One of the most overlooked — you could even say underused — aspects of music is the element of surprise. This topic came up when I was interviewing Nashville producer Kyle Lehning some years ago, and xjvznqwrqh … BAM!

See what I did there?

OK, so maybe the element of surprise works better in music than it does in the written word.

Anyway, back to my interview with Kyle. We were discussing his observation that producers used to be less technically oriented and more like the listening public. “They would sit in a studio and their input would basically be either “that’s good,” or “that’s not good,” he explained, “and it would be up to the musicians to interpret what “not good” was. Usually getting a thumbs down forced the musicians to come up with something more interesting, more surprising, and/or more energetic.”

To illustrate the point, Lehning shared an experience he’d had. After giving an address to an undergraduate college class about record production, he and colleague Norbert Putnam (Elvis Presley’s one-time bass player and a producer of great renown himself) asked the students, “What is it you’re looking for when you go online?”

“One kid in the front row,” Kyle remembered, “raised his hand and said, “I just want to be surprised.” It was a real “wow” moment for me because, frankly, I’d forgotten that part of the job was to surprise people. All of which returns to the problem of being so technically savvy that you forget that it’s really all about keeping the listener interested enough to want to hear the next section of the song, that it’s all about keeping them wondering what’s going to happen next.”

In the world of classical music, the archetypal example is the second movement of Joseph Haydn’s Symphony No. 94 in G Major — often called the “Surprise” Symphony. It begins with a soft “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”-like theme played by the violins, supported by a little bass underpinning. Then the theme is repeated, even more gently … only this time it’s followed by a sudden, fortissimo blast from the entire orchestra, complete with a thwack on the timpani.

Nobody is quite sure why Haydn chose to play this musical joke, but many scholars believe it was intended as a jolt to people in the audience who tended to fall asleep during soothing, slow moments. Whatever the reason, it definitely keeps you on alert during the rest of the piece. You listen closely as the variations unfold, expecting that Haydn is going to trick you again, but it never happens again. And one thing is certain: No one listening to this particular Andante is going to drift off.

In a similar way, it’s safe to assume that many audiences hearing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture for the first time had the living you-know-what scared out of them by the firing of cannons — yes, real-life cannons! — during the over-the-top finale.

When it comes to surprises, maverick composer Charles Ives probably has no peers. He turned out a slew of unorthodox pieces in the early 20th century that are regularly interrupted by circus music, dance hall tunes, hymns, ditties, you name it. In a way, the disruptions are often so pervasive that the element of surprise seems somewhat diluted.

And then there’s jazz. As writer Whitney Balliett so succinctly put it, “Jazz is the sound of surprise.” It’s all about music invented on the spot, juxtaposed on top of the chord changes, sometimes deriving loosely from the theme, sometimes not. Every time a jazz great like a John Coltrane lifted the horn to his lips, listeners never knew quite what to expect … and to a large degree that is the appeal of the genre.

Surprises seem to occur with less frequency in contemporary music. I don’t know why that should be the case, unless it’s down to the pursuit of commercial success (which perhaps presumes that the majority of listeners favor formula over revelation). That said, there are many notable exceptions, such as Brian Wilson’s eccentric orchestration on his masterpiece “Pet Sounds” and the unexpected key modulations in The Who’s “My Generation.” Beatle John Lennon was a big fan of musical surprises, and often sprinkled them in his songs. Take, for example, “I Want to Hold Your Hand” — the group’s first US hit, and a record that inspired countless musical careers, including my own. The Fab Four kick off the song with four and a half bars of the bridge, played instrumentally. What makes it both striking and confusing is that it begins midway through the first measure, with the accent on the last eighth note of that measure instead of the downbeat of the next measure. The first (or even the hundredth) time you hear this, you’re thrown off balance by the ambiguity — you only recognize the beat after the first few seconds pass.

As a composer, Lennon would tease the listener with similar surprises for the rest of his time as a Beatle (interestingly, not so much in his solo career), from the musically unrelated bridge that comes from out of nowhere at the two-minute mark in “I Am the Walrus” to the extra bass drum hit at 3:24 in “Revolution 1” (a bad edit by engineer Geoff Emerick that Lennon insisted be left in) to the occasional 2/4 and 3/4 measures tossed into the otherwise 4/4 “All You Need Is Love” — a song that also begins with the fanfare from the French national anthem, the Marseillaise, and ends with saxophones playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” and strings playing “Greensleeves.”

There are scientific studies for pretty much everything, and it turns out that there’s a reason why we love musical surprises so much. According to a recent article published by Futurity, researchers at Canada’s prestigious McGill University believe that these bits of ear candy actually light up the brain’s reward center, same as traditional rewards such as food or money.

That may be the chemical explanation, but for me it’s a total visceral thing. All I know is that whenever I encounter a musical surprise, it brings a smile to my face. And one thing this world surely needs is more smiles!

Photo courtesy of Kyle Lehning

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“Why don’t you grow up?”

I think we’ve all had this disparaging remark (or something similar) hurled at us by a friend, foe, relative or significant other at one time or another.

Well, there’s actually a good reason why at least part of you shouldn’t grow up.

It turns out that the childlike sense of wonder we all enjoy in our growing years can help us in our work and creativity by keeping things fresh and fun.

How do you actually go about taking that wonder and turning it into something you can use as an adult? It’s not complicated: Slow it down. Keep things uncomplicated. Be playful. And, perhaps most importantly, keep learning.

Slow It Down

We all know how fast our world moves. But by purposely slowing your mind down, you can more easily open it up to new ideas. A Psychology Today article by Greg Levoy entitled 7 Ways to Spark Your Sense of Wonder recommends that the reader do exactly that, citing a book called Wanderlust, that, in the author’s words, “talks about a peculiar fashion in mid 19th-century Paris, in which strollers sometimes took turtles for walks in the parks, the better to slow their pace and maximize the connoisseurship of their amblings.” While we probably won’t be walking turtles, the point is clear. Just a few days ago I was deeply challenged by a piece of music I was writing, and I made a conscious decision to slow everything down in my mind. Sure enough, it opened me up to go in a successful new direction.

Keep Things Uncomplicated

Children keep things simple because they know no better. It’s an approach I try to take as often as possible, because in the world of writing music for television or film, one of the golden rules is that you can’t step on the dialog, ever. I recently did a session with a co-writer / orchestrator. She wrote a great melody, but I found myself telling her, “Perfect! Now take that and write the same thing with half the notes.” At first she laughed, but you know what? It worked. The final result had a two-note melody that kept the piece spacious and effective … and it achieved the goal of not interfering with the dialog in any way. While it’s not always the case, sometimes less is more.

Be Playful

Kids in a playground are the picture of innocence. They’re simply laughing, running, jumping and playing, with no sense of inhibition or self-consciousness. In the same way, one of the joys of sitting down with an instrument is to be playful. Sometimes I’ll pick up my guitar and just play, without intent or purpose. Similarly, if I’m in a room with some musicians and the idea is fighting us, I find it useful to step back from the seriousness and just play — usually some heavy riff like “Whole Lotta Love” or “Walk This Way,” just to lighten up the energy and break the tension. More often than not, we can then go back to our mission and get the work done … and with a happier, more positive feel.

Keep Learning

Children are sponges for information and knowledge from those who are smarter than they are. Levoy’s article recommends that you “seek out displays of mastery and genius. Immerse yourself in the works of anyone who’s won a Pulitzer, Nobel, Tony, Grammy, Oscar, Olympic or MacArthur award. Stop and stare whenever you enter grand lobbies and atriums. Get a season pass to the art museum. Put the Astronomy Picture of the Day website on the toolbar of your computer.”

A 2018 Time magazine special edition on “The Science Of Creativity” included an article by renowned Leonardo DaVinci biographer Walter Isaacson entitled Learning from Leonardo. In it, Isaacson notes that, “At a certain point in life, most of us quit puzzling over everyday phenomena. We might savor the beauty of a blue sky, but we no longer wonder why it is that color. Leonardo (DaVinci) did. So did Einstein, who wrote to a friend, “You and I never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born.” We should be careful to never outgrow our wonder years or to let our children do so.” Seems to me that DaVinci and Einstein were onto something!

Sometimes we need to be reminded that life, music and playing an instrument can and should be fun. While many of us take our jobs and careers seriously, there’s always room to simplify, to be playful and to keep learning. By retaining that childlike sense of wonder and applying it to our individual crafts, we can push forward while looking backwards.

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Recently, my father-in-law, Al Gorgoni, shared the notion that an artist doesn’t know where they’re going until they get there. Wise Al is well-acquainted with the mysterious thing we call creativity. He played guitar on hundreds of sessions in the ’60s, including one where he came up with the iconic riff on Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.”

This observation stuck with me, and the next day I asked Al to elaborate. “I was reflecting on how we start from scratch a lot of the time,” he explained, “and think we’re writing about one thing but then it turns out to be another. We have to be open to where the journey takes us. Sometimes we just start and have no idea what’s going to happen.”

I concur. And that means if we’re feeling like our plate is empty, we songwriters may have to eeny-meeny-miny-moe a starting point: Perhaps we’re eight years old, standing at the kitchen counter helping Grandma bake muffins, only to find 20 minutes later we’re swimming in the ocean with a high school crush.

It reminds me of a well-known creative exercise where a writer is instructed to put pen on paper (with eyes closed) or fingertips on computer keyboard (with screen dark) and just begin writing whatever it is that comes to mind, stream-of-consciousness. (If it’s a melody you’re creating, as opposed to words, then a device should be used to record your humming or playing.) The point is that we should let our mind meander and enjoy the swerves, curves and speed bumps, and not concern ourselves with sentence structure, grammar, syntax or, more importantly, why we’re entering unexplainable, random or seemingly senseless territory. Unfinished business, or business that wants to be re-examined? Hard to know, but we felt a pull and we followed. And that’s good because writers write. Even when we think we have nothing to say. Even when we think we have no story.

All of which brings to mind an experience I had not long ago, when I spoke with a class of songwriting students at Cal Poly Pomona University. One student approached me afterwards and confessed that he was concerned with a new assignment: to write a song that tells a story. He asked me what he should do if he has no stories.

My first inclination was to suggest he change his major. But I reconsidered. He’s just learning how to tap into himself. Everyone has stories.

So we have a choice to make: We can avoid this leap of faith (like the reluctant student) or we can welcome the adventure. If we’re willing to travel, if we follow our muse unconditionally and trust in her guidance, we may stumble upon delicious (or uncomfortable) feelings we didn’t even know existed. We may be pleasantly surprised, or we may be horrified. Either way, all destinations matter. They’re all fodder, ingredients, material for stories.

Of course, sometimes we wind up writing about the same ex-love twenty songs in a row (lots of unfinished business!). It’s possible that each tale has a different ending, which makes sense because there are many nuances to a relationship: exhilaration in one song, heartbreak in another. (Side note: If you realize you’re writing countless songs about the same ex, you could call one of them “All Roads Lead To You.” Hey, I actually like that title … and, what’s more, I didn’t know it would fall out of my head until I got there!)

Or, as Wise Al put it: “Real art happens when we get out of our own way and let it come and go wherever it takes us, without thinking too much about it. Or not thinking at all. It’s like riding a joyous kind of vibration.”

It’s a sentiment that should give hope to every student of song, especially on those days they swear their well is dry. You’ve gotta get in the car, enjoy the ride … and have faith in the destination.

Photo courtesy of Al Gorgoni.

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Whatever sport you follow, it’s your time of year. I’m not a sports fanatic, but I enjoy sitting down in front of a good game every now and then. To me, watching professional athletes in their prime is very similar to watching professional musicians, not just in terms of their often astonishing proficiency but also the degree of dedication they have to their craft.

I’ve had the privilege of getting to know a number of celebrated musicians and take it from me, the old adage about famous people putting on their pants one leg at a time, same as everyone else, is completely true. Granted, these individuals were born with a certain amount of talent that you or I may not possess, but I’m convinced that the main thing that separates them from the rest of us is sheer doggedness.

The pursuit of perfection is an often frustrating endeavor, and one that comes at a price. An acquaintance of mine went to high school with someone who eventually became a major league pitcher, and quite a successful one at that. I once asked him what this person was like as a teenager, and his answer floored me: “I don’t know. I hardly ever saw him.” The reason was that this hurler-in-the-making had apparently spent most of his high school years on the practice field throwing hundreds of pitches all day long, thanks to his coach’s skill in writing notes getting his protégé excused from most classes — something that also left precious little time for social interaction with his fellow students. That hardly made him a well-rounded individual, but it did mean that he was able to impress the scouts when major league teams came a-calling.

Another friend of mine spent years touring with a world-famous rock guitarist. I remember asking him once what this superstar was like when the spotlight wasn’t shining on him. His reply was, simply, “He’s just like the rest of us … only less so.” He didn’t say it to be demeaning — he was just stating a fact. “Look, put a guitar in his hands, and on a good night, no one can match him,” my friend went on to explain. “But send him off to the store to buy a container of milk, and he’ll have no clue.” His point was that this individual spent so much time practicing, rehearsing, recording and performing that he had no hours left in the day to develop what most of us consider trivial living skills.

On the flip side, I know more than a few extremely talented musicians who never became household names despite their having far more ability than some who did. In some cases, this comes down to bad luck or being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but all too often, sad to say, the primary reason is that they gave up. Carving a career in the music business is monumentally difficult — in some respects, as tough a path to traverse as trying to be a successful actor — and it requires not just talent but total commitment, along with an unshakeable belief in oneself. When you add in the pressures of having to pay bills (few of us, after all, have trust funds to live off), it’s easy to see how potentially world-class musicians can fall by the wayside. Sure, some have regrets, but others revel in the freedoms that came as a result of their decision, such as the joys of raising a family — something that’s difficult if not impossible if you’re devoting every waking hour to honing your craft.

So next time you’re watching an exciting game or attending a stirring concert, take the opportunity to reflect on the time expended, dedication required and personal sacrifices made by those athletes or musicians. Then ask yourself: Do I have it in me to do the same? If the answer is yes, go for it!

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I’m finishing my coffee. I’m entertaining a second cup. I’m procrastinating. Last night I texted a to-do list to myself but I’m having trouble getting started.

I was looking forward to some of those entries — especially working on that new song. That’s never really “work” anyway but I just can’t concentrate.

I click on the lyric. I consider the font. But I can’t go any further than that. It’s strange because I’m usually pretty sharp in the morning. It’s my most creative time of day — when a brain full of clutter hasn’t accumulated … yet.

By afternoon, nothing’s changed. Whatever it is I do manage to get done, I’m not doing well. I run a stop sign. I can’t do simple addition, follow a recipe. Why did I come into this room anyway?

I’m paranoid that my low-function is a sign of something serious. I take a few deep breaths and then I recall: Ya know, Shelly, you went to bed at 2 a.m. last night, didn’t you? Woke up at 6. Hmm. That’s definitely not enough shut down. Of course! My batteries are drained.

You know what I’m talking about. Getting a good night’s sleep can mean the difference between playing your A-game and not playing a game at all. Sure, you can force yourself to finish that song but you’re supposed to enjoy being creative. It’s not supposed to be torture.

A well-rested mind and body affects creativity. I don’t say this as an expert who studies the science behind this statement but as a creator who’s witnessed the correlation over the years.

Many of us believe we’ll be more productive if we have more awake time but that’s not necessarily true. In fact, we often have to sleep more because apparently we get a lot accomplished while under the covers.

Paul McCartney came up with “Yesterday” in a dream (even if it was originally titled “Scrambled Eggs”) and Keith Richards heard the riff to “Satisfaction” while in repose. I’d say those are two great reasons to take a nap.

Maybe they were in a state of hypnagogia — the dreamlike transition between waking and sleep that allows the mind to wander. During this state, our brains take involuntary detours that lead us to locate missing pieces to puzzles we might not have the freedom to find when we’re conscious. In other words, our dreams make connections between things we might never connect while we’re awake. What’s more, concentrating on a specific problem (i.e., the sum-up line at the end of a song hook) right before going to bed can trigger the unconscious mind to try and solve it during sleep.

Wow. Yawn! Where are my PJs?

I know that I’m at my best at sunrise because of the proximity to recent sleep. That said, some of us are night owls. Our own personal windows of energy depend on our unique circadian rhythm — a 24-hour internal clock that cycles between sleepiness and alertness and affects our ability to function at our highest level. Going to bed and waking up at the same time every day regulates us. But no matter the rhythm, as long as we put in the hours we’re not going to feel the ebbs and flows as deeply.

I’ve heard this all before. But it’s days like these, when I’m staring at the bottom of my coffee cup wondering why I can’t get started, that I remember to remember: When your song remains unfinished and you’re sure you don’t have the right stuff — that you’re a fake, a fluke, a phony, that you simply get lucky from time to time — don’t panic! Give yourself a break and do something else that doesn’t require cognitive acuity.

It’s getting late, so once again I’ll trust in the well-tested notion that, with a lavender pillow on my eyes (so the first morning light doesn’t rob me of an extra crucial hour) and those squishy little puffs in my ears, tonight I’ll have another chance to fall into that beautiful necessary disconnect and wake up eight hours later, rejuvenated and hopefully feeling like a brand new me.

Photo courtesy of the author.

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Empathy. It’s a necessary component to successful interpersonal relationships, both personal and business. You and the other person in the equation won’t always see eye to eye, and unless you want to constantly be embroiled in disputes and bad feelings (which is a terrible way to live), you’d better develop the ability to see things from the other person’s point of view … even if you don’t necessarily agree with them.

In music, the ability to listen from other perspectives is equally important. Perhaps the hook in that song isn’t all that compelling. Perhaps the vocal is a little flat. Perhaps the tempo is shifting slightly in the first movement. Perhaps the entrance of the strings is a bit too strident.

A word of caution, though: Beware the More-Me Syndrome — something that’s familiar to every live sound or recording engineer. It goes like this: the singer wants more vocal, the guitarist wants more guitar, the drummer more drums, yadda yadda yadda. The problem is, if you simply accede to all of these demands, you end up raising everyone’s levels and the end result is a mix that is exactly the same, only louder — in other words, an exercise in futility.

Nonetheless, it’s always helpful to find a way to listen to music through other people’s ears. Or, as the late, great audio engineer Ed Cherney termed it, “listening inside the music.” I once asked Ed to elaborate. His explanation: “I’m talking about things like finding that guitar line that’s inside [one part of a song] and then finding its counter-line — being able to isolate and identify the different things that are happening in the context of the entire spectrum.”

Developing that ability — what some call critical listening — is no easy task. It does seem as if some people are born with “golden ears,” but there’s ample evidence that it’s a skill that can be learned too. Either way, it often takes many years to perfect.

“It takes a long time to learn how to pick out the balances and the timbre and the interplay between the instruments, and to make sense out of it,” Cherney told me. He attributed his own critical listening skills to a long apprenticeship he served with legendary recordist Bruce Swedien and the equally legendary producer Quincy Jones — the team that crafted most of Michael Jackson’s mega-hits in the 1980s. “The thing is,” Ed explained, “guys like me and a lot of my contemporaries worked under engineers that started in the ’40s and ’50s — the guys who built the gear that they used and went from big bands to symphonies to rockabilly and country, then eventually to rock and roll; guys who saw the technology evolve. Sitting behind the Bruce Swediens and the Phil Ramones and the Al Schmitts, we learned how to listen. It was when I worked for Bruce that I learned how to listen through someone else’s ears. I would sit behind him and listen through his ears during every mic change, every turn of a knob, every tweak of a reverb.

“Over a period of twenty years,” Ed added with his trademark self-deprecating humor, “you start to get the hang of it.” Certainly in his case it did, as evidenced by Cherney’s stellar 40+ year career that included recording Barbra Streisand, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Elton John, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, Sting, Willie Nelson and many other superstars.

The bottom line is this: Seeking and nurturing musical empathy is a critical aspect not only to your development as a musician, but to your appreciation of music overall. There are no shortcuts, but it’s a skill that’s guaranteed to pay multiple dividends over the course of a lifetime.

Photo courtesy of edcherney.com

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When the weather turns cooler, I spend more time indoors. That may seem obvious, but over the years I’ve increasingly found myself taking advantage of that time to push the boundaries of learning my craft. This includes intensive practice of my primary instrument, the guitar, but also the study of keyboards, orchestration, arranging, recording, mixing and production. Perhaps more importantly, besides directly seeking to improve those skill sets, I also take classes outside of those worlds. I’ve found that those outside studies actually help my craft by allowing me to examine things in a different and deeper way.

One of the most interesting of those was an online photography course with the great Annie Liebovitz, who has taken some of the most iconic rock pictures of all time. I like to learn from those who excel at what they do, and when she talked about self-reflection, it resonated strongly with me. Afterwards, I did just that — I went back and listened to a number of my older compositions. Wow, what an ear-opener! What I heard, clear as day, was the advancement of my skills as a composer and guitarist, as well as the evolution of my mixing and production chops.

I’ve also taken online classes in the field of cooking. From Gordon Ramsay to Massimo Bottura, observing how others work can help you think about how you work. (And since I like to cook, it has made my friends and family happy too!) After taking some of these classes, I came to the realization that my style of musical creativity is actually very similar to my style of cooking. I use as many of the best ingredients as possible, make sure I have the right tools, and rely on a combination of instinct and skill. Often, when a song is not quite done, I’ll think of what a final touch of finishing “salt” might be added to make it pop … just like a great dish in the kitchen.

Another interesting online course I took was conducted by the commander of the International Space Station. I’m a longtime space fanatic, and I have an app on my smartphone that tracks the ISS and tells me when it’s flying overhead. (At those times, if the weather cooperates, you can actually see it!) While the class was full of amazing facts about how the space station works, how they dock to it, and even how they walk in space, I use its lessons for different purposes. First and foremost, I apply them to cutting through professional problems. It seems to me that if we can fly people in space and shuttle them back and forth at will, our brains must have powers almost beyond our imagination. Thinking this way makes my “problems” seem small in comparison, and therefore quite solvable. But I also use the lessons for pure inspiration. When I listen to stories about how we plan to get to Mars, I know I can fix that computer problem holding up my mix session that day.

I also like to watch TED Talks about subjects I know little or nothing about. I approach them with an open mind, absorbing new ways of thinking and looking at problems and solutions that might not have occurred to me otherwise. Watching Vogue editor Anna Wintour’s talk on creativity and leadership, for example, helped me contemplate different ways to incorporate team members in my own work.

An online MindTools article entitled New Ideas — Strategies and Techniques suggests that you “mix your media.” The author explains the concept this way: “Radical ideas can arise from tackling problems in unusual ways. A great way to do this is to apply different types of creativity — don’t just talk or write about your plans, explore them through music, painting, photography, sculpture … whatever enables you to express yourself. Fresh thinking can emerge when you let your creative juices flow.”

I find that the combination of direct studies along with those outside of your field blend together to make for a more well-rounded musical approach. It helps you reach beyond your set ways and comfort zone and acts as a spur on creativity. Whether you’re creating just for fun or are doing it on a fulltime professional level, think about how you might use outside influences to help you go deeper into your music. It’s a worthwhile and rewarding pursuit!

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I’ve never found the John to my Paul, the Bernie to my Elton, the Carole to my Gerry. There were times I wished I had (found a steady, life-long writing partner, that is) so I could keep coming back to the same safe place over and over again and not have to date around or kiss frogs to find a prince. But that’s not the way it happened for me.

Mind you, I’m sure I have been the frog on occasion. Sadly, it just goes with the territory. We’re not all good together. Just because Billy and Dan wrote a song I love doesn’t mean that I can write a hit with Billy, or Dan, for that matter. And neither of them will necessarily write a smash with somebody I wrote one with. Chemistry between two creators is a random and mysterious thing.

Although I never had that one steady go-to, I have had many outstanding partners over the years, and with each one I discovered something different about my own creativity. So maybe in retrospect variety has been a blessing.

How does one find their Mr. or Ms. Write? We can’t swipe left on a co-writing App. (Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could. Nonetheless, I’m going to assume for the sake of this blog that we can’t.) In order to know if a one-on-one will be fruitful and prosperous, we simply have to get in the room with a suitor and have a go at it. Who knows? At the end of the day we might find the experience mutually productive and satisfying.

If you’re like me and particularly enjoy writing solo, you may want to consider switching it up now and then. After all, having another perspective opens the mind, pushes the boundaries, gets one out of one’s comfort zone. Besides, it’s nice to have company once in awhile. In the wise words of Bob Merrill, people who need people are the luckiest people in the world. 🙂

From my experience, here are some tell-tale signs that I may have found a match. He or she:

… texts me that they’re running ten minutes late to our first session, which makes me feel better since it’s likely I’m running ten minutes late as well.

… believes in me from the minute they open the door. I can feel it. This is most beneficial for my self-confidence. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll be on my A-Game. But it helps.

… allows time for pregame conversation when a title or concept is likely to spring forth organically so we never have to resort to that dreaded question: What should we write about?

I’ve also learned that a good collaborator:

… inspires me

… is inspired by me

… has a good sense of humor. Laughter is so important to any relationship!

… is easy to get along with. I have to enjoy my co-writer’s company immensely on a personal level.

… is comfortable flying their freak flag — which in turn encourages me to do the same.

… doesn’t necessarily have the same strengths as me, which is a good thing. Too much salad and not enough dressing makes for a dull salad.

… remembers the snacks!

… makes me feel like I’m the only one they want to be working with that day, and that the two of us together are magical, in sync. We’re not even thinking that much: It’s just flowing. He’s finishing my lines, I’m finishing his. She’s taking my good idea and making it better by substituting a minor chord instead of a major, or by adding a 7th or an extra measure. Or by being brave enough to suggest cutting out half of the second verse! (How dare she? But maybe she’s right. Less really is often more.)

In sum, a good collaborator is anything but a frog. I can’t wait for our next session. Our next song. And each time we get together to write, I’m excited, motivated, eager.

So experiment. Try writing with anyone who seems like a good possible collaborator. Kiss as many frogs as you can. You’ll be better for it.

I know I am.

Photographs courtesy of the author.

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The stars seem to align sometimes. Things just seem to happen in this cosmic way: You’re in a certain place, you meet someone, and then something happens as a result, which leads to other things happening. But it’s not just about recognizing opportunity and taking advantage of it when it comes your way; it’s about making opportunities for yourself. You need to put yourself in the right situation and right headspace. That’s what gives you a chance at succeeding.

Those aren’t my words. (I wish they were!) They came from the lips of famed British producer Stephen Lipson (Jeff Beck, Paul McCartney, Annie Lennox, Pharrell Williams), who I had the pleasure of interviewing some years ago.

It brings to mind the old adage, “The harder I worked, the luckier I seemed to get.” In Stephen’s case, he spent years cutting his teeth as a session guitarist but found himself growing frustrated at the lackluster sounds the engineers of the era were getting, sparking in him a desire to master the craft of audio recording. He eventually crossed paths with a businessman who owned a jingle company and wanted to build a recording studio. Despite his lack of technical knowledge, Lipson wasted no time volunteering himself for the job, learning on the fly what was required and trusting his instincts and his ears.

Would you call that luck? Perhaps partially. But I would maintain that Stephen’s vision and dogged work ethic — not to mention his willingness to put his butt on the line if he failed — had far more to do with his ultimate success than dumb luck.

Looking back on my own career, I realize that it was an opportunity I created that unwittingly led to my position here as editor of the Yamaha blog. Ever since I was a teenager, I was fascinated with synthesizers, and the way that they could make sounds out of electronic circuits rather than being struck, plucked, blown into or otherwise physically assaulted. By the time I was in my twenties, I owned one of the early portable analog synths and spent hundreds of hours tweaking its dials, turning its knobs and painstakingly writing out “patch charts” of the sounds I was fashioning.

That experience led to my landing a part-time job at a music store when I moved to London in the mid-1970s. This particular shop specialized in keyboards, and I spent most of my days there learning how to program the synthesizers they had in stock — an important part of the job, since obviously the sales staff had to know the products they were selling. At one point, the store bought a used modular synth from one of its customers — an enormous contraption that took up half a wall and required the interconnection of dozens of cables to get even the simplest bleep or bloop out of the damn thing! When it failed to sell after a couple of months, the store manager, needing the space, offered it to me at a discount price, and I snapped it up … even though the small “flat” (Brit-speak for “apartment”) I was living in at the time barely had room for the few sticks of furniture I owned.

A few years later, when I returned to the States, I found myself teaching a synth programming class at a studio in New York. One day in 1983, a client walked in the door with an odd-looking synthesizer he’d recently bought in Japan, asking a question I’d soon hear a lot:

“How the heck do I program this thing?”

The synth was a Yamaha DX7, and I had no answer for him.

But I was determined to find one. The first step was to get my hands on a DX7, but the problem was that it wasn’t yet available in the U.S. So I turned to a friend of a friend of a friend who would soon be traveling to Japan, and he offered to buy one for me and arrange to have it shipped back. It cost a small fortune, but I was nothing if not stubborn: having (figuratively) wrestled a huge modular analog synth to the ground — at least to the point where I understood how it worked — there was no way I was going to let this new-fangled digital synth with the strange green and orange membrane switches defeat me.

A few weeks later, the instrument arrived … complete with an owner’s manual written in Japanese. It might as well have been ancient Greek for all the good it did me, so I simply started pushing buttons and moving sliders, painstakingly trying to figure out what each combination of button-pushes and slider moves accomplished.

It was grueling, sometimes extremely frustrating work, but slowly I began to make sense of it all. When I felt I had a good understanding of at least the basics of FM (Frequency Modulation) programming, I called the musician who had first made me aware of the instrument and gave him a couple of lessons. By then, the DX7 had made its way to our shores and was well on its way to becoming the best-selling synthesizer of all time, so I found myself with no lack of interested clients. Giving them all private lessons would be too time-consuming, so I decided to start teaching classes in FM programming, which led to my writing a book based on the course curriculum, which led to a decade-long relationship with Yamaha as a consultant, sound developer and technical writer. Eventually, I morphed into a fulltime music journalist … which led to my becoming an editor. Ultimately it was this unusual confluence of skills that led to me landing the very fun job of helping bring this blog to you.

Did I know any of this at the time? Of course not. But it was the drive in me — along with an insatiable curiosity, an unwavering belief in myself and a willingness to work hard — that led to all the exciting things that followed. So if you’re waiting for that big break to come your way, I suggest that you instead consider taking matters into your own hands. After all is said and done, creating your own opportunity is the surest way to get those stars to align.

Photographs courtesy of Stephen Lipson and the author.

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