The Nashville Chronicles IV (Magical Thinking)

419

“magical thinking”

 

noun

a conviction that thinking is equivalent to doing, occurring in dreams, the thought patterns of children, and some types of mental disorders, especially obsessive-compulsive disorder.

When I went to Nashville, I had a vision (fantasy really) of how things would go.  I thought I would get to town, go to a record company, they would see (through some sort of intuition or super-natural ability) in me potential, sign me, develop me as an artist, and make me famous.  Throw in a mis-guided belief of what “God’s Will” included and I had the perfect definition of “Magical Thinking.”

Although I had performed often throughout the previous 6 years, I was no where near what I needed to be on any level for what the Christian record companies were looking for.  Generally speaking, they were not looking for anyone to develop.  They were looking for solid artists who brought with them an already established fan-base.  (They asked initial questions like: Do you own your own sound system?  How big of a room can it handle?  How many of your own units did you sell last year?  What was your total concert attendance last year?) They wanted good middle of the road songs that were church-friendly. They wanted middle of the road pop-friendly mid-tempo ballads for the tiny Christian radio stations to play.  Basically, they wanted everything I was not.

My hero was Todd Rundgren.

Todd had some very pop-oriented hits for himself and that he had written for others. But he also had a distinct style, phrasing, voice, and chord construction.  When I bought his 1978 album “The Hermit of Mink Hollow” it was like a bell rang within me. This was it.  He played every instrument (including the drums and saxophone) and sang every vocal (and the vocals were heavily layered with harmonies.)  Listening to it again, the lyrics do kind of suck, as if they were an after thought.  But on the whole, it was a transcendent experience for me.  In 1981 Todd came out with another truly solo album, “Healing.”  It had better songs with better lyrics. The song “Healer” is one of my favorites to this day.

For my demo recordings I learned to play the piano, guitar, and bass.  I learned to program drums and sang lots of background vocals.  Initially my “multi-track” recordings utilized two cassette players.  I would play onto one cassette. Then I would play that cassette and sing or play along as it recorded onto the other cassette.  I would switch cassettes back and forth until I had a full sound. Eventually I bought a Tascam 244 4-track recorder.  I recorded what must have been hundreds of songs on that machine.

When I would play my demos for record people I think I would hear the song like I heard it in my head, not the way it actually sounded.  A consistent comment I heard was, “You sound like Todd Rundgren.”  Another comment I heard often was, “I like this stuff, but there is nothing I can do with it.  There is no market for this in what we do.” A slight consolation was that a few industry people asked me for demos for their own use.  They liked listening to them. They just couldn’t sell them.  I had one publisher tell me, “You should move to California and build a relationship with some of the alternative bands out there.  I could see this getting cut on an alternative album.”

Another example of my “magical thinking” is my general stubbornness.  I had a vision in my mind for how it would or should look and I wouldn’t deviate very far off of that path. I’ve tried to analyze myself over the years to my reactions to industry “feedback” and ultimately it came down to simple immaturity.

Case in point: I was at a Christian artist retreat at a rural conference center in a beautiful part of south central Tennessee.  It was full of independent/aspiring artists and a group of industry people (song writers, publishers, managers, label reps.) I had submitted my best song for a panel to review (I’m Just Like You).  It was a very personal song reflecting some of my struggles in Nashville that first year.  It was my best demo at the time and it was the song that represented me as a writer and an artist.  I had no hope for it, but I was satisfied with what it was.  There were five people on the panel.  Two established writers, an artist, and two publishers.  The demo started and the three music people immediately started bobbing their heads.  By the middle of the song they were singing harmonies to the chorus and by the end they were hooked.  The other folks in the room actually applauded.  It was a heady experience.  This was the kind of feedback I was looking for, people that “got it.”  Then Niles Borop spoke.

Niles was a prolific lyric and songwriter.  He was painfully practical.  He recently had started his own publishing company and was getting lots of cuts for his writers.  After the others had gushed about the song, Niles piped in, “Are you willing to consider a re-write of that song?”  Amy tells me I turned about three shades of red.  I was offended and not doing a good job of covering it up.  I mumbled something about other songs I would be willing to rewrite but this was a personal song and blah, blah, blah.  Niles nonchalantly relied, “Ok” and sat back in his seat.  The other writers on the panel just stared at him saying, “Well, is that all? What do you mean ‘Ok?’”

“Obviously he’s unwilling to work with me, so I’m not interested.”  He then went on to explain (at my expense no less) that publishers don’t want to work with people who were inflexible. They were there to produce a marketable product, not to promote individual self-expression.   He said the song had huge potential, but not if I was unwilling to rewrite it.  Ouch.

I went on to have a nice relationship with Niles.  He published me and even pitched one of my songs that got on-hold until the artist lost his deal and moved to another label and by then had picked all new songs.

I always kept “I’m Just Like You” for myself.  I recorded it and performed it solo and with bands, but its scope and influence was limited to what I could do with it, which was very little.  My magical thinking finally gave way to practical thinking, but by then it was too late.  My window of opportunity had closed.

My boys and many of their friends now have performance aspirations.  I have been very (maybe too) supportive of those dreams.  I’ve tried to talk and lead in a very practical way so that they see the reality of what it takes to be a performance artist and professional.  If any of them see the reality of making their living through performance and art, I’ll be satisfied that I led them the right way. If they don’t, I’ll still be satisfied that they went into it with their eyes open and that they gave it a realistic shot without regret…and without magical thinking.

chris