Read Ireland Tour Journal
December 4, 2006
Watched the first part of the Dylan documentary this week. Now I know how he did it! He went to where people were performing new versions of traditional folk and blues songs in Greenwich Village. He immersed himself in the scene, took it in through his senses, played and listened, was seen and watched others. It became his community.
Dylan found his first material in rare old records which he borrowed from an acquaintance (permanently it seems) and probably listened to over and over again. He read poetry he found at the homes of friends who put him up. He discovered singers and songwriters like Woody Guthrie, and he couldn't believe he didn't know about them. He took on Guthrie's identity for a time, which allowed him to let go of his childhood personality and gestate a new one. Some said he was fearless by the time he got to New York.
Eventually, Dylan was given the chance to open for a more established artist and then headline at one of his favorite Village folk clubs, the Gaslight. He was noticed by John Hammond at Columbia Records and signed to a recording contract. When he first went in the studio, he laid down songs he knew without rehearsing them. He put emotion and freshness into the tracks. Although he later regretted his choice of songs, his instincts were right. Even though I was a teenager at the time living in a small southern town, the songs transported me to that urban scene, and they still do all these years later.
Dave Van Ronk, who has numerous interview clips in the documentary, impressed me with his honest observations. He says when Columbia signed Dylan, the other Village musicians were astonished. Each of them wondered, why him and not me (Even Dylan says he didn't talk about it to anyone because he couldn't believe it himself). Van Ronk says they put him down because they didn't want to face how badly they wanted what he had, to admit that raw desire for recognition.
Once Dylan's star began to rise, Joan Baez, though skeptical, took a listen and was viscerally moved by Dylan's originality. She mothered him in an attempt to be part of his creative process. Although she was technically head and shoulders above everyone else, she did not have that spark of originality. Perhaps it was only after she met him that she became aware of what she was missing. They started traveling together and Baez took care of him while he wrote. He allowed his feelings to drive the process and chose poetry as the vehicle. He took the content from his daily life and expanded it into larger themes. For example, he turned anger about being refused entry to a hotel - both his and Baez's - into When the Ship Comes In.
Dylan was hailed as a prophet for the new age because his songs could be supported by people with a wide range of interests - poets, artists, journalists, activists, lovers of traditional music, and fellow musicians. When he wrote those first songs, he had buffers against the world's intrusions. Others dealt with producing, booking, copyrights and publishing, marketing and press. Dylan probably lost a lot of money and he had little control (that would finally come 30 years later with this latest album) but artistically, he was free to channel life through music and words.
A recent synchronous conversation I had with a very creative and entrepreneurial friend took what I learned from the Dylan documentary to a new level. My friend once organized a summer trip to promote her self-published seafood cookbook. She took to the road in a customized van with her four-year-old son and a high school girl for a nanny. They slept in the van and the nanny took her son to interesting sites in each town while she hawked the book. She would drive to a new town, go to the local newspaper with her promo packet, ask them to do a feature article about her story, and when she got the all clear that it would happen, take that to the local book store, seafood market, or other outlet and convince them to stock the book and perhaps to have a book signing event. She sold a hell of a lot of books that way, was picked up by a department store who sponsored a TV cooking show which led to a contract for providing spousal support at business conventions. She distinguished herself from other cookbook authors and that led to an eight-year career as an author.
My friend's adventure demanded a tremendous amount of energy and organization. But it was also energy-producing because of the success she experienced and the fact she had never before done anything so bold. She quit when her energy began to be drained from constantly being on the road. But she took away from the experience a firm belief that the creative process should not be hard; rather, it should flow effortlessly.
How does all this apply to me? I feel that I'm on the verge of a creative spurt, a time when a lot of things I've been experiencing and learning will be synthesized. I need to inundate myself with music that thrills me, jump in and find my place in the local music scene, create some small buffer from the world for writing, and resolve not to let other things or people - however dear to my heart - encroach on this process and dilute its power.
December 16, 2006I've set a goal of playing my first Asheville open mike in December. I've let the Songsisters know I'll be at the Westville Pub next Monday night and left a message for Paul, asking if he can make it. So, I guess I'm committed.
Saturday night the heavy, sinking feeling rears its head. I'm sitting in my rocking chair watching the fire. Good supper, early, not even 7, and I'm not tired. I contemplate "practicing" the tunes I plan to play. I think to myself "I need to go over them tonight, tomorrow, and Monday afternoon to be ready. I don't want to play tonight but if I don't, will I do well on Monday night?" And then I realize this feeling goes back a long way.
As a child, part of pleasing my mother was performing: dance recitals and marching in holiday parades when I was very young; piano recitals after I reached eight; singing duets with my friend, Geraldine, in church as an adolescent. Perms, red lipstick, dance costumes, ear muffs to ward off ear aches that I refused to wear - and the little girl got lost.
It's hard to admit that I suffered enormous stress as a child trying to live up to my mother's image for me. It's the Shirley Temple syndrome. And my challenge even now is to figure out what I really want, to separate the wishes and expectations of my mother, her friends, my teachers, the minister, even those who noticed my talent and tried to nurture it.
Sometimes I feel dead inside when I contemplate playing. I know I'm not the first person to be anxious about getting up in front of people. I remember reading that Carly Simon used to throw up before appearances. Actually, it's more than that. It's a depressed feeling, one close to dread. Is it an obligation to handle myself a certain way? Not make a mistake? This bears looking into.
I've decided to try something completely new. And it extends to the way I spend my time in general. I want to get my head in the right place before I do something, anything, (music, sex, exercise, phone calls, knitting, cooking, watching movies) both here in the house and out in the world. Pulling back from the automatic launch - not copping out or finding a way to get out of it - but thinking about why I'm doing it in the first place and summoning positive feelings about it.
I often feel like I'm not ready, that if I could just have a little more time, I'd deliver the performance of my life. Just give me a few extra weeks, days, hours. I'll work really hard, go over the songs again and again. And in the process turn what could be an amazing experience - one where I discover new things, communicate ideas, and enjoy people's reactions - into something mundane, rote, and above all, safe. Instead, I will tap the creative well inside me and see what emerges in the present moment.