My identity as a musician was so wrapped up in performing and it seemed I was relying on the approval of the audience for validation. I’d shared many exciting moments with audiences up to that point – all very genuine – but what about moments between myself and my music? Between myself and the piano? Not many.

Fast forward to November 2010. Boston’s Jamaica Plains neighborhood. I was about to give a house concert at my friend David Fainsilber’s apartment. There were about a dozen people in the room, and the piano was in a corner up against the wall. My back was going to be turned towards the audience for the show, and I was a bit apprehensive about this. I liked to look at the audience throughout my shows, because I felt this was the best way to connect with them. But for this concert, I adapted, and after making a few connecting glances over my shoulder during the first few songs, I gave myself over fully to the piano and went on faith that the audience was with me during my songs.

That night I got much deeper into my music than I had been in a very long time. My songs came fully alive for me again and I was completely present in the act of playing and singing them. It was kind of like opening my eyes after they’d been closed for a while. I wasn’t a performer that night – I was a musician communing with that special music spirit. And it showed the most in my piano playing. I felt very free with my playing.

Which brings me back to another living room. The one with my childhood piano. The neighborhood is Hampstead in Montreal. The piano is a shiny black Wagner upright. The room is in the front of the house, no doors to speak of. All sounds can be heard reverberating throughout the rest of the house. There are three big windows that overlook the street. The piano is also in a corner.

This is where I grew up with music. It’s where I learned Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and Dave Brubeck’s “Strange Meadow Lark”. It’s where I devoured those two dark green soft-cover “Billy Joel Complete” volumes I took out from the Cote St-Luc library time and time again. It’s where I spent countless afternoons fooling around with major seven chords and blues riffs until songs of my own began to form. And my family heard every bit of it. But at this piano, I was rarely self-conscious. There could have been a party going on and I wouldn’t have cared. I felt completely safe and inspired and connected to the music.

So what happened since those days?

I don’t really know. But I do know that I want to reclaim that feeling. Or find a new version of it. Everything begins at home. Inside ourselves, in our bedroom, in our kitchen. I’ve lost touch with a lot of my home, with what made me tick back then. And it’s been easy at times for me to appear creatively connected in the eyes of the outside world. But it’s not something that can sustain itself. I’ve been focused outward for too long, and now I’m beginning to look inside again. It’s important for me again to make time to just be alone at a piano with no pre-conceived plan of what to accomplish. Not even to write a song. If that comes, then that’s fine. I won’t fight it. But that feeling of just being lost in the music and losing all track of time – that is an incredible feeling. It’s what got me hooked in the first place. I don’t want to ever lose that feeling. And for me, it will always be traced back to those hours spent at my childhood piano.

This past summer I was visiting Montreal on my way down east to play some shows. I stopped by my childhood home to play piano for a few hours one morning. That old spirit must have still been in the room, because I wrote a song about it. And the main hook of the song is a wordless “oooo” vocal, and I must have sung that for a half hour straight until I got choked up. I’ll leave you with this song. Here’s the demo (Musical Night (demo)) I recorded that day, and here are the lyrics:

MUSICAL NIGHT

Oooohh …

Take an old dancehall
Swing it to the top
Play me that Memphis soul
Take an old dancehall
Never press stop
Now I don’t feel so old

CHORUS 1:
When there’s music movin’ through me
All my blues is a used to be
When there’s music, the sky lights
With a musical night
With a musical night

Oooohhh…

Take an old chorus
Sing it six times
‘Till I don’t know my name
Take an old chorus
Ever in my mind
And baby, that’s why I came

CHORUS 2:
When there’s music runnin’ through you
Don’t you lose it – it’s gotta move
When there’s music, it’s “Bye, uptight!”
Here’s a musical night
Here’s a musical night

BRIDGE:
I’ll take the tape to the fire-escape
I can’t lose the news but tonight I’ll shake
‘Till I can’t confuse what’s fake with the sound of …

Ooooohhh …

CHORUS 3:
When there’s music movin’ through me
I can’t confuse it – I am free
I want music – alright!
Another musical night
Another musical night

Oooohhhh ….

After playing a handful of shows, we decided to join a Battle of the Bands that was being held at this (now-defunct) huge venue in town, The Spectrum, where I had seen The Wallflowers and Elliott Smith play. Deciding that we needed a band to back us up (Dave played guitar and I played piano and guitar), we recruited my 15 year old brother Mark to play drums, a banjo player named Terry Joe who Dave had met in the metro, and a charismatic bass player, Kevin, who we had met at the weekly old-timey country night at The Wheel Club. Together we called ourselves The Bandwagon, and we played poppy country rock. The Spectrum Battle of the Bands was going to be our first show, and my first time singing with a band.

For three weeks we practiced at Kevin’s jam space near the Molson brewery, slowly finding our sound. It was a lot of fun. When the night arrived, we were all excited and more than a little nervous. My most vivid memory of the night is looking over at my brother during one of the piano songs and seeing this fixed look of awe on his face. Total adrenalin. It all happened so fast. We played 5 or 6 songs and I got a good vibe from the audience.

I wish I had left it at that and accepted the night as a giant learning experience and one more notch under my belt. But I was so young and very insecure. I was affected by the competitive nature of the Battle of the Bands, and when we didn’t place in the Top 3 at the end of the night, I was very bruised. Instead of getting back on that horse, I went to find a hole to hide in. The Bandwagon played one more show after that, but personality differences led to us breaking up. Dave and I kept playing together for a while, but I soon ended that too. I remember telling my brother that I wasn’t interested in writing and performing songs anymore, that the form was too limiting for me. I invented a new kind of music in my mind – Roll. No fixed arrangements, mostly improvised, unconventional instruments like the “mbira” (thumb piano from Zimbabwe). Basically a 360 turn from what I was doing with The Bandwagon.

I didn’t write a song for about 2 years. While I did discover a lot of cool music during this period and the experimentation probably brought some new depth to my own music, I now believe this was the first in a series of “slow downs” I initiated while pursuing music. For me it goes like this: I begin to put effort into a certain creative endeavor, I get excited, I start to expose my efforts publicly, I experience what I believe to be resistance or indifference, I become insecure and self-doubtful, I stop the creative endeavor and begin to explore other avenues for a while. And when I come back to being creative, the cycle starts again.

I think there’s a certain degree of healthiness in creative restlessness, but not to the point of abandoning projects before they’re finished – just because you’ve met some resistance. Like any relationship, creativity requires commitment, even through the hard times. That’s the only way to grow. The trick is staying connected and motivated while staying on track. I find the best way to do that is to forget about the ‘big picture’ for a while and focus in on the nuances, the details – to basically enjoy the process from day to day. Nothing happens over night.

I look back on that Battle of the Bands 15 years ago and think about how lucky I was to perform in front of that many people at that age. Since then I’ve performed countless times in front of empty houses, and they’ve been just as much a learning experience. Though I probably felt just as discouraged at the time as I did after the Battle of the Bands. As time marches on, I’m leaving less and less of the gaps in between these creative hurdles and the music is taking on a momentum all on its own. I guess what I’m saying is I’ve realized there are no shortcuts – we all have to put in our time at becoming good at whatever it is we’re passionate about. The hard part for me, funny enough, is trusting in that sacred time spent between me and my music – trusting that it will lead me to good places. I’m in good hands. But everything that’s good takes time. And I’ll probably never feel like I’ve arrived anywhere. So the best I can do is to enjoy the ‘doing’. These days, anytime I’m in a music moment, if I’m lucky, I can see nothing before me or after me – this is it. Give it yer all.

In a couple of days I’ll write about my childhood piano. See you then!

You gotta have Nuf as you’re pursuing your creative endeavors. It makes it a lot easier to tap into the freewheeling energy that leads us to undiscovered and unthinkable parts of ourselves.

When I was recording my last album, Do You Feel The World?, in Nashville with Brad Jones, I came to a cross-roads when I needed to be reminded of this. We were doing overdubs one day. I had been singing harmonies, playing tack piano and rhythm guitar. The overdubbing process allows you to play a certain part over and over again until you feel you got it right. My old friend, the perfectionist, was perking up a lot on this day. Nothing seemed good enough, and I just wasn’t having fun. I felt I was sucking all the life out of the music. Tensed up, closed down. No joy, in or out. That night I took a long walk and put up these signs …

Redecorating Alex The Great Studios in Nashville

In the morning, I was planning to go for a run – in fact I was counting on it to shake me up. But what happened instead was totally unexpected and far more effective. It all went down at the laundromat at 8 in the morning. It was pouring rain, and I decided my original plan of running while my clothes were getting clean was not gonna happen. What to do then?

I discovered this Ms. Pacman machine in the corner. Growing up I never played much Pacman, so I was curious. I hopped to the machine to see what it was saying. It didn’t take me long to get sucked in – I was on my tippy-toes, tilting left and right as Ms. Pacman made her way through her world. I was transfixed, obsessed. I played it for 30 straight minutes – had to be careful not to blow my dryer change.

By the time I made it back to the studio, I barely had enough time for my usual “getting tuned” routine of yoga. Did a few stretches while listening to Sweet Emma and then jumped in the shower. I was thrown into the new day with just a 30 minute Ms. Pacman workout under my belt.

But what a day it was!

Skipping a vocal warmup, I bluffed my way through the backup vocals for “Sweet Emma’s Group” and “Shuffleboard Prince”. And my voice was open, man. It had vibe and I was hitting notes I didn’t know I could hit. I sounded like Nilsson at times. Jim Hoke arrived and laid down boisterous sax and clarinet for those two songs next.

Post playing

Everything was flowing. One or two takes. No second-guessing. After a leisurely late lunch at Calypso Cafe, my friends Bill and Melanie (who are now engaged) showed up and we sang backup vocals for “Do You Feel The World”, “Sweet Emma’s Group”, “We’ll Meet Again” and “Gotta Sing”.

All the while I was conscious not to let the atmosphere get too serious, which was hard! It took some faith. Sometimes desperate measure were needed, like in this instance:

Me and Melanie, she's probably still in shock

Sometimes it doesn’t come naturally – this ability to just have fun when I’m making music – but it’s worth pursuing, because I think it brings great spirit and depth to the music and ultimately brings out the best in the performance, whether in the studio, live or even while writing songs.

Over the years of performing, I’ve definitely been learning to relax more and do something fun before I hit the stage, instead of just warming up and thinking about it so much. It could be playing ping-pong, pool, climbing a tree, sketching, playing Hang-man, or dancing. Sometimes these are better warm-ups than the conventional ones.

photo by Ezra Soiferman

I would say that I’m definitely still on the road with this. Still learning. Still evolving. There’s lot of room for improvement. But it’s a start.

When have you found that Nuf has been more effective than the old-fashioned work-ethic?

Next Tuesday, I’ll be talking about “just doing it”. See you then!

I’m starting with a multi-part riff on how my relationship to music and creativity has evolved over the last 15 years, since I started to sing my songs in public at the Yellow Door Coffeehouse in Montreal. And so the journey begins.

LIFE EXPERIENCE

It’s been a slow ride, but I’m beginning to realize that the art you create can only be as rich as the life you lead.

The bike I rode while recording in Nashville in 2010

I went to Concordia University for Communications in my hometown, Montreal. Like most of my high-school peers, I stayed living at my parents’ house (isn’t it weird how at some point it becomes your “parents’ house” and not your own?). It didn’t even occur to me that I might want to leave Montreal and experience something different. All through university, I stayed in Montreal – I was still working on the basic stuff like finding the courage to ask girls out and make friends.

My summers were spent working as a councillor at Camp Massad, a Jewish summer camp in the Laurentians. My first (and last, outside of touring Canada and the US) trip to explore some other part of the world was in 2001, when I drove with my friends Eran and Robbie from Montreal to Austin, Texas. That trip opened my eyes a bit and eventually led to me writing the song “Stay Gritty”.

After university, I lived for part of 2002 and 2003 with my aunt and uncle in Highland Park, New Jersey, and spent many nights sleeping on couches in New York City and going to coffeehouses and beginning to learn about all the talented people there are out there. I learned a lot about music – but I never dove into the wild river that is living and making art in New York City. It was all very tentative. While I don’t regret it, I left NYC and was back at “my parents’ house” – borrowing money to begin recording and learning with the amazing Brothers Creeggan in Canada.

The Brothers Creeggan, Kurt Swinghammer, Paul Forgues and me during the sessions for "I'll Bring The Stereo"

While the 20’s can be an exciting time when a lot of us travel, explore and soak it all up, I feel I’m just beginning to let go of the anxious need to always be producing and promoting something, allowing time to peak around the corners I’ve previously hurried past (probably on my way to the gig) and live a bit more. It’s showing itself in subtle strokes like accepting an invitation to a potluck from a yoga teacher whose class I had just taken in Dufferin Grove Park earlier that evening – to broader strokes like beginning to plan a trip to Mali this year (my first time overseas, expect for traveling to Israel).

For me, a fuller life has to do with relaxing and letting in the infinate shades that float past my senses every day. And I’m learning to trust this thing called Life, that it will eventually come around and share some of its bounty with the artist in me and filter back out to you somehow.

What are some of your watershed life experiences? How have they influenced your work?

The best sandwiches I've ever had, this place is in Burlington, VT

Music listened to while writing this post:
Bill Frisell’s Nashville
The Beach Boys’ Carl & The Passions – “So Tough”
and a bit of Carters Family

There will be lots of shows coming up in the new year. I’m starting to put together a band here in Toronto. I met Gabe Girrard accidentally when he was playing with my friend Chris Bartos at the Local one night. We hit it off and I’ve been enjoying playing with him. He’s still in Humber for music, but we’d love to be touring together, so that’ll happen in the new year. And Hayley Gene and I have been singing together since we met in January at the James Taylor Tribute at Hugh’s Room. She’s game to follow me when I get an idea to sing some crazy off-the-cuff melodies, so she’s cool in my books. We’re having fun as a trio right now, but eventually we’ll start adding other musicians. I’m digging the piano-drums combo. Kind of like the White Stripes, only piano and not guitar. Gives me the freedom I like to go off into new places. In time there will be bass.

The first show of 2012 will likely be on February 1st in Toronto at Musideum, with a Bechstein grand piano.

In the meantime, here’s a photo with another band I’ve been playing with, The Happy Pals.

And here’s the Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dave-Smalley-and-The-Farm-House-5/147696191968286