Last night I went to a show. This is Nashville, mind you, so there were probably 50 or so other live music events happening in the greater metro area. This show took place at one of Nashville’s bigger local music venues and it was packed. I don’t remember the last time I saw that big a room so full— on a Monday of all days. As the night progressed, it became oh so clear to me that I have become what I thought I never would: I am a Nashville music prick.

I remember when I first got to town, when I knew nobody and nothing about nothing. I can recall the feeling of being genuinely wowed by all the talent everywhere. There was a time when I was excited about what new show I could see and there was a time when I was excited about my part in all of it. It seems like a long time ago. Though those times are not completely gone, I have changed. It was undeniable last night.

First, I could not stop hearing about the show. For all the great advantages of social media websites, Nashville musicians like me get flooded constantly. Everyone hear is an artist it seems and everyone promotes his shows… a lot. I do my best to keep up with my Facebook event invites and Twitter feed, but there are times I want to kill the person who has sent me 8 invites to the same show I can’t make anyway. Still, I put a considerable effort towards keeping up with what’s going on in town and following some of my favorite acts. Though no one I really know was playing last night, I thought it would be fun.

The very instant I made it in the door, I ran into 6 (not hyperbole) people I know. I should mention that I know these people and they are at least aware I exist (no word on how many remember my name). The up front barrage of “hellos” over the band, already playing, pretty much negated any meaningful conversation. So I felt like one of those guys I hate, who seem like they always have someone more important with whom to talk. I call those type of guys, “Scene-sters,” and I spent much of the next 20 or so minutes talking with a friend about how much I don’t fit in with scene-sters.

Scene-sters are like the cool kids in high school. They have all the friends, get invited to all the parties, and they inspire all others to despise them (in what is some weird mix of paranoia and petty jealousy). The scene-sters are either the much-celebrated “Best Acts in Nashville” or are somehow connected to them through the industry. It’s is the same group of people that the local press/ booking agents have loved since I moved here and it doesn’t seem likely to change. I am not a cool kid: not now and not in high school. But at least a few scene-sters are aware that I exist—so to the untrained eye, I might appear to be one of them.

Then I spent most of the rest of the time watching the bands (which is actually not very Nashville music prick of me) and picking apart each aspect of performance (which is). Where years ago, I would have been blown away by the talent on stage, last night I was simply not disgusted by it. The bands playing were really talented, but I have become so spoiled by this town that if it doesn’t absolutely blow me away (hard to do at this point), it goes in the “just ok” pile. Even I think I have become stuck-up about it. Still, I found myself joking with a friend about how this group, who is supposed to be one the best acts in Nashville, didn’t seem to know how to plug in its own instruments. Which is kind of sad, but it begs the question: who the fuck do I think I am? Exactly what have I done that makes me so special? The more I think about it, the more I think the answers are nobody and nothing, respectively.

So to review, last night I:
• Showed up late to a free concert
• Said no more than pleasantries to a few people and moved on
• Talked about people I barely know disparagingly, just because I don’t feel as cool as I perceive them to be
• Watched a show while constantly thinking about what I’d do differently
• Talked with people about my new record
• Said hello to some definite scene-sters
• Was introduced to a few new people, while feeling confident I would not remember them if I ever saw them again (despite my best efforts to the contrary)
• Left feeling like I could be one of those cool acts one day

It's hard to admit, but I have become a Nashville music prick. There may be hope for me yet, however. I think the first step to not being that guy is acknowledging that I may already be him. I face today with a renewed sense that I don’t have to be what I described above. Sure, I can’t go back to new-to-Nashville Max, but I don’t think I have to be the other extreme. I don’t have to be a scene-ster and I don’t have to be so judgmental of scene-sters. In fact, I don’t really have to be anything. I figure the more I keep in mind who I have become and who I want to become, the better off I’ll be. That may just be the Nashville music prick talking, though.

Did I mention that I am an artist, myself?

The holidays are a funny time. I wish I meant more of a “ha ha” funny. It seems to me that this time of good cheer often makes its description bitterly ironic. Most people seem to be the opposite of good cheer during this time of year. I do not mean to be a Scrooge or anything, but I can think of only a handful of people who actually get happy during the most wonderful time of the year—and most of them are under the age of 6 (and one is my mother).

As a musician, the holidays are easy to dread because of the old, familiar sting of Christmas music. Short of being a priest or a Radio City Music Hall kicking lady, I can’t think of anyone who has it worse during the holidays than a musician—it’s the stale repetitiveness of it all. Classic Christmas tunes are classic for a reason—they are (almost without exception) well-crafted pieces of music. My problem: I don’t need to know them, but for a couple weeks each year. So every year around this time, I scramble to dust off the flux capacitor that stores these songs that all blend together anyway. If I mix them up, I get plenty of those “how can you not know this?” looks. It’s awesome.

The concept of making a Christmas album of the classics is no more than a transparent selling of an artist’s soul. I get it: professional musicians make their living by selling records, etc., but I hope I never put out an album that is purely for profit. **Soapbox Time** I want to make records that a part of a collective good though the exchange of ideas and acknowledgement of the commonality of the human experience. I don’t think another version “Jingle Bells” cuts it. I could be wrong on this one, though.

So when this time of year rolls around, I grin and bear it. I try to be of good cheer. I try not to ruin things with too much logical/cynical commentary. I suppress my murderous rage when the Holiday stuff gets to me.

One more animatronic, singing snowman may be too much…

It’s nothing short of a gloomy day in Nashville. The balmy 49-degree temperature and endlessly gray skies are all too usual for this time of year. In fact, I remarked to a friend the other day that we could expect the same scenery until April, or so. It reminds me of that old song: things are going great and they’re only getting better.

I’ve always liked the rain. I can recall praying for rain before many a youth soccer match because I loved the feel of wet cleats. I get a sense of great calm staring at rain out the window and I can think of no other sound I enjoy more that waking up to rain. I love the terror that comes with that moment of temporary blindness when the car next to me hits a big puddle. I like the squish of soft ground underneath my feet and the physical comedy of others struggling to open/close umbrellas. I am constantly amused by this weather’s ability to (misguidedly) inspire young men to grow beards.

Often, I feel all too alone in my love of crappy weather. My mother, for example, hates anything of than absolute sunshine. Come winter, she would be just as happy to hibernate as to face another gray day. She doesn’t exactly become the Wicked Witch of the West, but she’s not her usual ebullient self. My amateur psychological diagnosis: Seasonal Affective Disorder. S.A.D. is essentially a tangible change in mood/behavior caused by weather changes. There are times, I must admit, that I wonder if I have inverse S.A.D., or maybe I’m just weird. I could be a chicken and the egg thing…

A few years ago, I picked up a new nickname: Eeyore. For those who don’t remember, Eeyore was the sad donkey in the Winnie the Pooh stories. People who know me pretty well think it fits. Yet, I think of myself as a pretty happy person. Sure, I have my moments, but that’s being a human. The fact I’m so transparent about it, well that makes me a songwriter. If you do happen to catch me on the downswing, maybe it’s only because it’s sunny.

Overall, I think the weather is important. Sure, I could lament about our current society’s disconnect from the natural world, but then I would want to kick my own ass. I could preach the fire and brimstone of climate change, only to expose my ignorance and hypocrisy. I could cite plenty of psychological studies about S.A.D. and put even the biggest pysch nerds to sleep. But, I think I will continue on in my usual fashion: cloud over my head and humming to myself, “I’m only happy when it rains.”

I started going to play the open mic competition at Eddie’s Attic in Decatur, GA when I was in college. Back then, it was an excuse to get out of town and a chance to play at a renowned venue. I would swing by Eddie’s whenever I could and give them my best—only to leave empty-handed. Still, I tried to soak up as much as I could from the other writers and try to figure out where I went wrong.

These days, I’m out of college, but I still find a reason to head down to the Peach State, from time to time. I feel like I have improved my craft and my performance over the years, yet I would still come away with the same result. At times, I must admit, I lost faith; I thought to myself that one definition of insanity is to repeat the same action and expect different results. I wondered why I put for such considerable effort (in travel alone), just to be disappointed. And sure, Eddie always says, “just because you didn’t win doesn’t mean you suck,” but it was hard consolation to swallow on the 4-hour drive back home.

This year, I started working with some friends of mine (Sarah Irby and Abbi Roth) on a three-piece, acoustic incarnation of my project and I decided I should take them down to Eddie’s. Wouldn’t you know it? If you put two talented and beautiful ladies on either side of you, people tend to like your music better. We won the open mic competition on our first trip together. So that meant we were entered into the Shoutout—a tournament of champions if you will.

The Shootout was set for the Friday after Thanksgiving. It took a good deal of doing, but I made it from my parents’ Thanksgiving to Atlanta for the show. It did not go as well as I would have hoped…

The worst part about these kinds of shows is the “hurry up and wait.” We got to Atlanta around 4pm, local time, and didn’t play until after 8. So there was a good 4 hours of stewing/getting nervous and no place to really warm up. Then they walk you up to the stage and you’ve got one song to make an impression. It’s not the most ideal circumstances, but everybody has to deal with it. Oddly enough, Eddie’s the only place I ever get nervous playing—nowhere else, just there. I got up there, however, and did my thing the best I could. All 7 of the judges voted for the other person—it felt like I got the wind knocked out of me. I tried to be gracious in defeat and keep a stiff upper lip, but I have the sense I was not hiding anything well.

Most people I talked to about the experience (including Eddie, himself) were quick to point out that music competitions are a farce at best, anyway. Music is not meant to be judged in a single-elimination tournament. The Shootout is supposed to be a networking opportunity for the artists and a chance to talk shop on being songwriters. And it was; I met some really great people and I learned a lot, but I didn’t go there to learn. I went to win. Anything less than victory is defeat. In defeat, however, I’ll take a few things with me—one thing most:

I’m not too far away from being where I want to be with music. I’m not too untalented. I’m not too unmotivated. I’m not in the worst circumstances to make it happen. I am a big fan of double negatives.

I looked around at this room full of songwriters and I felt as though I belonged. Not only did I belong, but I should not think of myself as a little brother or special needs songwriter anymore. Sure, I didn’t win the Shootout, but I was a contender.

I’m feeling more and more like a contender everyday.

Put simply: I don’t get much done at home. My home, or apartment more aptly, is the black hole of productivity. In fact, I believe that I will never run out of stuff to do (other than the stuff I should be doing) while I’m at home—I vacuumed this morning. I suppose this why people with real jobs have offices. I have found that there is one refuge for the young urban creative types: the coffee shop.

At last check, there are 7 coffee shops within a 3-mile radius of my house. These are establishments dedicated solely to the sale of coffee and somehow there is enough demand to keep all of them open. It’s actually a little staggering. When I finally do make it out for coffee, I have access to hole-in-the-wall, local shops and mega-corporate, three-on-every-corner shops. I try not to discriminate—I feel equally at home away from home at both. I’ve found that if I pay attention, I can learn plenty about others and myself at coffee shops.

I’ve heard all the official-sounding people say that our society has become hyper-caffeinated and you need no more evidence for that claim than sitting at a coffee shop for a few hours. I don’t know if there is anything more amusing to me than watching caffeine-deprived people wait in line. Maybe it’s a little sadistic, but it’s the same thing I like about watching people in traffic. I guess it’s that I like watching the mask of civility we all wear slip just a little. What I like even more is to be overly kind/considerate to someone who is losing it. I sometimes fantasize about being a barista and giving the annoying people decaf…

It’s not all jerks going through withdrawal, though, there are so many types of people in coffee shops to observe. Just right now, I’m pretending not to stare a middle-aged man in a full Naval uniform who is sitting next to a mid-term paper sorority girl. They are across from the two women who have been talking bad about their friends and discussing boots for an hour. Behind the women is a young, bearded and bespectacled man who seems to be working on a screenplay, or it could be a blog about how stupid singer/songwriters are. Somehow, I get the feeling that I am not the only who is spending more time looking around the room than doing anything else.

Still, I have to say my favorite coffee shop archetype is the luxury SUV-driving, desperate housewife. You really only see them at the major chain shops. Ok, you really only see them at Starbucks. There is something about these women that amuses me endlessly. I like the concept of waiting in a long drive-thru line, instead of just walking into the nearly empty store. I like the incredible vocabulary that comes with ordering like one of these women (there must be some sort of 4-language training course they go through). Most of all, I like the gigantic thermos-like quantity of coffee that these women order. If I drank that much coffee at once, my head would explode.

Coffee shops have a unique way of making me feel social and isolated at the same time. I won’t really interact any of these people, but I feel encouraged by their presence. I doubt any of them know that I’m writing about them (or care for that matter), but they are tacitly egging me on. And sure there are probably places out there where I could be more productive—like any place where there isn’t a barista making tremendous amounts of noise—but I like working here.

Plus, there’s no way I’m going to take a break to vacuum…

Living in Nashville, TN, it’s pretty hard to stay woefully ignorant of Country music. We are ground zero for every cowboy hat-wearing, “where I come from”-singing, Boot, Scoot and Boogie-ing wanna be. Nashville is to musicians what L.A. is to actors—everyday more get off the bus with plans to make it big. Perhaps no one has made it bigger in Country over the last 10 years than Kenny Chesney.

I must admit that in my first few years here, I tried to avoid Country. I even prided myself on not being sucked in by Country. Then I realized that is stupid—it’s foolish to write off any type of music because every type of music has something to offer. Even Country music has some worthwhile artists and songs out there. One of the first artists I became familiar with was Kenny Chesney. It wasn’t so much because of his music, but more because he was hailed, at the time, as the next Garth Brooks. So, I thought he couldn’t be all bad…

A bit of background on Mr. Chesney (paraphrased and abridged for obvious reasons): he was born in Knoxville and kicked around East Tennessee until moving to Nashville. He signed his first record deal at 25, but he did not really break through until 1999 with his “Everywhere We Go” album (at age 31). Despite being a short man and bald as an eagle, he has since gone on to be one of the most successful artists on the planet, win just about every award Country music has to offer, and marry Renee Zellweger for four months. And Kenny Chesney can barely play guitar or sing.

That last sentence may sound like a cheap shot, but I don’t mean it to be rude. I actually kind of like that about Kenny—and here’s why: blinders. I bet he believes his a good singer and a decent guitar player. Of course any one with an ear for auto-tune or any one who watches him perform with the guitar that seems more like an ornament than an instrument (watch when he starts singing) can tell he is neither, but it doesn’t matter. That guy believes in what he does. He must feel like he sings from the heart and it connects with people. And he’s right.

My friend Tyler and I were discussing recently how we, as musicians, carry the burden of knowing who the really talented musicians are—and knowing we are not they. Because we are so focused on getting better at our craft, we are keenly aware of the heavy hitters. I’ll bet Kenny Chesney doesn’t think of it that way; he is free of those details. Tyler got the chance to meet Kenny and recalled just how funny it was to listen to Kenny talk about his music with gravitas. Kenny believes in what he does and it’s hard to argue with his success. No musicians respect him for his craft and he couldn’t care less. It’s a beautiful thing.

So there is this part of me that absolutely loves Kenny Chesney for his blinders. I want to be the artist free of worry about the quality of my product. I want to really believe that what I am doing is worthwhile, without any doubts to the contrary.

And sure, I don’t want to be a Country singer and I don’t have a much love for the sleeveless tee look and I think Renee Zellweger kind of looks like an alien, but I kind of want to be Kenny Chesney.

Perhaps it’s the generation from which they come or just the level of success in life they have achieved, but my parents always told me to love what I do. It was never “get a haircut and get a real job.” They actually encouraged me to play guitar and write silly songs. They whispered nary a peep after I graduated from a top university and decided what I really wanted to do was play those silly songs for people. To this day, they sit idly by, even though it could look (to the naked eye, that is) like I have very little to show for my efforts. Alas, this is not really about my folks at all, but it is about what they taught me: I love what I want to do.

It may be the 12-hour shift talking, but day jobs blow. I wake up every morning and ask myself the same question: what do you want to do today? The answer is always, “create original music” (N.B. it is never “go to work!”). I suppose the consistency should be comforting. For the longest time, I was so unsure. I was not one of those people who knew from the minute I picked up the guitar that it was what I wanted to do (although, the film adaptation of my life story may say otherwise). To this day, it has never been that black and white.

I love writing. I love creating. I love being challenged to come up with something better than the day before. I must admit that it is not easy to love all that. I have my moments of weakness where I doubt and where I feel my commitment is being tested. I wonder how I will eat. I can’t help but fear that I will never reach the level of success my parents have and fear that I will be telling my kids to get a haircut, etc. But a thought I had the other day completely knocked me on ass: I love writing so much that I would do it for free.

There are not many people out there who can get paid to do something they would do for free (I have a hard time imagining my parents doing their jobs if they weren’t getting paid). I’m not saying it’s going to be easy getting there, but I could be one of those people. I know, I know, there is no Shangri-La, but it’s very a hope-inspiring that there are people in this world who get paid to do what I love. Even if I can never support myself on my songs alone, I will never stop writing.

There is no expiration date.

It’s never easy to forget that I am not where I want to be, musically speaking.  It’s like that itchy spot near my shoulder blade that I can never quite reach.  The harder I work to ignore it and go on living what’s left of my life, the more ubiquitous it becomes—it’s like telling someone not to look down.  The smallest of seemingly unrelated events can set off a whirlwind of  “man, I need to practice more” and “there’s no way anyone will want to hear songs that are this quality of high grade shit,” and so on and so forth.  Perhaps the most stymieing part of my itchy shoulder is that it’s hard to pin down exactly where I am, musically speaking.

It dawned on me only recently that I will never be the overly confident type—ok well anyone who knows me knows that is nothing new, but what struck me was that I perceive there to be so many foolishly confident artists out there.  What they lack in talent, they make up in bravado.  If I think of myself as severely not that, there must be people out there on the other end of the spectrum from me; there must be people who think they are god’s gift to the rest of us.  Me, I’m still not sure if I’m even worth listening to…

I believe in what I’m doing, almost all the time.  Even as I type these sentences, I struggle with the wording.  I wrestle back and forth, trying to contort my arm to reach that itchy spot, to no avail.  I like the songs that I write and I know that I am most happy when I’m making music.  I ask myself: shouldn’t that be enough?  Like most tricky things in life, you can’t know the answer until you fully define the question.  

The worst part is: I have no way to wrap this up in a neat little bow to finish this blog.  At the moment, I have no moral to the story, no great truth behind it all.  I have no way to scratch my itchy shoulder.  
Maybe I never will.

If there is one thing that keeps me up at night thinking, it is how to be an exception. Anyone who has ever been on myspace.com or attended college or been to a coffee shop knows there are plenty of “let me tell you about my feelings” singer/songwriters out there. There are plenty of dudes with guitars who choose to express how they “can’t get girls” through the majesty of song. Lord knows there is a plethora of people out there who can’t play guitar well…but try anyway. On the surface at least, there are lots of artists out there exactly like me.

Let’s face it: the vast majority of singer/songwriters are terrible. To make matters worse, there’s a whole herd of artists out there, emulating their sucky heroes. Ah, but there’s the conundrum: there are also so many people out there trying to be different that doing so just comes off as annoying (if not completely fake). It’s seems like the telltale sign of this phenomenon is announcing just how different you are—if you have to explain that you’re “breaking the mold,” instead of people just seeing it, then you might need to rethink things (N.B. this is why I have never been comfortable with the “Artist Bio” section, because they always sound like that). Call me a cynic, but there’s nothing more amusing than a collective of non-conformists.

So I lie awake at night wondering where I fit in—if I fit in at all. I wish I could say I’ve got it all figured out and there’s a neat little bow on it, but alas I’m still fighting it.

I guess it comes down to one simple truth: you have to be yourself (and hope yourself doesn’t suck). It sounds stupid (how can one be anyone but himself?), however, I know that the fear of being a part of the herd has gotten in my way before. I’ve tried to fit in and I’ve tried to be different. For the longest time, I kept thinking to myself that I had to “define my sound,” but now I think it’s time for my sound to define itself. The hard part will be accepting that I may just be another god-forsaken singer/songwriter. I guess only time and the songs I write will tell.

Maybe I will be the exception that proves the rule.

The mixing process where we are on the record and believe me, it’s a process. Mixing is the practice of balancing sound and that is no easy task.  It takes the type of sustained concentration that only men greater than myself (i.e. Taylor, the engineer) possess.  I like mixing, overall, because I value its importance to the record as a whole, but I fear the impact that one bad day of mixing can have on the long term prospects of the project.  A bad mix will be forever staring me in the face/ear, if makes onto the finished product.
   
There is an old saying that goes something like, “the tape doesn’t lie.”  To me, it means that you are only as good as what you can get recorded.  No matter how great you thought a performance was, the tape will tell you how it really sounded.  These latest days of mixing (to say nothing of the afore-blogged editing process) have shown that the tape actually can lie.  We, Taylor and I, have had days recently where we will spend hours working on mixing one section of a song.  We slave over what I keep telling myself is not a minute/insignificant detail, only to listen back later and know we have to start all over.  And that is after we were convinced that we had finally nailed it.  We listen back and we can both tell right away if the tape lied to us.  With Taylor’s considerable experience/skill, we have not had too many “back to square one” moments.  It goes to show, however, that it is important to not lose perspective.
   
Taylor is a details man.  He is an engineer who has the mind for the 1s and 0s (yes, that’s a binary code joke).  Me, I am a conceptual thinker (N.B. this is the same reasoning I used to explain my poor grades in school).  Sure, I try to pretend that I am good with details and organization, but anyone who has ever seen my shoe collection knows otherwise.  It is because of our respective orientations, that I have to keep telling myself to not lose the big picture during the mixing sessions.  I have to let Taylor do the details and I have to keep my eyes on the prize (i.e. making sure the record actually gets done/sounds like my vision of the project).
   
More than anything, I’m at the point where I just can’t wait to have the stupid thing done already.  I want the record in my hand (well, that and in the hands of millions of other people).  I know that mixing is important and I look at is as a part of the art, but I know I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
   
It’s out there somewhere.