For every piece of music that somebody loves, somebody else will feel indifferent towards it. You can drive yourself crazy trying to please everyone. But then again, creating art to please others is not the point of art.

When we sit down to create, who are we really trying to please, and why?

The answer to the “who” is: yourself. I’ll get to the “why” shortly.

When we look back, art that will be remembered is art that was created from a deep need to express oneself without the influence of an outside force or opinion.

Listeners can intuitively sense authenticity — something personal yet universal and unique. Those are the songs they keep close to their hearts and eventually sing to their children.

Admittedly, I’ve written some songs that I’ve tried to convince myself I like because:

1.      of the time I invested in writing them

2.      I don’t want to disappoint my co-writer, who thinks it’s the best thing since the Smartphone

But if I’m not excited to revisit those songs, tweak them or finish them, then I know that something is up. So I’ve come up with a way to measure whether I’m truly in love with what I’ve created. It’s called The Morning After Test, and it goes like this:

When you wake up the day after you compose a piece of music, is it the first thing you think about, even before coffee or a kiss?

If the answer is yes, you’re golden. It’s that simple.

All those outside opinions from people who mean the world to you can really mess you up. Thing is, if you’re making your own album, it’s going to represent you even after you’re gone from this earth. So write and choose wisely.

And now for the “why.”

No matter what, there’s never any guarantee that your album is going to be a success. If you record only the songs you believe in and the record doesn’t get the critical attention you dreamed about, you’ll still have your soul intact. You’ll still have had that irreplaceable feeling of creating and sharing something real that you’re proud of.

But if you let other peoples’ opinions dictate your path and then the album doesn’t fly, you’ll have, for lack of a better word, failed with a body of work that you didn’t believe in to begin with. Not a good feeling at all. Life’s too short.

Back in 1971, Rick Nelson (the former teen idol known as “Ricky” Nelson) played a concert in Madison Square Garden. He was received well initially, when he played some of his old hits, but when he moved on to some newer material, he was booed — a traumatic experience, but one that inspired him to write the hit song “Garden Party,” which revived his career a year later. Like Rick, I’ve learned my lesson well: You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.

So have fun, experiment, explore, make mistakes — it’s all part of “songwriting cardio.” But when the time comes to choose your babies, get a good night’s sleep and then wake up and see what’s on your mind. Hopefully your favorites will reveal themselves before the coffee. Or the kiss.

Photo courtesy of the author.

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We live in a noisy world.

Everywhere around us is cacophony — small and large movements of air caused by a variety of stimuli, from street traffic to the leakage of high frequencies from the earbuds of the person sitting next to you on a bus; from the roar of jet planes to the thrumming of cicadas; from the hammering and sawing of building construction to what Joni Mitchell so aptly termed the “hissing of summer lawns.”

And then there’s the sweet sound of music.

What is it that differentiates between the two?

According to Merriam-Webster, music is an “agreeable sound,” one which has “rhythm, melody or harmony.” Noise, on the other hand, is an “undesired” sound that “lacks agreeable musical quality or is noticeably unpleasant.”

Fair enough. But so subjective! In fact, depending upon the listener, almost any sound can be said to have some degree of musicality. Furthermore, what one person may consider agreeable, another may consider undesired and noticeably unpleasant.

Then there’s the issue of loudness. Pretty much any sound, no matter how soothing it may be at a moderate volume, turns into nasty, irritating — even painful — noise when it gets cranked up too loud. This has nothing to do with personal taste: it’s pure physiological response — the body’s natural defenses when it senses that it’s under attack. How loud is too loud? According to the Hear the World Foundation, exposure to as little as 90 dB of sound — the approximate background level of a crowded restaurant with poor acoustics — can cause hearing loss if sustained over a short period of time.

I recently came across an article called “The Many Colors of Sound,” in which author Megan Neal describes the scientific differences between white, pink, brown, blue, gray and other varieties of noise. White and pink noise were familiar terms to me — they’re random (or at least quasi-random) signals used by audio engineers and audiophiles to align sound systems, and are also employed by noise machines used as sleep aids. I was not familiar with the other varieties, but the article provides definitions for each that make logical sense. Especially fascinating is the description of brown noise, which is not named after the color but instead because its changing frequency content resembles that of Brownian motion, the random movement of particles in liquid.

Much as recording engineers disdain noise, taking great pains to eliminate things like drum pedal squeaking and mic stand rumble, musicians shouldn’t think of it as being a purely bad thing. For centuries, classical composers have been inspired by the sounds of nature — sounds that many of us might consider noise in a different context. Think Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, which incorporates bird calls in Spring, swarms of wasps in Summer, hunters’ horns in Autumn — even the narrator’s chattering teeth in Winter. Think Rossini’s Storm (from the William Tell Overture), which evokes the fury of an approaching squall, or Debussy’s La Mer, with its rolling waves of music that depict the motion of a swelling sea.

Man-made “noise” can serve as an inspiration too. In recalling the genesis of his groundbreaking composition Rhapsody In Blue, George Gershwin said, “It was on the train, with its steely rhythms, its rattle-ty bang, that is so often so stimulating to a composer — I frequently hear music in the very heart of the noise … And there I suddenly heard, and even saw on paper, the complete construction of the rhapsody, from beginning to end.”

In the early 20th century, “modernist” classical composers such as Edgard Varèse began to explore the use of noise-based sonorities in an orchestral setting — work that would prove to be a major influence on a young Frank Zappa. These would evolve into compositions known as “noise music” that challenge the distinction between musical and non-musical sound. Examples include works by Stockhausen, LaMonte Young, Glenn Branca and John Cage — all precursors to the so-called “industrial music” of the ’70s introduced by artists like Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire. In popular music, guitarists like Jimi Hendrix and Jeff Beck made “noise” elements such as distortion and feedback an integral part of their sound — a tradition that continues in today’s thrash-metal bands and the like. Even mainstream rock musicians such as The Beatles (in the tracks “Tomorrow Never Knows” and “Revolution 9”) and Lou Reed (in his double album Metal Machine Music) have dabbled in this interesting, if at times obtuse, genre.

The bottom line is this: What is and isn’t noise — and whether or not you consider it intrusive or inspiring — comes down to individual perception.

I personally venerate the absence of noise. I live in a rural setting, on many acres of land, with the nearest neighbor barely visible and rarely heard. Whenever I travel, ear plugs are a necessity. My in-laws, on the other hand, live in a busy suburban cul-de-sac, with next-door neighbors that have approximately 47 SUVs in their driveway (OK, I exaggerate … a little), any one of which is being started up every few minutes, or so it seems. When my brother-in-law comes to visit, he has to bring a white noise sleep machine because he finds our house too quiet.

When it comes to noise, it’s like apartment house sense and apartment house rents — as Paul Simon’s memorable lyric says: “Remember, one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.” So keep your ears open to the possibility that something “undesired and noticeably unpleasant” may in fact serve as your next musical inspiration.

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When I first decided I wanted to be a professional songwriter, I would have done anything to get in the room with writers who were better than me. It was something they — the mysterious “they” who know everything — called “Writing Up.” I imagine this would apply not just to songwriting, but to film composing, guitar shredding, even tennis playing! Everyone, in fact, should strive to Write Up, no matter what level you’re at. That’s how you improve your game.

That’s why I was so stoked back in 1990-something when, during a meeting at a record label, Jay Landers, the A&R man in attendance, put a call in to Albert Hammond (who wrote “It Never Rains in Southern California” and “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now,” among other classic songs) and asked if he would consider co-writing with an unknown.

Albert didn’t flinch.

A week later I showed up at his door in Reseda, California with a couple of song “starts” (the seed of an idea) and a smile. Albert suggested I sit at the keyboard and freestyle while he sat by my side in a red velvet high-backed chair (like a king on a throne) and considered my moves — basically blocks of four-chord progressions with an occasional syncopation thrown in randomly. “Eighth-note-heaven” was another go-to maneuver. Very sophisticated … NOT. Who ever said you had to be a virtuoso to write a song? I’d be in a lot of trouble if that were the case.

Albert was directing me this way and that: “Go here! No, go there! Use the IV chord!” Who was I to question him? He of many huge copyrights. Me of no-name.

I did my best. When you get in the room, that’s what you do. (Actually, what am I saying? You should always bring your best.)

At the time, it felt like I was doing the heavy lifting. But for every chord progression I put forward, Albert pulled out a hook. Amazing. How does he do it? I remember thinking. Hopefully, from him I will learn.

Working with Albert definitely made me better. And, reciprocally, I choose to believe that I offered him something of value as well — if not decades worth of experience, then perhaps a little songwriting cardio. 🙂 He enjoyed it. It was obvious. We had a whole lotta fun. And we got that song recorded, too. Here it is! (The production is admittedly a little dated, but 25 years later it’s still bringing in some $$).

In order for a coupling of a newbie and a seasoned pro to thrive, the pro, in my opinion, has to be willing to play the roll of mentor. It’s not the same dynamic as a one-on-one with a peer of equal skill. That said, every new collaborator — young or old, green or uber-successful — draws something different out of their partner, just like the color red looks different next to blue than it does next to yellow. Even if you’re a jaded journeyman, you still may discover something new within yourself that you never realized you had before.

Funny thing is, I used to be that newbie. But over time, roles change. I am now the more mature and accomplished veteran (how does that happen?) just like Albert was for me. And because we vets came of age with a guitar in hand (or a piano at our fingertips), we usually bring singer-songwriter style contributions — an idea, an angle, some irony at the end of a story. Whereas a younger writer, who’s more in touch with modern arrangements (and algorithms) tends to have the tricks up their sleeve — sound bites, catchy phrases, mainstream structure. They often take my idea and put it in a trendier “package.” And let’s face it: No matter how stellar my concept is, if I want my song to get covered, I have to consider incorporating something contemporary into it.

A generation gap in a writing room can be just what the doctor ordered. Looking back, I think Albert needed some fresh blood in his creative life. And now, at least once in a while, I do too. So let’s keep trying to Write Up. If everyone does their job it can be a rewarding and productive experience. Don’t worry, the tables will turn soon enough. And hopefully everyone will get a chance to sit on the other side.

Photograph courtesy of the author.

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Most days when the weather is cooperative, I like to take a midday break by bringing my young German Shepherd to nearby Vassar College. The world-famous liberal arts school is just a short drive away, and Sophie loves roaming the expansive lawns and greeting students as they make their way from one stately building to the next. It’s good exercise for the two of us — both physically and mentally — and something we very much look forward to as part of our daily routine.

The 150-year-old campus is exceptionally beautiful. Dotted with soft alcoves under shady trees, and stone benches inscribed with inspirational poetry, it was clearly designed to promote scholarly thought. One can well imagine a young Edna St. Vincent Millay or Meryl Streep reveling in the peaceful surroundings as they lay on the grass or sat on one of those benches, studying their textbooks or perhaps just dreaming of the life that lay before them.

Today? Not so much. In fact, it’s rare to see even a single student not staring at their phones zombie-like as they walk along Vassar’s winding pathways or sit on one of those benches or stretch out on one of the verdant lawns. Now, I understand the importance of being connected 24/7 to many people these days — especially millennials, for whom it seems to be almost an obsession — but where does it leave the space for the quiet contemplation necessary for a mind (especially a young mind!) to blossom?

It’s not just Vassar, of course, and it’s not just college campuses. Walk the sands of any beach as waves lap gently upon the shore; hike through dense forests or to the top of distant hilltops for a glimpse of vistas rarely seen; enter the hallow halls of a museum to gaze upon a painting or photograph or sculpture by a master artist; attend any concert, any performance, any undertaking intended to uplift the spirit. Doesn’t matter where or when or how life-changing the event could be: I guarantee there will be somebody gaping at their phone, taking pictures, shooting videos, sending texts, posting to social media, or, worst of all, talking loudly. It is as if documenting the experience has become more important than having the experience. What a pity.

Smart as she is, there’s no question that Sophie does not possess a fraction of the intellect of any of the students at Vassar. But I would argue that in those moments when she is playfully tossing a pine cone in the air or sniffing the breeze to try and catch the scent of another dog, or chasing in vain after a bird flitting from bush to bush, she is infinitely more connected than those students who, though surrounded by a paradise of sorts, choose to instead immerse themselves in a virtual reality of meaningless texts and social media updates.

I know there are some who will view this as a rant by some aging, out-of-touch guy. But I see it more as a lament — a longing for something that seems to be lost more and more with each passing day, something that used to be such a vital part of who we are as human beings.

“Take the time to smell the roses” is amongst the hoariest of hoary old clichés, but I would submit that it, and all of its corollaries (i.e., “take the time to enjoy the view,” “take the time to listen to the music”) is perhaps the most important of all of life’s lessons, for we all eventually reach the point where memories are pretty much all we have. Why limit those memories to a view of the world through a tiny glass screen?

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With Mother’s Day nearly upon us, I find myself missing my mom and thinking about how her support for my endeavors cleared the way for my creative journey.

My mom was never the tiger type or helicopter variety. She didn’t hover or try to control me. Here’s what she did do: observe my delights from the sidelines and accommodate them when she could. That’s about it.

When she (and my dad) noticed I couldn’t take my hands off my toy piano, they found a way, on a very limited budget, to get a real one into the house. (I wrote about this in my recent blog posting Your Instrument Is Your Inspiration.) It wasn’t shiny or fancy. But it made music.

When I wouldn’t stop playing that one either, she found a teacher who kept me flush in sheet music. Ballet was in there somewhere, as well as baton twirling and a drama group at the local library. I jumped around a bit but I returned to the music over and over again. Pop songs were my favorite. They were my muse.

Then one day I wrote my own song. There would be many more.

We both assumed songwriting was a hobby — not a legitimate profession worth pursuing. After all, the songs on the radio were all written by the artists who sang them. Or so I thought. Secretly, I had this little dream in my head that maybe I could be one of those artists too.

That said, I went off to college and studied something else. Something safer. Something dependable. I was the daughter of an accountant and a part-time bookkeeper. Who was I to have fancy dreams? But when I graduated, I was right back at it. I got a waitressing job to support my habit. My folks never made me feel like they wasted their money. They knew a college education teaches us so much more than our area of study. I found independence, self-esteem, a larger world view than my little home town had offered.

After years of rejection I started making an actual living as a songwriter. I often wonder, if my mom had dissuaded me, would I be something/someone else today? Would I be happy? Would I be me?

One of my most vivid memories of my mother is seeing her washing dishes at the kitchen sink, staring out the window as I came up the stairs from the den where the piano resided. She’d say, “I like that number, mommi” — using the same term of endearment I would use decades later for my daughter. Then she’d ask, “Did you write it?”

Not quite a cheerleader, but a constant positive presence on the sidelines. And speaking of daughters, I like to think I’m paying my mom’s faith forward. From a young age, my girl wanted to make art. While I have no gift for the visual (and I know not where that muse comes from), I brought oils and sparkles into the house. Sketch pads and pastels and charcoal pencils. And then I left her alone. To see her so happy in her zone was all I needed to know. That was her muse.

Layla graduates college this month with a degree in Studio Art. Those sparkles and crayons paid off.

To take a leap of faith where your child’s dreams are concerned is not always easy. I don’t blame any parent for wanting to protect a son or daughter from the uncertainty of a competitive career. What if they don’t succeed and are devastated by a dream unfulfilled? On the other hand, there’s risk in trying to redirect their proclivities. It’s like trying to make a righty out of a lefty or fit a square peg in a round hole. It never feels natural. And it’s a sad regret for a young person to suspect they missed their calling — to wonder what would have been if they followed the path that set their heart on fire.

As challenging as it may be, perhaps the best thing we can do for our child’s creative journey is what my mother did: simply get out of the way. Believing in a child unconditionally — even when you’re terrified — is perhaps the most powerful type of love.

Photograph courtesy of the author.

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I recently attended a concert by a somewhat famous guitarist of the 60s/70s who shall not be named for reasons that will soon become obvious. I had never seen this particular musician in live performance before but have enjoyed many of his recordings over the years and appreciate his obvious mastery of the instrument, so I was looking forward to the evening.

It did not turn out well. And, judging from the smattering of applause coming from the audience after every song, I wasn’t alone in my assessment.

The reasons are almost too many to list, but I’ll try. Too loud. No stage presence. Self-indulgent. Uninteresting songs. Lack of tonal variety. Dreary tempos. A poor sound mix.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining, though, and I guess the upside of my having been there (three hours of my life down the drain, just like that!) is what I learned from the experience. So here now, without further ado, are Six Easy Steps to Boring Your Audience to Tears:

1.  Play for yourself, and no one else. Love that little lick you stumbled upon while tuning up backstage? Play it. Then play it again. And again. And again and again andagainandagainandagain, as many times as you like. Change a single note if you must. Try it an octave higher, or in a different key. But then go back to playing it again. And if you’re happy with your sound, keep using that sound. Use it all night long. Even if it’s too loud or too piercing or too overpowering or too whatever. Find your tone and stick with it, no matter what the song calls for. Who says variety is the spice of life?

2. Disengage. From your audience, from your backing band, your manager, your fiancée, whoever. Stage patter is for sissies. Maybe mumble a “thank you very much” into your mic every now and then like you don’t mean it. Rock-star grimaces (the “constipated duck” look) are allowable, but don’t ever smile, don’t ever look like you’re having any fun, and above all never exchange glances with your fellow musicians onstage — it will only encourage them.

3. Keep the music to a minimum. Hummable melodies are overrated. Ditto interesting chord changes. Go for monotone instead — it makes the jamming easier, and, after all, everyone is here to revel in your abilities to improvise over a basic I-IV-V blues progression, right? Wouldn’t want to confuse them with anything more than that.

4. Get loud. If that doesn’t work, get louder. Makes it easier to get your message across … if your message is “I couldn’t care less.” The crowd still not responding? Crank it up even more. Yeah, that’ll teach ’em.

5. Slow it down. Alternate the tempo of the songs in your set list between slow and funereal. Anything faster than that could cause the audience’s hearts to start pumping, which might, you know, wake them up or something.

6. Make sure your instrument is heard … even at the expense of everything else. Every note, every riff, every scrape of the pick against a string, every nudge of the whammy bar —  that’s all that counts. Vocals? Nah. (Who cares about lyrics, anyway?) Bass? Shouldn’t be anything more than a distant rumble. Drums? Just enough to pick up the backbeat. Keyboards? Horns? Fuggettaboudit. Instruct your sound guy carefully in these fundamentals; tell him to gaffer tape your fader up and the band’s faders down if necessary. After all, the punters in the seats came to hear you play, not those other guys.

Honestly, I mean no disrespect to this particular artist. He may be the nicest guy in the world (and I have it on good authority that he is indeed pleasant to work with), but at least at this one concert, he showed a distinct lack of regard for his audience. Worse yet, he exhibited no particular interest in entertaining them. To me, that’s a cardinal sin for any performer, regardless of genre.

So next time you hit the stage, keep these tips in mind … and do all you can to avoid repeating any of them.

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It’s fun to sit down at your keyboard or strap on your guitar and create music by yourself, and it’s sometimes really important to work strictly on your own, especially when it comes to honing your craft. But one of the great things about music is that you it also allows you to collaborate with others in order to take your creations to a whole new place.

The word collaborate is defined by Merriam-Webster as “to work jointly with others, especially in an intellectual endeavor.” But this only touches the surface of what collaboration really is. Especially when it comes to music, collaboration is actually a healthy blend of skill, knowledge, psychology, personality, trust, talent, vision and the ability to envision what the end result could (and should) be.

In my line of work, I often collaborate with others. I do so for a variety of reasons, from the sheer fun of it to discovering something that might not have occurred to me if I were working alone. Along the way, I have found that one of the most important factors is being able to go into any collaboration with an open mind. You also must take into consideration the psyche of the person or people sitting across from you, and ascertain if they are taking the same approach as you, or a different one. Are they defensive when their ideas are questioned or changed? Do they welcome your ideas as much as you welcome theirs? Do they also have an end goal in mind that you should both be fighting for? These are all important clues as to whether the collaboration is working.

You also have to not be defensive or selfish about your own skills. I recently worked on a collection of emotive guitar cues with Ian Hatton — a well-seasoned guitarist who has worked with the likes of Robert Plant, Paul Rodgers and Jason Bonham. When I compose for TV, I normally do so on guitar, because that’s the foundation of my skill set. But I have an open enough mind to welcome working with another guitar player — someone who will bring to the table a variety of ideas, licks, phrases, parts and even instruments that I don’t have. So for this particular project I set my guitar playing aside and put on my other hats — that of composer, engineer, mixer and collaborator. Even though Ian handled all the guitar duties, I was able to create rhythmic loops as well as play bass, keys and percussion, in addition to using my mixing skills to pull it all together. Our open-minded collaboration yielded such great results that we are already working on several other projects together!

Collaboration can also be enhanced by a healthy sense of competition. In an article entitled How Lennon and McCartney Used Collaboration and Competition to Create Genius, author Dave Clark makes some interesting points. “[Lennon and McCartney’s] collaborative genius can be seen in what many consider to be The Beatles greatest song, A Day In The Life,” he writes, “where both members came to the table with parts of incomplete songs. While vastly different in musical composition, the pair fused these parts together to create an epic masterpiece that defines their greatness.”

Clark also refers to the writing of the psychedelic song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, where, he points out, the duo “volleyed” lines back and forth, “coming up with ideas with ease, creating the definition of a true collaboration.”

But, he adds, competition also drove the pair. “During The Beatles’ heyday, when everything the [pair] wrote became a hit,” he explains, “they began to write significant parts of songs, or even entire songs, on their own. When John appeared in the studio one day with Strawberry Fields Forever, a melancholy reflection of his childhood, Paul immediately answered with Penny Lane; an interpretation of his childhood. Always trying to “one-up” each other, the pair kept raising the stakes on what it meant to write a great song. Because of this, the songs kept getting better all the time.”

So approach any collaboration with an open mind, and be willing to consider all possible ideas that may result, regardless of where they may come from. Don’t immediately discard an idea coming from your collaborator even if you may not like it. Instead, ask yourself what you can combine with their idea to create something you might not have thought of on your own. Don’t worry about who writes this part or that, and don’t fret about how much each person contributes overall. Remember, it’s the music that counts, not anyone’s ego. Think big picture, and you’ll find that sometimes one plus one equals three!

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When I was about 10 years old, my parents bought me a used upright piano for $150. It had a roughly textured black and white speckled finish. It was the oddest looking piano I’d ever seen. I wish I had a picture of it but this was before we were a culture that documented every moment of our waking lives.

Anyway, I didn’t care what she (the piano) looked like. I was just happy to have one and I couldn’t take my hands off of her. (I don’t know why she was a “she.” I just knew she was.)

Although her keys wobbled and there was no resistance in their touch, every ivory (and ebony) was intact. No breaks or chips. Tuning was, well, just okay, but whether or not she was perfectly tuned didn’t matter because I wasn’t even aware (yet) that there was such a thing as being sharp or flat. My ear wasn’t trained. The vicinity of a proper tone was just fine with me.

I loved that piano. She was my first collaborator. My first partner in crime. She accommodated my every musical whim. And she elicited creative impulse simply because she was there and I was starting to have something to say. I will never forget her.

Since then, I’ve experienced a variety of keyboards varying in quality, status and price, from an impeccably tuned 6-foot baby grand to the weathered spinet in my friends Wally and Xandy’s live room. The latter has what we call … vibe. An instrument’s vibe, or personality, gives it a unique voice. And that DNA is what matters most to me.

Recently I visited the Artist Exhibit at the Musical Instruments Museum in Phoenix, Arizona. Safely ensconced inside a Lucite case was the piano on which John Lennon conceived “Imagine.” I recalled a snippet of an interview with John in which he said he chose that particular piano because it was just a little bit “off.” I get what he meant. All vibe. “Imagine” wouldn’t be the same song if he wrote it on the gorgeous concert grand on display in the lobby …

… which of course I made sure to lay my hands on before I left. Between the favorable acoustics of the high ceiling overhead and the daily TLC maintenance it receives, I was admittedly transported by its superior sonics. Museum goers gathered ‘round to hear me play but in my mind I was alone on a planet. Inside my head. Under its spell. I could’ve stayed there for hours but 20 other people were waiting to give her a try.

At last January’s NAMM show I was introduced to an acoustic guitar with Yamaha TransAcoustic technology, with its built-in chorus and reverb — ambiance on steroids, and no amp required, either. As soon I started strumming her (guitars are females too) it was as if I was on a stage, plugged into the mixer and in the spotlight. Nice.

I felt like a better player than I actually am. Eureka! Maybe we’re more likely to bond with an instrument if it bolsters our ego. Because we write better when we’re confident. A delicious instrument shuts down any impulse to procrastinate, so we stay on the bench (or stool) longer. And let’s face it, the longer we tinker, the more likely something remarkable will fall from the sky. So personally I’m quite comfortable imagining I’m better than I am even if I’m not. (Oh, and I think one of those TransAcoustics is in my future.)

Your instrument is an extension of your soul. If it calls to you, get closer. Like Marie Kondo’s theory about keeping only items that “Spark Joy,” let’s not justify what we’re drawn to on the basis of brand name or price tag or because someone else is drawn to it. Ask yourself how an instrument makes you feel. If the answer is “inspired,” then she’s the one.

Photographs courtesy of the author.

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