My initial, almost-but-not-quite random playlist was way too big for one listen, so I carved it in two.
Even combined they don't represent more than a taste of a dip into a foray into a notion of an idea of the beginning of the edge of the margins of the faintest wisp of the world of songwriting... but these are damn good songs!
TITLE, ARTIST, ALBUM, WRITER
Ain't a Woman Somebody When She's Gone- Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver, Lonely Street (Buddy Cannon, Tommy Collins)
Beautiful - Lori Cullen, Buttercup Bugle (Gordon Lightfoot)
Four Letter Word (For Lonesome) - Laura Smith, b'tween the earth and my soul (W. Hillier and Laura Smith)
I'll Have To Say I Love You In A Song - Jim Croce, Photographs & Memories: His Greatest Hits (Jim Croce)
In the Jailhouse Now, #1 - Steve Forbert, Young Guitar Days (Jimmie Rodgers)
Killing the Blues - Allison Kraus &Robert Plant, Raising Sand (Rowland Salley)
The Lovers Are Here And They're Full of Sweat - Jonathan Richman, Because Her Beauty is Raw and Wild (Jonathan Richman)
None of Us are Free - Solomon Burke & The Blind Boys of Alabama, Don't Give Up On Me (Barry Mann, Brenda Russell; Cynthia Weil)
Old Pigweed - Mark Knopfler, The Ragpicker's Dream (Mark Knopfler)
The Roses on Annie's Table - Bob Bossin, The Roses on Annie's Table (Bob Bossin)
That Lucky Old Sun (Just Rolls Around Heaven All Day) - k.d. lang & Tony Bennet, A Wonderful World (Harry Beasley Smith, Haven Gillespie)
Tower of Song - Leonard Cohen, Live in London (Leonard Cohen)
What's Going On - Marvin Gaye, What's Going On (Al Cleveland, Marvin Gaye, Renaldo Benson)
Where the Blue of the Night - John Prine & Mac Wiseman, Standard Songs for Average People (Bing Crosby, Fred E. Alhert, Roy Turk)
Bear with me - I'll be adding links and annotation to help people do the research on what makes these tunes special to my ears. And there will be more... the tower of song is of infinite height, and its foundations, of infinite depth.
Response to my first lo-fi uke videos within my Facebook community has been positive, so I thought I'd take a deep breath and release one to the world at large.
After experimenting with a couple of instrumental covers on the uke I thought I'd double the stakes and do an original, then double again and do a vocal.
This song was inspired by the area around Lunenburg, Nova Scotia and an untrue story that never happened there, but the catalyst was a bit of graffiti in the washroom at the Free Times Cafe in Toronto reading "Rosie Can You Read This."
This is the first arrangement I've found for this tune on the uke that works for me - possibly because I'm playing one that's tuned ADF#B, putting it a little bit closer to my proper range.
Funny, I've performed on stage in front of some very big crowds, but the simple act of doing a one-take web-cam ukulele video somehow makes me a little nervous all over again. What's with that?
At Summerfolk I had the great experience of being a facilitator for a songwriting workshop, along with Alex Sinclair and Heather McLeod. Each of us helped direct our own groups of about 6 people, and we had about 45 minutes to assemble some ideas and turn them into a song, which we then performed in our groups.
I was really lucky to have the Moxywoman in my group. Her ability to honour everyone's gifts with grace was a boon to our process, and she also has a chorister's appreciation for melody. Plus she took notes and pictures...
The process was pretty basic. A blue sky session produced a bunch of ideas, and a turn of phrase we all liked: "the face of kindness." We then took that notion and explored it a little bit in images, which we eventually pared down to poetry that would make solid lyrics.
Once we had a rhyme scheme and the images for each verse, we picked out a pretty melody and some simple accompaniment. That was then overlaid with three stanzas of lyrics, and the result was a prayer-like song which we all seemed to appreciate. We performed it en masse for the whole company.
TMW and I are now sharing ideas back and forth to fashion a bridge and/or chorus for the song. I'll be performing it first chance I get... campfire at Shelter Valley, anyone?
The Face of Kindness
C G C How old do you think I am?
Am G F I'm eighty-four and I live next door.
C G C (With a) tired heart and tired hands,
Am G C But I see the face of kindness.
How long do you think I'll live? Will I have time to make my mark? There's so much love I want to give. Will I know the face of kindness?
How long will these towers stand? What stops the sun from rising? Clouds and shadows on the land. Reveal the face of kindness.
Copyright 2006 (S. Atkins, R. Barreca, R. Davis, C. Lang, R. Moore, D. Newland)
I recently had the pleasure of working with a truly inspired young artist by the name of Zoe Glover.
Zoe's dad Michael is the painter with whom I've been of collaborating with in multiple media over the past few years.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. A few weeks ago, Zoe (age 9) and I spent an afternoon working on a song together at the new Lawless Gallery in Grafton. Here's what we wrote:
Crossing the Desert words & music by Zoe Everett Devereaux-Glover & David Newland
Crossing the desert On a camel Sand is golden As her hair Wind is blowing Dust is drifting Night is falling Almost there.
Donkey walking Voices talking Shadows shifting Everywhere In the moonlight By the fire bright Fire flies dancing In her hair...
<--! Imported from The Shed Out Back, 1/1/2009 -->
I don't know exactly when the anniversary is, but at some point in the past few months, this website celebrated its third birthday. I do know that I've been banging away more or less weekly at this diary (it was never daily!) since June 11 of 2003. That makes it the longest journal I've ever kept.
It's been an interesting journey. I started out trying to chronicle my second kick at the can as a performing songwriter, and wound up considering the state of my own soul against the background of the stimulating and challenging new environments I was hurtling through. Self-reflection to the point of navel-gazing seems to have become my stock in trade, although I've earnestly tried to limit my posts to what I thought might be useful to others along their own very different paths. I thought of it as "growing out loud" and I hope it's been of some interest to my readers at least.
But I confess that it's no longer of much interest to me. I'm tired of writing "I", for one thing. I took on the first-person narrative partly in reaction to the third-person PR that a lot of us singer-songwriters make up about ourselves; I was seeking something a little more genuine, I suppose. Still, it seems to me now that's just a form of narcissism that disguises itself as modesty.
In any case, as I near the three-year anniversary of my first post, I find myself wanting to wrap up this chunk of time and all the reflections on it, stow it somewhere, and start fresh. That was then, this is now, right? And I'd really rather deal with "now," now!
I don't know where that takes me next. There's still the matter of the big bold word "diary" in my navigation bar, and I wouldn't mind it linking to something fresh and current. There are parts of this journey that continue to require working out in words, I think. Whether they're worth sharing, I don't know.
I'm awkwardly aware that this may sound like I'm feeling insecure about readership. I assure you that's not the case. In fact, knowing that people do read these words regularly makes me squeamish about making any changes; I hate to take a chance on disappointing supporters. At the same time, I've got a keen sense that the time has come to do it a little differently, and I've got to follow that feeling.
I'm a late bloomer on the music scene, and my growth has been modest and methodical at best. And you know what? I'm no rockstar, but I feel great about my trajectory. For me, it's all about how not to fade.
I never made any money as a musician til I was 20 years old, and when I did, it was busking in the Montreal subway. I never got paid to do a gig until I was about 24, and when I did, it was passing the hat in Halifax cafes. I never put out an album until I was 33, and when I did, it was a live album recorded in front of 16 people in a rickety old church in Nova Scotia.
I've haven't won a showcase or a songwriting contest yet. I've never had a big review in the Star or the Globe. I've never headlined a festival; in fact I've rarely done a solo set on a main stage. I'm nearly 37 and I still pass the hat at cafes...
On the other hand, I've had some great things happen to me. I've written the theme song for a major television production, won "best music" for the soundtrack to a canoeing film, hosted the Gordon Lightfoot Tribute series for 4 years, and hosted and played at a fairly impressive list of festivals. I've gotten a bit of a name "on the scene" and have been able to contribute to a community I believe in in a wide variety of ways.
I'm not a sprinter. Someone told me once I was like the Second Law of Thermodynamics: it takes a lot to get me going, but once I'm going it's impossible to slow me down. And so I find myself within shouting distance of 40, my youth fading behind me, and a surprising feeling of accomplishment surging through my veins.
I always loved music with all my heart. I was always a creative and an expressive person, and I've manifested that in many ways, in many media. But as much as I loved to write and to sing and to perform, I'd be the first to admit it's not what I'm best at.
And yet, it's what I've returned to, time and time again. It's what I've sacrificed for, and suffered for, and struggled through. I've gone from dreaming of glory to carefully considering practical plans to just keep at it, and it's never been easy.
Still, it's never been wrong, and it's never been so hard I've had to stop and give up and go home. I've seen greater lights than me shine brightly, then fade, then go out all together. And I've learned to let my own small light shine steadily. I work hard not to flicker and flare.
I'm sometimes in the darkness, and often in the shadows of others. I'm never the main attraction and I'm mostly a role player, a journeyman who's banking on being a veteran, not a fancy dancer who can dazzle with his brilliance.
But I'm strong on the puck. It's hard to knock me off my game. I've got a steady stride and wicked determination. I'm strong and getting stronger. I'm a great team player part, part chaplain, part clown, part apprentice and part mentor, and I'm giving it my whole heart.
I am still going, still growing, still glowing, and I am not about to fade!
Last fall, there was a discussion on the maplepost list-serv about protest songs. Someone asked why there were no songs about the Iraq war, given the role music had played during the Vietnam conflict... I responded this way.
There are tons of songs being written and played about this war. Since we're all chiming in... I've got 2, plus others I wrote for the first Gulf War, blah blah.
It's really just like writing songs about the weather: for the entire time I've been writing songs, there have been ongoing global crises far worse than Vietnam, although perhaps without the resonant symbolism for which that war has become so famous. That's what the world is like today, I'm afraid.
That said, there are still some very fine anti-war musicians from the post-Vietnam era. In fact, some of them are massively popular. U2 (slightly older than me) is only one example. Eminem (slightly younger) is another. I could go on and on.
The truth is that there will never be a time like the sixties again.The convergence of post-war idealism and pacifism, plus a burgeoning "youth market" with money to burn, to whom record companies were eager to cater, and the notion that North American youth could actually change the world... it's over folks.
I marched in protests against the Gulf War, and all that. Our numbers were small and our cause was hopeless from the outset. Thankfully we hadn't set our goals too high; we were too sophisticated even as kids for that. We were teenagers in the 80s, when the sixties finally came around. We knew the score.
A lot of people out there write and play in hopes of positive results. I'm one of them and there are millions. But the world is really, really complicated. There are twice as many people in it as there were a generation ago, with fewer resources to go around and more at stake in general. It makes it really hard to stand up and say what's wrong and what's right with authority. Even for the converted.
I write sincerely and I play with honesty and fire. I like to think people walk away from my shows feeling better about themselves, and perhaps more thoughtful about the world in general.
What more can one artist do?
<--! Imported from The Shed Out Back, 1/1/2009 -->
To explain why I play 'folk' music, I've got to start by saying what that term means to me. 'Folk' isn't really a standard genre, in my view. The term folk, meaning 'people,' describes (to me) not the sound of the music or the meaning of the lyrics, but the overall approach to the creation and performance of that music, whatever the songs may sound like in the final expression.
Unlike some genres (polka, for example) which can be objectively defined by a fairly narrow set of parameters, the definition of folk seems to me totally subjective, and ever-changing, for both player and listener.
That makes some people uncomfortable ("what do you mean, you can't describe your music in one word?"), but I think it's apt: folk as I understand it demands that both listener and performer are engaged on a personal level; that is, in part, where the notion of folk as "authentic" music seems to reside.
But there's another important aspect of folk that is distinctive: its capacity for absorption. I think folk is the meta-genre that comfortably consumes all genres. Folk perpetuates as an ever-changing entity that resists the usual critics' and historians' urges to flash-freeze it at a point in time, and henceforth treat that sound as canonical.
Folk as I understand it is (and please excuse the artspeak) is a post-modern endeavour: at least, it depends heavily on post-modern tropes such as appropriation, self-reflection, and the willing revelation of the constructive or creative process.
Is it ironic that 'folk,' a term often associated with sentimental notions about the past, could bear comparison with a highly contemporary artistic approach? Personally, I don't think so. I don't think I'm a throwback, or that most of us are - I think we're totally contemporary musicians and artists.
Back to the question, how did I wind up becoming a folk musician? Simple, really: I listened to everything I could, and eventually I started making songs out of the raw materials of what I heard. Whatever I could manage to write and play I did, and pretty much just grew from there.
Being a folk musician is like being Canadian: drawing nourishment from our deep, long roots, our branches can reach everywhere, as we stand tall and proud and strong, right where we are, here and now.
In the last little while, I've been playing music more frequently than ever before - working with three different bands, doing gigs of my own, practicing and pushing my limits a lot. It feels great; in fact it feels like I'm on the cusp of actually becoming a musician.
I know that technically speaking, I am a musician already because I play several musical instruments. But until recently, I have never really felt I had earned that term: I didn't have the chops, I hadn't paid my dues, and I was far too aware of my own failings. 'Musician' isn't just a term to me; it's a title. It's not to be thrown around lightly, let alone haphazardly applied to oneself...
Lately, though, I've been sensing the approach of a great epiphany like the one I had about five years ago. At the time, I was almost entirely inactive as a performer. I had gone five years without playing a solo gig, and was unknown outside of Nova Scotia where I'd made some modest inroads years before. All I had done, musically speaking, since moving to Toronto was to write, and write, and to write songs and more songs.
I'd always written songs, but now I was writing in earnest, and I was starting to take some real pride in what I wrote. And one day, after laboriously entering every song I'd ever written into my computer, I printed up all the lyrics in chronological order, and it made a pile of paper about an inch-and-a half thick.
The simple weight of that stack did something important for me. I looked at that sheaf, and all the hard work and emotion and thought and time it represented, and I said to myself, quietly but with conviction, "Newland, you're a songwriter." All the demons of self-doubt couldn't shout loudly enough to drown out that thought, and anyway, the evidence was in: obviously, I write songs. I'm a songwriter. There, I said it.
More recently, after dragging myself back onto the stage to do justice to these little gems that had meant so much to me, I put gig after gig after gig onto my concert calendar, and grew, and learned, and gained confidence on stage, and eventually took a look at the long list of performances over the past few years and concluded, almost reluctantly, "Newland, you're a performer." Imagine the noise the demons made then. But who could argue with the evidence?
This morning it's the muscles in my right arm and upper back refusing all argument. I jammed for about 5 hours last night with a group of pretty good musicians, mostly playing stuff none of us had ever played before. We made some magic and we played some crap, but the point is that we did it. I did it, and I'm doing it: Five hours of music last night. Four the night before that. A couple hours of playing each on Saturday, Friday, Thursday, Wednesday... and I've got instruments within arm's reach right now. I play them throughout the day, snatching moments to make music. Come to think of it I've been doing that my whole life.
Well, that's what I do, right? I make music. I'm a musician. There, I said it. Now if I can just keep doing it for another forty years or so... I may even decide I've earned it
AFRAID OF THE DARK ANOTHER STONE UPON THE MOUND ANYONE BUT YOU ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN BACK IN FOREST GLADE BREAKIN' DOWN CARRY ME AWAY CHARITY CHURCH DAVID AND GOLIATH DIRTY LITTLE DUTY DO NOT SPEAK EASY AGAIN EMPTY SOUND THE END OF THE RAINBOW ENOLA GAY FADED PHOTOGRAPH FASTER THAN YOU KNOW FIRST OF ALL FLASH FLOOD FOOTSTEPS THE FOX AND THE HOUND FROM THE CHAIR TO THE DOOR GOD KNOWS GOLDEN REFLECTIONS GREY NOVEMBER DAY THE HANDLE OF YOUR HEART HANGIN' JUDGE HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS HERE TO STAY THE HOCKEY HYMN I SAW THE LIGHT I TOOK MY BODY DOWN IN ONE EAR AND OUT THE OTHER INHUMAN RACE IT'S A NEW WORLD JESUS CAME BACK THE KING IS GONE LAST STAMPEDE IN BABYLON LOTTO PARADISE LOVE, LOVE MY GOODNESS NOVA SCOTIA GIRL THE OLD DOWN EAST OLD MAN'S WORKSHOP THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT OVER AND OVER AND OVER PEDDLIN POPPIES REMEMBER THIS ROLL AWAY ROSIE CAN YOU READ THIS RUN TERRY RUN SAME OLD SONG SHELTER VALLEY ROAD SINCE THE DEVIL LEFT TOWN ST MICHAEL TOLD ME SO STATUE MADE OF STONE SWEET BAYBERRY BUSH SWEET MOLLY S EYES THERE BUT FOR NOTHIN THERE YOU ARE THIS CAMERA TWO WOLVES FIGHTING WAITING FOR ROSALIE WE TALK IN DREAMS WHEN GORDIE CAME BACK WHEN THE WHISTLE BLOWS WHIRLING AROUND THE SUN THE WINE AND THE SONG
I just found this in my "sent items" folder. I had nominated Valdy for an Estelle Klein award. The very deserving Ken Whiteley won, but there will be other chances. I offer this for consideration out there.
Although he lives on the West Coast now (when he’s home!), Valdy was a son of Ottawa who shed the uniform of a blueblood private school for the faded jeans of an itinerant musician. His career has been inextricably linked to Ontario, and he still spends a great deal of time and effort promoting folk music and worthy causes in this province. He’s a long-time favourite of the festival scene here, and deservedly so. No one has lived the life of the independent Canadian musician more authentically, or more successfully.
Valdy has been an influence and a mentor to many, many folk and roots artists in Ontario. During the 1970s his songs rang over the airwaves across the province, part of a burst of recorded Canadian folk that included Gordon Lightfoot and Murray McLachlan. For some of us, Valdy’s tunes were among the first Canadian songs we’d ever heard on the radio. In my own case “Rock & Roll Song” was the first song I learned when I picked up a guitar at age 17. Valdy won Junos before they were even called Junos – and characteristically carted them around behind the seat of his truck. He claims he used them as chucks when changing tires!
There is no more generous spirit, more open heart, more tireless preacher of the roots gospel than Valdy. Love songs, protest songs, sad songs, funny songs… any and all ways of touching the audience with music, laughter, and positive energy are tricks of this troubadour’s trade. His immense talent is only overshadowed by his incredible human spirit. He remembers people. He cares about people. He blesses people by being around them. He dedicates himself to causes - whether saving blue herons, celebrating other musicians or striking down hypocrisy on the golf course - with passion and commitment. Valdy lives in a state of joy. He brings a sense of amiable dignity to the noble and often thankless pursuit of sharing music in real ways, with real people at every turn along the long and winding road.
I wrote this one time when I was crazy. Every time I get crazy again, I sing it to myself. It's pretty darned effective, I can tell you. Don't worry about the tune. Sing it any way you like.
Years ago, I wrote this little ditty for a friend of mine. The car in question was really a Pontiac Parisienne, but let's not quibble about details. Parisienne doesn't rhyme like Oldsmobile does.
Anyway, I pulled this tune out for the first time in about 15 years at Rasputin's in Ottawa last weekend, with the real Shelley in attendance, and strummed it out on the ukulele. "Feel good song of the decade!" proclaimed Shelley, and lo, it was good.
I've got a friend named Shelley and she motors right along She drives a mighty Oldsmobile that's 99 feet long It towers up above her like a gleaming wall of steel The legendary monster known as Shelley's Oldsmobile
It holds three dozen people, a dog and a case of beer It's got two seperate engines for the front and for the rear If you've ever steered a battleship you'll know just how it feels To be roaring down the highway in Shelley's Oldsmobile
Now Shelley's from Saskatchewan and her town is pretty small If you sneezed while driving by you might not notice it at all The place was becoming a ghost town til the mayor made Shelley a deal And the tourists came from miles around to see Shelley's Oldsmobile
Well Shelley came to Montreal and the Oldsmobile came too And we drive all over the city when there's nothing better to do We all load up on cigarettes and Shelley takes the wheel And we head on down Ste. Catherine street in Shelley's Oldsmobile
But just about three weeks ago we ran right out of luck And we've been driving since that day, I guess we're really stuck This was my biggest nightmare, but now it's all too real We just can't find a parking place for Shelley's Oldsmobile
Yeah we've run right out of cigarettes and we sure could use a meal... But we're doomed to ride forever in Shelley's Oldsmobile.
I work a guy who once said, after a notable verbal gaffe in the cafeteria, "If I was a super-hero, I'd be Lunchroom Faux-Pas Man."
I saw The Incredibles on the weekend and it got me thinking about what my super-power would be. I speculated it might be Almost Uncontrollable Hair, but that seemed a little shallow. I thought about it some more, and I then I remembered my most distinctive power: my Velcro Soul!
Yes, it's true. Everything sticks to me. I can't help it. Fallen-down barns, abandoned trucks, the sky on a moonlit night, AM radio hits from the seventies, useless junk on the curb... all stick to me like crazy, thanks to the power of my Velcro Soul. That's the secret behind my songwriting, and pretty much everything I do creatively. It also leads to a lot of moping, but hey, every super-power has its side effects.
I found this when cleaning out my Inbox recently. A shred of song that never came to be. It was meant as a tribute to Peter Gzowski. I had a lot of different feelings about him and his work, but admiration was always foremost among them and Morningside memories are still strong for me.
The first blurb is a chorus. The second is a verse. The verse describes an image from my true-life exodus from Nova Scotia to Toronto, driving an 83 Ford Ranger back to my childhood home on two cylinders, with my life in flames behind me. One particular interview Gzowski did that morning had a profound influence on me, and I quit smoking right at that moment.
Peter's ghost is still the host of a radio show in heaven
You can hear him coast to coast from seven to eleven
That smoky voice is still my choice when all I want to hear
Is the morning side of Canada, a-chuckling in my ear
I was rolling up a smoke and steering with my knee
That voice on the old truck radio was my only company
I lost my love, I lost my pride, and all that I held true
And the spirit of the countryside was the only hope I knew
There is really nothing in the world like carpentry. I mean putting boards together with nails to make structures. I use this as a metaphor for songwriting all the time, but right now I really just mean carpentry in the true sense of the word. Lumber, nails, and a plan, at least a vague one. You just start putting those things together, and you instantly feel great.
I've been building a bicycle shed as an annex to my back deck. A simple structure but I insisted on making it slightly Zen, sizing up the space really carefully, and modifying the approach as I went along to make it sit just right in the tiny landscape of my backyard. So now, as it nears completion, it's more than a rudimentary lean-to shelter. It's a work of craft, built in response to a basic need. But as it grows, and I interact with it, and it forms a relationship with the space around it... it somehow becomes a thing of beauty.
