How It All Began - 2

I've always paid a lot of attention to music, and the way it is delivered. That's just the way I've always listened. I could always appreciate the build of a song. I could always appreciate texture. And irony has always sparked something magical in me, as well. But I didn't have names for all these things. I would simply note the way a song began softly, like a flower opening...yet how it might end furiously, like rage and storm. I would pay attention to what made the song feel this way. What instruments started when, and what the effect of them was.

Accounting for one's influences can be a tricky thing. I am sure I am not aware of all my influences, for there can be so many in a day. But what bands do I remember really making an impact upon me?

The Beatles were undeniable mentors to me. I remember their spooky storytelling, visual scenarios, beautiful and varied vocals, instruments, and myriad sounds since I was eight years old and had my first album, Rubber Soul. Their depth and musical freedom, to me, is the difference between great musical work, and a ditty that you crank in the car. The Beatles showed me how music could be: a whole world, not just a product. A creation that wanders and grows as it will, not in any predicatable fashion. In a practical sense, I would definitely say my attraction toward disconnected elements or widely-varying sections within one song, and layered sound and samples was fed by both The Beatles, Pink Floyd's The Wall, as well as much of the hip-hop I found later on. Most importantly, or perhaps succinctly, I would say the Beatles have been both a good teacher in anti-genre, as well as a continued reinforcement for it.

Pink Floyd. I first met Pink Floyd at 10 years old. It was 1979, and I will never forget hearing The Wall get lots of airplay on the radio. Do I really need to go into how this album might affect a ten year-old already disenchanted with family and school? Aside from the content and delivery, I instantly fell in love with their concept and arrangement and they were favorites for many, many years. Needless to say, Pink Floyd only reinforced my love for the song-that-is-a-world-unto-itself.

Led Zeppelin was a study a little bit later in life. I started getting into them during my teen years. I have slanted heavily toward blues in a few ways, and this was one. I did not know I was hearing "blues," though. I also had no idea what made "blues" Blues. But I was entranced with the way they could weave so many moods together. How one minute they were pumping out a powerful blues song, and the next, they were at a hoedown, or an ancient battle. How Stairway had so many parts. Textures, voices. And lest I forget, Plant's voice blew me away. But you cannot emulate power or range. You can only develop your own potential. I just appreciated that angle of their music, as well.

I was around Bob Marley's music early on, from six until sixteen, and I mean heavy exposure. Unfortunately, between, perhaps, 10 and 17, I could not appreciate Mister Marley, as I made a rather unfortunate association with the music and another person, but I worked that out in myself. (Note: I prefer not to throw away songs for people. I have always managed to love songs back into my own domain, and my bond with music is stronger than any association my mind has ever made with another person, so far). He had a profound effect on me. Bob taught me about the funk of it all. About the groove. He laughed and wailed about what was important in the let go of it. Bob would throw out syllables, in his ecstasy, and it didn't matter they made no "sense." Because they did make sense. And that's what Bob taught me, or rather, what he reinforced in my soul. The unh of making music. That's what it's all about.

Also, I saw that the powerful manifestos and proclamations of a spirit need not be unwound in a lengthy, near-spoken diatribe, as Folk might choose to shape it. You can deliver your truth with spice, and make people dance to it. (I did not start to integrate this understanding into my music for a few years, yet, as this takes more practical skill, stronger hands, sure fingers, and muscle memory). I always loved the way Bob Marley could take a song like Concrete Jungle, play it in a minor key, and yet have it sound so joyful. This is the love he had and infused into his music. On a practical level, the reggae beat has never left my bloodstream. I don't make reggae (just as I don't really make any music directly emulating my influences), but there are many salutes to the off-beat in my music; to the and between the "1 and 2 and -- " And I would like to think I carry his vision of musical joy and freedom of expression with me.

After being inducted into the world with 70s rock, and then meeting 80s radio -- and we know what that means -- I had given up on rock music for a long time. In the meanwhile, I had embraced the hip-hop and black radio that I could find. I loved Prince, Earth, Wind and Fire, Herbie Hancock, Michael Jackson, Donna Summer, Lionel Richie, UTFO, RUN D.M.C, Fat Boys, Sugar Hill Gang, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, and countless others I can't even recall. I loved the bold, tuff rhymes of hip-hop, I loved the cocky, dancy beats, and the inflated personas that this genre was allowed. Here were entertainers who understood the theater of it all. And this appreciation followed into the 90s, when NWA, Cypress Hill, and all the rest blew up.

But when Guns 'n Roses released Appetite For Destruction, and were soon followed by Nirvana, Alice in Chains, and Nine Inch Nails, I began listening to "rock," again. Nirvana I found especially beautiful. As I did Nine Inch Nails. And I will play these right alongside Joni Mitchell. I need both sweet breezes and violent storms in my listening selection.

Of course, by this time I was already playing my own music, and had plenty of ideas myself. I would like to think that while I can appreciate many things and attempt my version of them, I never actually try to imitate anyone. Even if I tried, I probably couldn't do too good a job at that. A stronger impact was made up on me by the Smiths, and Morissey, actually, than was by grunge.

The Smiths showed me how well irony could be used. I was ecstatic, to hear this sweet-voiced boy singing these bitter, depressed, self-loathing things. I felt such earnestness and power and pain in Morissey's music. And I was delighted at how terribly bouncy the lad could make it! And again, I was drawn to this voice of truth, this confessional, confrontational bare, personal voice. The Smiths -- and Morissey -- validated my use of irony; the way in which I could continue to deliver my strong feelings and moods of sadness or rage which otherwise would have o'ertoppled my songs into such a morose or morbid states that they might be dirges.

Other than these masters of their genres, I didn't let much in. And for all intents and purposes, I stopped listening to a lot of new music when I began playing, writing and singing on my own. I generally like to keep the space clear for myself. This is why I have no playlist on my computer, and often have not heard of the new bands until last. I don't mind this. I don't want to be too "plugged into the scene." It takes energy I'd rather spend elsewhere. And hanging back allows me to avoid getting too polluted. After all, I don't mind so much if Marley, or Cobain, or Lennon, or Cohen is coloring my sensiblities because I am playing them all the time. But I refuse to let Enrique Iglesias worm his way into my work.

That being said, it must also, concurrently, be considered that I will be influenced by many things in a day.

I will often hear a song one time, and be inspired to introduce a new idea which may forever change my music. I often am inspired by all manner of things. And I do want to remain this open. Everything from distant screams to musical giggles and offhand remarks are enough to inspire me. As are radio jingles, or a sob that lasts 12 seconds. Neil Young showed me how much emotion you can rip out of one damn note. Gilmour made the guitar speak, in The Wall, and some of the things it said rivaled the song lyric.

When it comes to singers, ultimately, I have been impressed by those with a range of texture. I truly love McCartney's voice for its purity and tonality, but he can't get all that much of an edge on it. Or guts. Or something. He got in the closet and screamed for Helter Skelter, I've read, but still, it probably could've been better sung by Lennon, who could sing soft and beautifully, as in Julia, but who could also tear away the surface, like in Cold Turkey, or a number of others. Joan Baez had a beautiful voice, but I would personally lean toward Joni Mitchell's, for the sole reason that she will at least throw in an odd note, a jazzy flat, a sudden low-swooping dissonant cap. But "better," in my estimation, than both of their voices, is the voice of Sinead O'Connor. She can croon and lilt, but she can also get mean and thick with anger. She seems less interested in technical perfection, and more adept at truly channeling her passion vocally. That's what gets me. I can appreciate the chameleon in her voicebox. The texture. The ability to shed one's silks at a moment's notice, and curl the hands into hooks. Many singers can do this, and it is more about passion and emotion, I think, than anything else. And that is definitely what captures me in any kind of music—moreso than technique.

There are probably endless vocals that I have listened to with a discerning and attentive ear, but I feel less influenced in this area. The biggest influence has been my ambition to do it well. I have simply listened to my own voice from the first day, felt it -- in my ears, my chest, and my head -- and have tried to attune it to the melodies I hear in my mind, and feel in my heart. I always try to attune myself, I always try to open myself to the best I can do, and I do consciously work on improving and stretching my own boundaries. Other people and other voices don't have much to do with that process. If anything, I've just listened more attentively to areas I wanted to grow in. And most of that had to do with variation, again. The right juxtaposition of notes introduces melody and variety. The right juxtaposition of this melody with the proper timing, phrasing structure, volume variation and vocal texture, make up the ability to vocally communicate selectively and efficiently. And the more you hone all of these intuitions/abilities, the more masterful you are as a communicator, as a vessel through which that glorious godhead of musical expression can flow. And that is my goal, for that is my joy.

It is very rewarding to me, the many positive things that have been told to me about my voice. It has taken years of work, and I feel very rewarded for it. The voice is a special thing; it is very personal. When someone criticizes your wardrobe, that can hurt, as it is. But when someone praises your voice, and what it does to them, well -- I can't think of something more satisfying to hear.

And it all makes sense, of course. The main reason I wouldn't and couldn't sing for so long -- and the reason when I did, it was tight and pinched -- is all due to my psychic and emotional state. For the singing voice is the bright shadow of the soul. And for years, I was stifled, scared, and locked up. Only as I grew older and bolder and safer have I allowed myself to bloom, to speak out and up and offer my heart and mind truly. And thus, I sing.