you don’t stand in Prince’s shoes. not just because you and he have different-sized feet, but you also have lived different-sized lives.

30 days ago, i was just an admirer of his music.

30 years ago his songs had been my babysitter, and mood-setter — a guiding light. he taught me intimacy. you know, how hiphop helps some of its listeners to find their grounding — their balls? well, as a teen, Prince’s pop-art helped me find intimacy. in my imaginings, in moments alone with other teen-aged girls, and in the way he interacted with the women in his music videos.

but all of those lessons were overwhelmed by a glimpse inside the birth of his work.

i spent a weekend with 5 people who know a fuller range of Prince, the person, than anyone else. this band was his family. and like any other — it is intimate with itself, but yearns for the intimacy of new encounters. one disconnected from the deepest circumstances; and uncritical.

so, i was welcomed in with a love and wanting.

as you sit and talk with people who tell stories about Prince, pre — commercial success, it weighs on you…that this was a man who lived a life most people — even those who say they love him most — will never comprehend. the greatest part of an iconic figure of modern western culture is an unseen mist that floats around in an, otherwise, empty fishbowl. this fishbowl was home to the careers of a group of people. the most prominent of whom, besides Prince himself, have asked me to meet them here, in Victoria, British Columbia, to stand in front of them and their audience….and sing…as Prince had once done, in remembrance of him.

i have not rehearsed with the band. i have only listened to recordings of previous performances with another singer, Stokley Williams. he, himself, an outstanding musician and performer. so, i have spent the previous 30 days interpreting someone else’s masterful interpretation of a master; all the while reminding myself to be myself. not an easy thing to do, but right up my alley.

i awoke saturday morning and strode down to soundcheck with the band. the first person i met was keyboardist, Matt Fink (Dr. Fink). he struck me as a guy you’d delight in watching as he broke new sound, and whose mind was always manipulating gadgets even when his hands weren’t. i asked him if i’d correctly recognized the shadow of pianist, Bill Evans, in his synthesizer solo from the song ‘Head’; off Prince’s 1980 album, ‘Dirty Mind’. he was impressed with the question, but his answer shall remain a secret.

the next introduction was to drummer, Bobby Z. as cool as the nighttime temperature of a running brook — he seemed present and pleased to see me. his was a steady kind of personality, befitting the rhythmic (and maybe emotional) anchor of a band. he was a gentle man, there from the beginning; who’d undoubtedly absorbed his fair share.

i’d met Wendy Melvoin, Brown Mark, and Lisa Coleman the night before, on the plane ride over to Victoria from Seattle. guitarist and bassist, respectively, Wendy and Brown would allow me to share front of stage with them. it’s an interesting dynamic amongst performers at the front of a stage. life positions you there, and then the position works on your life. and you spend much time trying to see around this blockade. a filter made of your ambitions and attached to the closer interaction you have with the audience than the band members behind you. you peak around this to keep an eye on normalcy. the backline of any band are, superficially, its most rational — while the frontline, its jumpiest. Wendy and Brown are the bands sharpest tongues; because that’s who they are and that’s who the band needs them to be. they are also, easily, its most sensitive, loving, and open personalities. these two are lightning rods — and i enjoyed the thrill of exchanging with them.

Lisa, keyboardist and deceptive comic, is as sweet a musician as there is. ethereal and enchanting, both intellectually and physically. she looked at me several times as if she knew me, or was asking me a question. i assume it is easier for her to manage a person’s admiration for that part of her she puts into the work, rather than of her. i could listen to her play all day.

the minute i take the stage at soundcheck, i realize i will not be able to dance the way i had planned. so, i went to plan B: i would stand and deliver. i would just sing the songs — the way i would have if Prince asked me to show him what i’d learned. because, the past 30 days had taught me that there were much more than 30 years between Prince’s best songs and me. there was a dedication to never failing. failing what? failing HIS standards. those standards are impossible for me to know, or for me to satisfy or fail. those standards were set by him to insure HIS survival. like all daring people, he was entrenched in the impression of all that happened to him — the best and worst times. and as these are the breathtaking moments, revisiting them is our addiction. we are both terrified of drowning and committed to drowning ourselves, in order to conquer the fear.

the best i could do was dive in, and give my heart and soul to 30 days of preparation, to meet MY standards for survival. and, i did.

i laid waste to those fears.

the philosophy of sound, part 3

this is part 3 of a log of Q & A regarding recording arts and songwriting (click here for Part 1, and here for Part 2). these are submitted only to surface the intersectionality between creative, socio-political, socio-economical, and psychosomatic tensions. this is fertile ground that births expression. accurately capturing this expression is vital to robust songwriting (and the field of recording arts that songwriting fuels). this is a new field of study, its interdisciplinary power is somewhat obscured by compartmentalization in traditional songwriting courses, but the bones of this field are ancient and fundamental. the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

for songwriters (and those who want to talk songwriting)

melody is just a sketch of your anxieties. you can further articulate these emotions with lyrics (although, it isn’t necessary). for more detail on how to excavate the most useful material-art out of your anxieties (and, therefore, your melodies) — or, on the importance of gauging narrative in your lyric — feel free to comment here, or send me a message.

*some of you have reached out to me, already, regarding the craft of recorded arts and songwriting. as these disciplines are integrated with other aspects of your lives, the options for application of the information we exchange can quickly become confusing. so, i hope you will continue to check in with me re: your progress. sharing the information i have, and learning about the concepts of others, is a joy for me.

V

(the innocent, #21)

Hey good evening, Van. I’ve been doing music for a while and have always wanted to be a better songwriter. Do you have any exercises or general tips? I’ve been a huge fan of your writing since “Hopeless”

Anyway, man. I appreciate the time. Anything would be a great help.

VH

thanx for reaching out. what does becoming a “better” songwriter mean for you? would it mean that you were able to sell those songs to popular singers? to find investors for your own project? would being a “better” songwriter simply mean that you could facilitate taking your ideas from your head to an instrument and then to a completed song, regardless of whether anyone else ever hears it? or, does it mean something else, entirely?

(the innocent, #21, cont.)

It would be a mix on 2 and 3 if “investors” could mean listeners/supporters. I want to facilitate the feeling that music has always given me while sharing my vision of and for the world. I’m not as interested in selling out arenas as i am in connecting with a crowd/community of folks who engage with the songs and ideas. As it stands now, i am not completely connecting with the things I’m writing (perhaps a therapist may be more appropriate for that one. Ha!).

The other thing is my melodies get redundant and all together boring as hell by the second verse. When I heard “Muted Symphony” for the first time I had to pull the damn car over! It captured everything i feel when the music is as it should be. When i was writing my dissertation, the only songs that could get my mind right every morning were “Character” and “Her smile.” The potential for this kind of connection and impact has always been what’s drawn me to music. Instead of winging it, I’m trying a more disciplined approach to learning the craft.

Thank you so much for taking the time, Van. Sorry so long.

VH

no, don’t worry about the length. it takes time to move from one place to the next. i like that u recognize a detachment from the things you’re writing. obviously, if you were writing songs for other singers, it would be less important for you to connect to the story. but a song that u deliver really benefits from ur flesh being caught up in it. it’s more natural for u, therefore it relaxes u, gives u confidence; which n turn allows the audience to trust u — and relax into ur story/melody. so, whether it is a therapist or ur notebook app, YES, bring ur life to the lyric. no bullshit. and go from there (with song construction). u can start with a melody, a concept 4 a song, a couple of chords u ❤️, whatever. but, don’t do it unless u absolutely love it. don’t write the lyric until the thoughts n ur head scare u. don’t record until u feel u will die if u don’t. u have 2 go deep within urself and pull out all the parts u hate. that’s what art is. it is solving something within urself. once u’ve got that stanky truth on the table THEN u can construct the song (which will b the ez part).

(the innocent, #21, cont.)

Wow. None of the books or blogs have broken it down quite like this. So, in other words, no quick fixes. The exact thoughts i’ve turned away from or shut out are the ones i need to invite. And that’s what actually builds the song? I’m really going to think on this, man. I’m gonna give this a try.

Seriously, i thank you for taking the time.

VH

“None of the books or blogs have broken it down quite like this. So, in other words, no quick fixes.”

- the information u find n most music schools becomes exponentially helpful AFTER u have a story/concept/melody. music education (chords/harmony/arrangement/polyphony/theory/engineering) will b what u use 2 construct ur song. but, any serious member of the music industry (i.e., commercial recordings and distribution of songs) will admit that melodies/story/concept CANNOT b taught. these r extracted experiences from ur environment that happen TO u. that’s y u don’t find them n music blogs, schools. they r the data that u bring with u 2 these institutions and 2 the process of music production.

“The exact thoughts i’ve turned away from or shut out are the ones i need to invite.”

-YES!!! exactly.

“…And that’s what actually builds the song?”

-it’s what seeds the song-building process. what u learn from those music blogs and schools r the tools for building the song. the story/melody/concept that u extract from ur life is the seed — the idea — the backbone — the cornerstone — the most important load-bearing wall of the song building.

i appreciate u having the openness and courage 2 ask questions. i learn from the process, too.

(the innocent, #21, cont.)

I was reading something recently that said that most people never ask those at the top of their respective fields how they got there. I’m getting older and have never given music the shot that it deserves. So before i let my dreams pass me by, I want to put in a solid effort. To me, that requires developing the craft. So much of the noise out here is about being famous (popular? ha!) and not meaningful. So I figured I’d reach out to you since, for so long, your work has been a model for the direction I’d like to go in.

But alas — as i’d suspected — meaning comes from within.

VH

but, i would hope that knowing that “meaning comes from within” would not be something to lament; as it is something that u have already, and not something u have to look for (outside of urself).

(the innocent, #21, cont.)

Correct. I realize that may have come across as “woe is me.” Thank you for this, Van. This has certainly been extremely helpful.

(the innocent #22)

Mentor?…. What you think?…(link to an original composition is provided)

VH

lol. obviously, everything you need to know is here. the singers are talented. the vocal arrangement is intriguing. i can’t comment on the track because i can’t fully appreciate it without listening on a better audio system. my comment is regarding writing lyrics. so, when i — or anyone — am writing lyrics, i am gathering phrases i’ve heard, that my mind has interpreted, and then spit back out. it’s like the way i might do the two-step on the dance floor. i’m just really doing what i’ve seen others do, with only a slight variation. and then a choreographer comes in and adds a signature move to my two-step. and then, while doing my two-step with the choreographer’s added signature move, i come up with a way of finishing off the move. so, now, i have an old two-step, enriched by a choreographer, which inspired my own final addition. instead of just a simple two-step, i now have something much more rich, robust, and meaningful. when writing lyrics, i really want to take the familiar phrases everyone has heard before and add layers of richness to make the familiar…more compelling.

*[thanks to all those who allowed me to post our exchanges]

elderly guy walx up, waves at me, then says, “i wish we could start talkn to each other like they did n the ol’ days.”

“hmmm…”, i say to myself. careful not to disappoint his obvious invite to engage, i force my mouth open. but, before i can say anything he swivels toward a young lady seated nearby, leans over her space and says, “hellOoooo….” she, sensing an instability surging, freezes and says nothing. he follows up, eyes now fixed back on me, “ur woman says she’s almost ready to go and u say, “no…NOW. get ur fukn ass outta the house NOW!” i don’t play that shit. that’s what a woman’s for.”

now, i’m frozen. thankfully, the not-so-gentleman walx away.

a few minutes later, “hellOoooo…” he is antagonizing the same young lady, again. “she’s busy”, i tell him. “she’s workn.” he shuffles over to me and says, “i’m ol school. what’s a woman good for?” i challenge him, “being head of the household?” “no….”, he blinks and lures my eyes away to his hand as it glides toward his groin, “takn care of the dick…” “oh, no!….”, i say. caught off guard, ashamed somehow. he disappears. the young lady and i sit and catch our breath in settling silence. both barely watching a beautiful man in a dress cautiously negotiate his way down a concrete slope in 5 inch heels.

don’t rush to swish a brick

it’s easier to imagine personal failure as a conspiracy formed against me, rather than as operator error. “conspiracy” sounds a grand, powerful alarm that there’s an opponent capable of upending “perfection”. i remember being out on the basketball court, late at night, mosquitoes and headlights rolling by my head, and the front of the rim standing mountainous between me and the valley of the net. shot after shot would bite at the rim, lose its rotation, and skip as far away from me as possible. on the walk back from retrieving the basketball, and after stubbornly replanting myself at the same spot on the court as all previously missed attempts, i would pray to the onlookers: my ancestors, god, the spirit of duffy the family poodle (shot dead under a stop sign at the corner of our street [i had never confessed to my uncle about being the one who let duffy out of the house that night. how was i to know that, of the man’s many neighborhood beefs, it would be the one over a stolen lawnmower that proved too dangerous for our dog?]) — still, the balls sailed short and long. i was hungry, it was dark, i had school the next day, and my accuracy was not improving. so, i turned up the pressure, “you can’t leave until you make one.” this caused me to blend profanity with prayer, out of desperation to escape myself, “pleeeeease, god. come on! fuck, what are you doing?!” as another rebound dribbled itself pitifully off to the left. i began hurling the ball at the rim with ferocity, louder and loud enough to make mrs coffey peak out between her kitchen curtains. my eyes filled with salty tears as hope abandoned me. it was clear whose side god was on: the devil’s.

“evil” is just a flower.

the sun doesn’t shine to make the flowers grow. the sun emits light. the flowers turn toward the light and take it; making use of it simply because it is there. the step-by-step process goes too slowly for anyone to track how it becomes a mile. one day you look up and your line is a circle. like the robin’s nest. and time makes it all appear the work of genius. genius working for or against you. my jumpshot was a program with bad code. if my coach had been there, he would’ve taken me back through the steps: don’t rush. proper stance. knees bent. ball positioned at the hip. elbow tucked. pull the release. follow through. it would have been just the break in the loop i needed. i would return, errors corrected, run the program, and the first seven shots would all swish through the net while giving a middle finger to the front of the rim. but, standing there alone, my ego fed the “evil”, and the “evil” blossomed.

everything happening all at once.

that’s what history, time, and distance protects us from. in the mounting terror of an instance, these are our gentle saviours. they stretch the wrenching pain out over space — where memory can revise it into something more manageable. those who seek radical change through peaceful resistance and negotiation learn to bide time through these space cycles until, step-by-step, they reach transformation. but others suffer the violent tearing and ripping apart of flesh in heat turned higher; because they’ve given up on peaceful means of negotiating existence. so it’s a fight to the death, or submission; and that is a form of change. in fact, a fast death is life’s most radical change. a slow death being normal. standing there on that basketball court, i was detached from the patient processes that birthed my skill set. before, i had taken full credit for my success and soon came to believe that i could summon success, at will; which ironically made me powerless. i called out to god because i wanted him, or anyone else but me, to take responsibility for my failure. for my growing pains. growth is corrupted by impatience. a penchant for skipping steps is the force in nature. make it your operating system, and soon history becomes the past you regret, and the next shot, the future you dread. you cannot escape the process. even when you do, you’re just getting out of line to get back in line.

italics

music is totally personal to me. it is my chancery hand, my emphasis, and where i stand. and it is for you, too. as the writer Charles Farrell says, “I listen to what I need to.” exactly. and that’s why i don’t really care what people think. if your friends make fun of your musical tastes you stop playing the music around them, but you don’t stop playing the music; because you’re too scared to. you listen to music because you need to. it solves something within you. if you didn’t have something that articulated how you feel you would shake and explode. fortunately, through music, i found a way to compose the things i need to express. it’s very helpful.

even in its shittiest forms, music still has enough kick to poke through and provide some kind of healing. . . for somebody. taste is just a by-product of having to relate. how else can you locate where you are if you don’t delineate where someone else is? so, you just make up shit about them. “oh, they’re 20 feet away from me.” or, “oh, she has poor taste.” feet? taste? these are measurements invented to chop up uncertainty into bite-sized pieces — but i’m not sure, and neither is anyone else, how much they have to do with reality. i only sense glimpses of reality. like that pang for a listen through of ‘there’s a riot goin’ on’, or Bach, or the environed flurries from the park i walk through. sometimes i just need them. along with the cold air that accompanies the walk, or the dimness of my room, it makes me feel safe from other people.

spoken like a true chicken, who can only lean on the things they make up — that’s what the phrase “seeing is believing” is. all the while, breathing in air they can’t see, listening to sounds they can’t see, feeling worse because of feelings they can’t see. people are jive. unreliable. but, also beautiful because of it. our uncertainty, the emphasis we provide within it, the music we cling to in the dark, is probably our only true connection to nature.

you can’t underestimate how “uncool” it is to be white in america, right now.

between “wakanda” and trump, whites within the entertainment industry are in a bear market. any effort accused of appropriating black culture is discounted and tossed into the fire sale. that’s how easily “racism” is tossed from back to forth; without meaningful tethering. it doesn’t matter if “black music” appropriates “european classics”, or if “classical music” has “african roots”, cultural trends drive the herds; and the herds don’t know they’re going in circles. hipsters, shepherds amongst the herd, claim to be the protective barrier between pearls and swine, but this is pure chicanery. the hipster’s entire presentation is made of material woven from the coats of genuine craftsmen, leaving those artists in the cold. these tastemakers decide who the “real artists” are, and yet their audience has no familiarity with art. what it is, how it’s made, or why it sticks with them. so, the hipster is a poor leader —and you’re a fool to follow him. no different than the neo-liberal politician who deigned to be a guidepost through the senselessness of trump and the quixotry of sanders. the hipster is a poseur in a society that commoditizes ignorance. posing as arbiters of taste, insulated from the destruction they cause. these frauds set the roundtable of narcissism, and remain trapped in its revolving mirrors. seeing only themselves, no matter which side of the wall they’re on.

unlike the hipster, i can’t afford to ignore people because they’re not “cool”. white, black, or brown people. i’d have nothing that needed my attention. i was once told by a hipster, as a way of dismissing the subjects of my fieldwork, that being selective is what the art deserves. well, if everything i work on suits my palette then my best assets only reinforce my ideas about what art should be; and does nothing about what art is actually becoming in these streets. it would keep me locked inside an ever-diminishing world of my own. stifling the opportunity to be more radical with human nature; to test my notions. because what art deserves is for the practitioners who feed upon it to be more resourceful, even when resources are abundant. necessity is the mother of invention. and invention is the art of resourcefulness.

so, it is the hipster i ignore.

part 2.

“i was told to do colorless music.

-what the fuck is that?!

-that’s stupid, because music shouldn’t have a color.

-people shouldn’t be defined by their skin.

-we all bleed the same.”

the young starlet, lynn, a white southern-brunette, has a story. the world may not need another star, but it can do with a good story. there was a time nashville had plenty of both.

“i fell in love with blues and started playing guitar.

-is that colorless?”

but, the first time i heard her voice was not in a blues — it was buried beneath a blanket of pop-goo. her manager, vernon, a lone wolf among music city’s hitmen, is the ear that discovered many voices; including this writer’s. he and i are mutual fans of new wave, punk, and funk. he was working his way toward a confession when he invited me to listen to lynn’s music. i skimmed over the collection and offered suggestions on how to improve it, but stopped short of offering my services in making the changes. vernon is that rare salesman, though, who only pushes ideas he believes in, and to whom he thinks they belong. it’s a personality quirk that ushers you past his sales pitch to a genuine enthusiasm for connecting people to concepts. as a test, i became harsh and denounced the project’s sound as indistinguishable from current radio miasma. with rhythms frozen in concrete. vernon took the verbal jabs and said he suspected as much and that’s why he came to me. for him, the music had found its way to the plains, with no high trees, curves, or edges. he needed to reignite his excitement by finding a corner to turn. but, the wolf showed his teeth and said he stands by the talents of his singer and her beat-maker.

with no money and only murky concepts about what life is, young kids get lost in this cycle of selling brands. the sell is cloaked in faux concern for art and artist, while the energy that forms both of them — humanity — is wasted. i find most adults, generally, too lousy to care about the losses. vernon’s loyalty to his people was a glinting decency, a clue to deeper strings attached. for a miner like me, depth is golden.

i agreed to work with his singer.

my flight landed in nashville and i drove straight to lynn’s producer’s studio; a small tract house in a part of the city where its metropolis sprawl intersects with its old river town axis. the living room teetered on the verge of the unknown as manager, producer, and i sat stoically on a leather sectional, waiting on the singer to arrive. when she did, it was in near-tears. the grocery store lynn had just left accused her of trying to steal a chicken. as i’d never heard of anyone being accused of stealing a chicken, i searched the faces of her team for direction. they seemed unfazed by the sensation; as if it was just another of others. lynn denied the accusations and said the whole confrontation was caught on the store’s camera. “please don’t…” she begged as vernon abruptly walked his cell phone outside. the screen door clanged shut behind him and memory flashed my grandmother’s frown, as it always pained her to hear the tin metal ram back on its frame.

“now, we’re all gonna have free chicken for a year”, lynn quipped — nodding at a speckle of her manager’s shirt, visible through the curtains.

“I’m van. it’s nice to meet you.”

mundy, the producer, stood and we followed him towards a back room. crossing over the iron face of a large air vent in the floor and past an open door’s trapezoidal dimness. lynn was born forty miles from memphis. her speaking voice tended to balance a vast unknowingness with a loose grasp of sounds and images and self-confidence. a thin neck twinkled above and below a red bandana. gold chains weighed down an elvis presley t-shirt, and gangly, pale, runway-model legs grew out of a pair of air jordans. mundy pressed play and the pair’s sound, since i’d last heard it, had peeled back a few layers. in earlier correspondence, i’d nudged vernon toward the shadows of mainstream rap music for inspiration, and mundy ran with the hint, expertly. as tricky beats pounded loose my bowels, kesha and lorde gave way to rihanna inside lil based god traps, with an added twist of 90’s r&b. it was nascar funk, bordering the strange, but not quite where it might be. catchy, nonetheless. between playbacks, the crew vaped and drank while lynn hilariously mimicked her father’s dialectic clucks. recounting a teenager’s battle to wrestle independence from her parent’s traditions. they are said to cringe at their daughter’s use of profanity. to my ears, her heart does seem reluctant to own the curse words. some people can express themselves without profanity. others use it as a crutch over gaps in their vocabulary. while strong and silent types rumble in silence, unexploded. but, when uttered gutturally, profanity is melodious. once members of an 80’s hair band, lynn’s mom and dad had me marveling how magnetism pinches together piety, hair rock bands, and clucking.

i can sense the magnetic fields between bodies: what one hopes they won’t have to say, what another wishes they could say. and though it was through a drawl so heavy as to warrant subtitles, every time mundy spoke within my earshot, the syllables rode on a cold wave. mundy was country; so much so, as to be almost exotic. if his recording equipment had actually been a moonshine still it would have caused me no puzzlement. i was familiar with southern whites — adept at helping them maintain stability while burning their false assumptions about me. like all of those, mundy was more complex than simple adjectives. a person will pick up and put down belief systems until they find the one that keeps them alive with the least effort. it becomes their operating system. converging politics had stirred mundy’s environment to a new battle of nashville. to the victor was promised just as pivotal a prize as the union’s, 150 years ago. locating the young, talented producer’s ease was just a matter of informing his questions. i’m black, and he’s not; and the beats he struggled to master were decidedly “black” in origin — in an era of intense policing of culture vulture-ism. plus, vernon trusted my experience, and i hadn’t been positively impressed by lynn’s early demos. so, what did that mean for mundy? i had no intention of replacing him as producer. there was no need. but intent takes time to prove — in stealing chickens and in music.

“i used to have these neighbors next door. real weird. actin’ all strange an’ shit. thought me n’ lynn was fuckin’. i was out front one day, just smokin’, an one of ’em started talkin’ tew me.

-said, um, “i saw yew wit’ ‘dat bad bitch.”

-i said, “yeh…we’re jus’ friends.” -he was like, “yeh…

(knowing head nod)

…shure.”

-then he told me he wuzza gotdamn fugitive!

-he’s all like, “yeh, i got into some shit wit’ my girl. she calt the cops on me n’ shit.” so, i’m like, what the fuck? i ‘ont know if itz really that, or he’s on meth’, crack, weed, whateva’. one day, i’m drivin’ home an’ there’s police cars allup n’ down tha street. lights goin’ crazy ‘n shit. they got this motherfucker’s whole house surrounded! a fuckin’ stand-off…’til like 8 in tha mornin’! one uh tha police officers hadta escort me into mah house, so i could get some clothes. then i heard one uh the dudes next door scream from inside tha house, “i ain’t comin’ out!””

mundy’s eyes bulged as he relived the scene, and i laughed a hearty laugh. this was two hours and a quarter scotch into our acquaintance. the exchanges between us transitioning into the frictionless. i asked what seemed an obvious question:

“do you think your neighbors suspected you of telling the police where to find them?”

his eyes squinted at new neural networks forming inside his head and i glimpsed the same trail frozen rhythms had traveled and melted. when i found out mundy’s father was english, and had produced records for engelbert humperdinck, i was bewildered and satisfied — and certain i would one day write about this.

it all starts with an algorithm. vernon had spun a cocoon to birth commercial art. although it’s economic underpinnings remained, the commercial music landscape was being trimmed, and here was a man dangling his financial portfolio dangerously close to the blades. he had assembled a team of strays, myself included, to collectively feel our way out of the morass. once free, lynn does with the freedom what kids often do: she runs smack-dab into a fresh entanglement. she asked vernon if she could reveal her influences. influences like lil’ wayne and kanye. she asked if it was “cool” to talk about them “since people don’t talk about them anymore?” the pace at which we consume our brands has left this girl afraid to admit she can remember things that happened more than 15 minutes ago. think about influence. some would consider a particular language, sport, or musical style as belonging to their generation, or to their ethnicity. they would be right and wrong. that’s plain to see, as new generations build their relevance upon “irrelevance”. the only one who knows the original owner is time.

once, while arranging her background vocal, lynn summoned the scent of chaka khan to the outer edge of her voice. a quick, piercing glance my way told me she knew she was playing with magic. we protect art when we step into the fray and push against forces to allow it to stay connected to the artist; or in this case, a young lady just trying to express herself. a very powerful music executive suggested she make “colorless” music. what is colorless about music? and who wants to listen to it? other than those afraid of raw emotion. as a listener, i want to hear lynn’s fear. otherwise, i cannot depend on her to make way for mine. it distinguishes the plush from the drivel.

i didn’t write or produce any of the team’s output, i only directed them toward the layers that add richness. past the more focused parts of production, like marquee names, scripts, and wardrobe — to the sets, the microphones, the placement of microphones, the ambient sounds, and the spectrum of colors and tones. this is the improvisational fabric that runs through any creation and dresses its restless character. it is an encounter with nature that one cannot control, but only establish a different balance with the opposition. it may be a lot to put on an interpretation of evidence — an unfair burden to place upon young shoulders — but i see in lynn a pied piper. a bridge between the freer electrons of nascar, the nfl, and trumpland. . . to the rest of the 21st century.

the thing about bridges, though, is that travelers have to trust them.

*based on a true story. the names have been changed to protect the “uncool” from hipsters.

*photography by DirtGathersInTheCorner

“success” is a human fiction. it’s an hallucination, stemming from the misinterpretation of an easy survival. “success”, in our culture, is not just the highest form of survival; it is, in fact, much more than mere survival. the opportunity to rest your body and replenish its nutrients — to prepare it for an uncertain future — that’s survival. no more, no less. “success” = “luxury”. “success” = a place atop the social “hierarchy”. don’t get me wrong, i’ve nothing against long, soft naps or displays of dominance in the privacy of one’s kingly artifice. all animals build lives upon assumptions about what’s important — but, that is my point: i want a new gauge of importance. a new pattern of behavior, for me and for my herd. i would like to leave “success” behind; as if she is no longer ours — as if she never, really, was. like the conversation you had with your ex about why you wanted out of a relationship you both knew had run its course, and needed no explanation for ending anymore than it needed one for beginning. . . “success”, when it stands in the way of vitality, is dangerously unnecessary and unhealthy. it is an impediment to survival.