Artists are born into all sorts of households, in all sorts of neighbourhoods at every point in history. We then spend the rest of our days finding our real home, our real tribe, our real time.
Some of us are ahead of our time but most of us are well behind it. The world is spinning too fast for us. We just want pencil, paper and a vegie patch (although our hands are often too soft for any manual labour.) Go listen to The Beach Boys' I Just Wasn't Made For These Times. Funny thing is that Brian Wilson was totally made for that time. The guy single-handedly invented California, dragged harmonies from heaven to earth, and inspired The Beatles to make Sergeant Pepper, which inspired anyone who's ever made an album as a complete project rather than just a collection of songs. Brian Wilson made these times.
But he could have been born into any house in any neighbourhood in any time and he still would have had to peck his way out of the egg then find his own way, just like the rest of us.
Some households are more kind to this journey than others. Some communities and time periods are kinder than others, too. Imagine being Freddie Mercury, the buck-toothed dandy from Zanzibar with Zoroastrian parents, kicking around racists and homophobes in the centre of The Empire, seeking a tribe he'd never even seen. Unkind. He could have been born anywhere and he still would have had to find his way. Same with Peter Allen, who had the strength to call Australia home after he'd endured all you would expect from ignorant, fearful, drunk Australians.
Joe Strummer was born into a pretty comfortable life, then grew to smash his guitar and the system. The Strokes came from money. So did Genesis, Joan Baez, Adam Levine, Kate Bush, Mike Bloomfield, Evan Dando, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, Lars Ulrich, Carly Simon, James Taylor... They each had to find their home, their real tribe, find their time. Same as anyone.
In the words of a grunge poet from a logging town, "Save your friends. Find your place. Speak the truth."
Some of us are ahead of our time but most of us are well behind it. The world is spinning too fast for us. We just want pencil, paper and a vegie patch (although our hands are often too soft for any manual labour.) Go listen to The Beach Boys' I Just Wasn't Made For These Times. Funny thing is that Brian Wilson was totally made for that time. The guy single-handedly invented California, dragged harmonies from heaven to earth, and inspired The Beatles to make Sergeant Pepper, which inspired anyone who's ever made an album as a complete project rather than just a collection of songs. Brian Wilson made these times.
But he could have been born into any house in any neighbourhood in any time and he still would have had to peck his way out of the egg then find his own way, just like the rest of us.
Some households are more kind to this journey than others. Some communities and time periods are kinder than others, too. Imagine being Freddie Mercury, the buck-toothed dandy from Zanzibar with Zoroastrian parents, kicking around racists and homophobes in the centre of The Empire, seeking a tribe he'd never even seen. Unkind. He could have been born anywhere and he still would have had to find his way. Same with Peter Allen, who had the strength to call Australia home after he'd endured all you would expect from ignorant, fearful, drunk Australians.
Joe Strummer was born into a pretty comfortable life, then grew to smash his guitar and the system. The Strokes came from money. So did Genesis, Joan Baez, Adam Levine, Kate Bush, Mike Bloomfield, Evan Dando, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, Lars Ulrich, Carly Simon, James Taylor... They each had to find their home, their real tribe, find their time. Same as anyone.
In the words of a grunge poet from a logging town, "Save your friends. Find your place. Speak the truth."
Each day brings you truth. Find a way to speak it.
None.
It's a pretty rare songwriter who makes you feel something just by telling you how they're feeling. You can probably count them on two five-fingered hands.
Go on. Count em.
Sometimes it's called Confessional Songwriting, which can be euphemistic for "songs by females" (in the same way that World Music means "music by nice people from non-threatening non-American countries"). Confessional Songwriting is hard to do well. If you're letting the audience in on a secret, you need to be sure you've endeared yourself to them and that they actually want to hear your secrets. Otherwise it can feel like a teenager's diary, put to music. Or worse: That's Life magazine, put to music.
But I digress. Pretty much nobody cares about my feelings, and that's the way it's supposed to be. Strangers in the pub certainly don't care about my feelings. They care about their feelings (and how to self-medicate the nasty ones). So, my job is not to tell them how I feel. My job is to make my audience feel, and to help them become aware of how they are feeling. I might do that by singing about how I feel, by singing someone else's story, or just by chatting with my audience between the songs...
(But seriously, That's Life - The Musical. That would really be something else.)
Go on. Count em.
Sometimes it's called Confessional Songwriting, which can be euphemistic for "songs by females" (in the same way that World Music means "music by nice people from non-threatening non-American countries"). Confessional Songwriting is hard to do well. If you're letting the audience in on a secret, you need to be sure you've endeared yourself to them and that they actually want to hear your secrets. Otherwise it can feel like a teenager's diary, put to music. Or worse: That's Life magazine, put to music.
But I digress. Pretty much nobody cares about my feelings, and that's the way it's supposed to be. Strangers in the pub certainly don't care about my feelings. They care about their feelings (and how to self-medicate the nasty ones). So, my job is not to tell them how I feel. My job is to make my audience feel, and to help them become aware of how they are feeling. I might do that by singing about how I feel, by singing someone else's story, or just by chatting with my audience between the songs...
(But seriously, That's Life - The Musical. That would really be something else.)
I'm anxious. It's been happening a bit lately. The more I reflect on it, the more I wonder if I may well have been living with this for a long time.
So I focus on my breathing, look into the distance, watch clouds washing over the mountain. That kinda thing. It subdues, whatever It is, and I get on with my day. Do it again in half an hour.
It's tiring. I'm tired. And it means I don't have much energy for other people. This is tricky because my life is full of those. I have three in my house and a whole bunch beyond.
I need to get up early each day and spend time with myself. It's the law. If I don't, I'm a hungry, stupid dog without a leash.
I didn't get up early today. So I focus on my breathing, look into the distance, watch the clouds washing over the mountain.
Just noticed the house across the road is playing Alanis Morrisette. You live, you learn. Amen.
So I focus on my breathing, look into the distance, watch clouds washing over the mountain. That kinda thing. It subdues, whatever It is, and I get on with my day. Do it again in half an hour.
It's tiring. I'm tired. And it means I don't have much energy for other people. This is tricky because my life is full of those. I have three in my house and a whole bunch beyond.
I need to get up early each day and spend time with myself. It's the law. If I don't, I'm a hungry, stupid dog without a leash.
I didn't get up early today. So I focus on my breathing, look into the distance, watch the clouds washing over the mountain.
Just noticed the house across the road is playing Alanis Morrisette. You live, you learn. Amen.
I am not a performer.
I am not an act.
Performing. Acting.
The words sound phoney to me,
Church-empty.
I'm not pretending. I am presenting. Representing.
I am reproducing an artwork
which once occupied my whole self
and is now on the top shelf
with the other Finished Things.
I am reciting.
I am reading.
I am returning to a special few
the takings that I took from you
and turned into a verse or two.
I am communicating.
We are communing.
This is here and it is shared
and soon it will be
moment and memory.
Your home will become my away
but we will say,
"We were here."
This is not an act.
I am not an act.
Performing. Acting.
The words sound phoney to me,
Church-empty.
I'm not pretending. I am presenting. Representing.
I am reproducing an artwork
which once occupied my whole self
and is now on the top shelf
with the other Finished Things.
I am reciting.
I am reading.
I am returning to a special few
the takings that I took from you
and turned into a verse or two.
I am communicating.
We are communing.
This is here and it is shared
and soon it will be
moment and memory.
Your home will become my away
but we will say,
"We were here."
This is not an act.
MC: "That was the magnificent and captivating Daniel J Townsend, and I can tell you this: You will not hear a more passionate artist at this festival."
Punter 1: "Or anywhere!"
Punter 2: "I love your stories and your passion."
Punter 3: "That line at the end of that story you read, I was trying to write it down as you said it. You could live your life based on those words!"
Punter 4: "That poem about the kids and the burning car, woah. People around me were crying. I was crying. Powerful. Can we chat later?"
Punter 5: "I want to buy something of yours, but I don't know what to buy. I just want to take a little bit of your passion with me. You really, really care. I could see that and I love it."
I am not a performer. I am not an act. Give a shit. Repeat.
Punter 1: "Or anywhere!"
Punter 2: "I love your stories and your passion."
Punter 3: "That line at the end of that story you read, I was trying to write it down as you said it. You could live your life based on those words!"
Punter 4: "That poem about the kids and the burning car, woah. People around me were crying. I was crying. Powerful. Can we chat later?"
Punter 5: "I want to buy something of yours, but I don't know what to buy. I just want to take a little bit of your passion with me. You really, really care. I could see that and I love it."
I am not a performer. I am not an act. Give a shit. Repeat.
"Something is happening here but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr Jones?" Thus spake the voice of a generation, back when rock n roll was a wave that could drown the whole world.
Something is happening now, too.
I saw it at Healesville Music Festival this weekend and I've been noticing it more and more: Sisters are doing it for themselves.
I saw Rosie Burgess and Sam Lohs of Tuck Shop Ladies singing songs about being in love and growing old together, while the audience fell in love with them. I watched Leishah and Cat from This Way North tearing through their set like rock n roll was something dangerous and new. I watched Kerryn Fields sing one note and I heard the room go silent, the kind of silence you hear in the presence of greatness. She owned that stage.
And I saw all five of them singing onstage together about the importance of friendship. It wasn't a girl thing. It was just a great song sung by the best artists available. The dudes watched from the sidelines. The only thing I could contribute was my respectful silence and a whole-hearted grin.
Even the old fella, who was MC for Tuck Shop Ladies, made a comment to the effect of "The bloke in me was going to make a joke, but the New Age Guy in me said 'Don't go there'." Damn straight, Mr Jones. Your old road is rapidly aging. Get out of the new one if you can't lend your hand.
Something is happening here.
Something is happening now, too.
I saw it at Healesville Music Festival this weekend and I've been noticing it more and more: Sisters are doing it for themselves.
I saw Rosie Burgess and Sam Lohs of Tuck Shop Ladies singing songs about being in love and growing old together, while the audience fell in love with them. I watched Leishah and Cat from This Way North tearing through their set like rock n roll was something dangerous and new. I watched Kerryn Fields sing one note and I heard the room go silent, the kind of silence you hear in the presence of greatness. She owned that stage.
And I saw all five of them singing onstage together about the importance of friendship. It wasn't a girl thing. It was just a great song sung by the best artists available. The dudes watched from the sidelines. The only thing I could contribute was my respectful silence and a whole-hearted grin.
Even the old fella, who was MC for Tuck Shop Ladies, made a comment to the effect of "The bloke in me was going to make a joke, but the New Age Guy in me said 'Don't go there'." Damn straight, Mr Jones. Your old road is rapidly aging. Get out of the new one if you can't lend your hand.
Something is happening here.
Tomorrow is International Men's Day. I'd love to jump onboard, but I'm nervous about what's going on under the surface of that sea.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that The Good Ship Manhood is sunk and rotting on the ocean floor. The thing was pretty much driftwood anyway, although it sure had gotten a lot of things done over the years, but there are now millions of dudes treading water, dressed as pirates and Napoleons, shouting at clouds and spitting into the water.
More recently, it has become almost impossible to even talk about manhood. (Am I offending someone? Excluding someone? Shaming someone?) But I'm talking anyway. It's Movember, which has four goals, two of which are improving men's mental health and preventing male suicide. Big dreams, those ones. To be less insane and less dead. Jesus.
So why does International Men's Day make me nervous? This is from their website: "Men have a suicide rate 3 times higher than women, 1 in 3 men have been the victims of domestic violence, [...] men are nearly twice as likely to suffer from heart and lung disease as women..." It's classic Us and Them stuff and it's dangerous. (Women have it tough? Ha! Men have it tougher. Men are waaaay bigger victims...)
Fuck that. Don't be riding on the back of women's struggles, boys. The ship has sunk because we shot holes in it. Don't be comparing our situation with theirs. We've got shit to talk about and shit to get done.
The International Day for the Prevention of Violence Against Women is coming up next week. Let's talk about that. Let's see what that does for our mental health. Let's see if that's something worth staying alive for.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that The Good Ship Manhood is sunk and rotting on the ocean floor. The thing was pretty much driftwood anyway, although it sure had gotten a lot of things done over the years, but there are now millions of dudes treading water, dressed as pirates and Napoleons, shouting at clouds and spitting into the water.
More recently, it has become almost impossible to even talk about manhood. (Am I offending someone? Excluding someone? Shaming someone?) But I'm talking anyway. It's Movember, which has four goals, two of which are improving men's mental health and preventing male suicide. Big dreams, those ones. To be less insane and less dead. Jesus.
So why does International Men's Day make me nervous? This is from their website: "Men have a suicide rate 3 times higher than women, 1 in 3 men have been the victims of domestic violence, [...] men are nearly twice as likely to suffer from heart and lung disease as women..." It's classic Us and Them stuff and it's dangerous. (Women have it tough? Ha! Men have it tougher. Men are waaaay bigger victims...)
Fuck that. Don't be riding on the back of women's struggles, boys. The ship has sunk because we shot holes in it. Don't be comparing our situation with theirs. We've got shit to talk about and shit to get done.
The International Day for the Prevention of Violence Against Women is coming up next week. Let's talk about that. Let's see what that does for our mental health. Let's see if that's something worth staying alive for.
I have always been scared of men
We who watch women as if no one is watching us
We who laugh too loud,
Broad vowels fill the mouth as if even our words are full
We who watch the news
and blame the broken for breaking
Drinkers unthinking,
Bent elbow defense,
We do not see that the glass is empty
Behind the bar, she pours another.
She has always been watching.
We who watch women as if no one is watching us
We who laugh too loud,
Broad vowels fill the mouth as if even our words are full
We who watch the news
and blame the broken for breaking
Drinkers unthinking,
Bent elbow defense,
We do not see that the glass is empty
Behind the bar, she pours another.
She has always been watching.
