probably fifteen or twenty minutes. They had never seen such a Gomer, and they let me know it. Even though I was trying to decide whether to be humiliated for me, for Eve, or furious at their lack of cooth, it was hard to be mad at a bunch of guys who are literally rolling on the floor trying to catch their breath.

Once I finally came out of the bedroom, it was instantly obvious that our doors were much thinner than we had assumed. Eve was in tears, and was definitely, absolutely, completely ready to leave. I think perhaps what sealed the deal, or anti-deal, as it were, was the fact that Ronald had come into the bedroom and was laughing with everyone else. I rather doubt that Eve took kindly to that.

I consider myself fortunate that the the next day he told me he wasn't upset with me at all, and that he'd just find someone else. It was simply no big deal. That was a great relief to me. I didn't want to rock the boat in a band of seasoned professionals that I had just joined, and I thought it was very big of him to be so understanding. Thank you Ronald, wherever you may be. I didn't understand, and I was wrong.

Ronald was the one who was to drive her home, even though no one trusted him with The Blademobile. I guess it was his duty - he had failed to make his bed, and now he had to not lie in it. So in a very uncomfortable conclusion to to an evening of hilarity for everyone else, Eve said some quick, stilted goodbyes. She looked more at the floor than any of us, then turned and walked out the door into the unforgiving, humiliating night.

But that was not to be my last encounter with Eve.

I Had a Dream About You Last Night

You and I had been traveling, to our very important destination. We were to reach it together, after a long and difficult journey.

We had stopped for a while at a roadside cafe, when you decided that something was going wrong between us. I did not know what it was, but you had your mind made up.

We parted company.

After beginning my journey again, this time alone, I could see you at various points along the way, always trying to avoid my gaze, even though I wasn't trying to get you to look at me. On second thought, perhaps I was. Perhaps I wanted you to see that, while I was doing fine without you, I still wanted to have you by my side for the lengthy excursion.

You continued along, on almost the same path as me, all the while trying to show me me that I was not necessary. No need to worry - I knew that all along. The difference is all in the interpretation. If you had thought I was necessary, I would be. That's the only way it could happen.

Finally I stopped at a bar, and ordered a shot of something or other. I sat for a bit after drinking it, staring at the glass, turning it over and around, and finally setting it down gingerly. I asked the bartender how much I owed him.

"Usually those go for six bucks," he said, meandering his way around wiping a dirty glass. "But for you, it's on the house."

"Why is that?" I said, knowing that he knew the answer.

"You know."

We exchanged a knowing look, and I got up to leave. I knew where I was going, and nothing could stop me.

As I walked, I could see you a short distance behind me, though I never looked back. Dreams are like that, you know. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to stop, or were too proud to want that, but in either event, I walked on, eventually reaching some wide spot in the road, where I pulled over. Because dreams are like that, too. You can be walking somewhere, but end up getting there in a car.

I stopped, wondering if you could see me.

I hoped you could.

I wonder if you ever made it to your destination without me.

Cut Short

Though it takes a great deal of effort, time, and knowledge to build things up, it takes much less time to pull it all down. While we were taking pictures in Death Valley, someone was breaking into the studio at PME Records. They made off with a fair amount, but the point is that we had to cut our trip short, come back home, and start to fill out forms, call repairmen, and restructure the studio's security from the ground up. We could have been spending this time doing something truly constructive, or creative. Instead, we were forced to begin rebuilding something that it took someone else only minutes to destroy.

Looking back in Human history, the same can be said of virtually any accomplishment. Every creation, building, city, or vision takes either the entire heart and soul of someone, or the combined works of many, sometimes millions. Yet they only take one person (or a few), working for a very short time, to tear down.

Of course this is all very obvious, and everyone's considered it before. But with all that consideration, what they haven't been able to do is change the focus of those individuals toward something that can be more constructive. Man has tried to do this for millennia, to no avail. Whenever we manage to change a few minds, more spring up to fill that void. Is there a solution, or is it part of human nature, particularly in youth, to destroy? I believe it's part of human nature, and any effort to change the destructive tendencies of certain segments of society is doomed to failure. There is no hope of redemption. All we can do is continue to rebuild, and hope for the best. I guess that's in our nature as well. And that portion of our being is just as futile.

A Quick Trip to Ubehebe

So with the music industry a mess, it's time to try and branch out. This week, it's time for some nighttime timelapse in Death Valley. We went to Ubehebe Crater, only to find it closed. Actually, we knew it had been closed for several months, because of roadwork. The weather hadn't been cooperating, so the roadwork was taking much longer than scheduled. A Park Ranger had told us that the road would be re-opened in the middle of May, because even if the work wasn't done, the weather would then be too hot for roadwork. It turned out he was wrong on one of those accounts.

When we went down the road, past the Closed signs, there wasn't a car in sight the entire time. I took this to be a good thing, because the plan was to leave the gear out in the open overnight. So far, so good. The only issue was that the weather was again not cooperating. Clouds rolled in as we drove up, and they didn't leave until the following evening, even though they weren't forecast.

We took pics anyway, and though they're not great, they still deserve some postprocessing, to see if there's anything useful. Here's an important safety note: When traversing up and down craters, be sure to do your own research regarding the best trail. I had assumed that the most reasonable trail was the one directly from the parking lot, but that was not the case. Taking a different route the next morning proved to take about a third the time, and did not result in multiple strokes. Getting down the first way took 7 minutes, going up took 50. The next day, down took 10 minutes, up took 20.

Time to Write

No, I don't mean time for ME to write. I mean time for artists to write.

I frequent a news aggregation website called Fark.com, mostly for the thoughtful yet sarcastic wit of its users, but also for the insight they more than occasionally give. A few days ago, there was a discussion of Bob Seger's "Turn the Page," which was alternately lauded and lambasted for various reasons. One Fark user's comment in particular caught my eye. Thelyphthoric said "My favorite song by any artist is always the one where they say how hard it is to write a song. Second favorite is when they talk about how tough it is being out on the road singing that song."

It was meant sarcastically, for those who aren't familiar with the mentality of Fark. At first I thought it was mildly funny, but upon further reflection, I realize the comment is endemic to the way we've been treating our artists over the last twenty years or so.

When Pop music first appeared, the lyrics were about the most banal subjects imagineable, like ice cream flavors, fast cars, unattainable women, or thickly veiled references to sex. A scant decade later, artists came to realize that music was the way to bare their soul, show their politics, reveal their innermost drug-fueled thoughts, or display a despair not heard in pop music previously. The sixties brought us incredible music - no one can deny that. But what was it that made that music incredible? It wasn't necessarily that we agreed with the sentiments, it was that we knew the artists were for real. We knew they were giving us everything they had.

At some point later on, we started to back away from sharing those intimacies with artists, culminating in the vilification of The Dixie Chicks for stating their views on politics. Their mistake was in thinking that people still cared about hearing such things from artists, whether they agreed with them or not. By the time Natalie Maines made her famous comment about President Bush, the public had already decided that an artist's viewpoint meant nothing. We didn't want to hear about oil spills, situations overseas, or subtleties on a woman's battle with an abortion. Artists were now only allowed to say which colors were most patriotic, or how Jesus was helping them drive.

But it goes deeper than that. Their opinion means less than nothing. We're great with reading about our friends' opinions about Muslims on Facebook, but any attempt by an artist to make a social comment is something to be reviled. We don't want to hear about an artist's life, either. We don't allow them to write about things they know, or things they don't know. We only want them to write about the most banal subjects, like dancing, or being seen at a club. Ironically, we also vilify those same artists for being sellouts, or shallow. Or banal.

It has to be up to artists to write about things they have experienced, things they believe, and things they want to see us become. Not just about love. Sure, love is the strongest emotion we have. But it's not the only one. And if being in love defines who you are for your entire life, then you have a big problem. A problem that needs a solution. Music can be that solution, just as it's a help for every other emotion under the Sun. Music, at its best, can help you through every emotion, every hurdle, every thought you will ever have. And as great as 60's, 70's, and 80's music is, it's a shame that so many people of all ages have to go back to those decades to find music that speaks to them. Artists and labels are doing them a disservice in causing that to happen, but they're only doing that disservice because of what people are telling them they want.

So artists, take this opportunity to write about something you believe. It doesn't matter whether it's Democratic, Conservative, radical, or otherwise. Take a chance. If it's a decent song and well-written, people will get behind it, and behind you. You, as an Artist, must help us get out of this malaise of pablum that is helping choke the artistry out of popular music.

What about singers that don't write? Well, if you're an incredible singer, sing songs that others have written, that mirror things you feel are important. But what if you're not an incredible singer? Then you'd better start writing. If you think your pretty face will get you through life, you may be right. But you'll be an empty shell nonetheless.

For the record, Bob Seger wasn't rich or successful when he wrote Turn the Page. he was poor, on the road constantly with little or no hope of financial reward, and that job, just as with everyone else who was on the road in the 70's, was 24/7/365, with no trips home. All he had was a dream. My longest road trip was 18 months, so I can directly relate to the struggle contained in Turn the Page, and I know plenty of other musicians who can also. For those who aren't musicians, I'm sure there's a portion of that struggle that they have experienced in their own life, and can share with Bob. That's really part of the point of Art - you don't have to be inside that person's skin to be able to relate to the emotions they're singing about. The wonderful connection comes when you can derive your own understanding of the song through a shared emotion, regardless of the literal experience.

The Realization

"Certainly no one starts out believing they'll fail in The Music Business..."

That's the first line of a book I started writing about ten years ago, entitled "How to Justify Your Failure in the Music Business." Everything seemed so clear then, so predetermined... that I would try for my entire life to do something, and fail miserably at it. And yet, it now seems so predetermined that that was actually the precursor to my success! Odder still is that I've reached the exact same point again.

When writing that opening, I had given up on my friends and contacts in the business. They had moved on, mostly to insurance sales and construction jobs, and I was left with just my wits, and a trunk full of songs that no one wanted to record, and talent no one wanted to pay for. Had that been enough of a recipe for success, or even self-aggrandization, I would have been thrilled. But when you see successful people on TV and in the media, the one factor that has the most to do with their success is the one they won't tell you. It's because they haven't realized it themselves, and that's why they're so confident in their zeal to tell you how to become successful. They hawk their products on shows CNN gave them, on infomercials and seminars, look proud and in control as the paparazzi snap the next all-important pic of them, all with the hubris to tell you they know what it takes. And you don't. They're wrong. You do. The problem is not that you don't have what it takes, the problem is that you, just like me, have not been able to take advantage of one single factor.

But what is that one factor leading to their success?

It's luck. That's all. You've heard that all it takes is a great idea and a nonstop work ethic, but that's not true. Sure, that's required, but it's not the key. Working long, working smart, thinking positively, writing down seven steps, getting a business plan, hiring people you trust, doing it all yourself, having everyone else do it all.... all of that is necessary to get you to your goal. But NONE of it is what will actually get you there.

Do not despair.

Let's see what we can do together.