Here's a clip from an amazing experience I had up in Minneapolis back in April. It was a tribute event to my former music pastor, the amazing Ken Parker. He wrote this song for a Christmas musical "Child of Love" back in the early 90s, and entrusted me with it to sing it on the record we made, and during a few live performances we did of the whole musical.
I decided to rearrange the 1st verse and chorus, probably because of what I saw the kids do to songs on American Idol. I loved how the ballad-ness allowed me to really honor the lyrics he wrote and bring new life to the song. I was scared to death while I was singing, yet I was having a blast. I was so thrilled to be there and was on the verge of tears most of the time. Ken Parker really believed in me, which gave me permission then, to believe in myself and begin dreaming bigger than what I thought was possible. Thanks Ken!!
September 13, 2008
September 2, 2008
Hearing My Song On the Big Screen
I don't want to sound like I'm whining—I'm simply attempting to express the weirdness of the roller-coaster life I've chosen to ride. I remember coming home after my first run on a tour bus with Semi-Big Nashville Artist. I had just had an intense four days trying to sleep in a jostling, coffin-like bunk, waking up in different places in different states that each looked exactly the same. I met a ton of people and liked only some of them. I was treated like I was something special, and I was also treated like I wasn't anything special at all. People back home were excited for the opportunity they knew I was getting, but had no idea, like me, what I was actually getting into. It turned into something that was more challenging than I had expected, and more rewarding than I could've dreamed.
But going back to my Disneyworld example, people just want to know you had a good time. It takes a very special person to care about the nuances of your trip, whether it's to Orlando, Paris, or Peoria. More about life on the road later.
Last Saturday I drove toward Louisville and stopped at Ft. Knox to meet my good friend Marc who's doing some work there as a pilot of Apache helicopters. I know, serious stuff. I'm so thankful he was able to accompany through the 24 hours that would follow. Kelly's Filmworks held a little reception for the "Clancy" cast and crew just prior to the screening, serving little desserty things and soft drinks. After that, we were seated in a special reserved area in the middle rows of the packed theater. I got to sit next to Marc, Stephanie Vickers (a Nashville actress playing Clancy's mother) and her real-life mother.
I was excited to see the film, but more excited to see what it would feel like to hear me and my song come through the speakers in a dark theater filled with people. I knew the song would appear in a scene in a hospital, so when I saw the story moving in that direction I started to get a bit nervous. I sank a little lower in my seat and clasped my hands together. I probably looked like I was praying. I just wanted to cover my face in case something weird started happening with it. Would I cry? Would I smile? Laugh? Drool? I didn't know—I had never been there before. When the swirling synth pad of my song's intro started, I sank a couple inches lower yet. I suddenly felt my pulse start intensifying, as if someone was ringing out my spine like a wet washcloth. My head was pulsating.
Now I'm listening to my song. I'm singing. This is so crazy. Other people are listening as well. But they're not thinking about me, they're thinking about the emotions of the lyrics and the feeling in the melody. I can't believe how the lyrics fit the storyline so perfectly. I sound like a real singer. The song sounds like it's supposed to be there. I can't believe it. Stop thinking so much. What a trip.
The song ends after about 80 seconds, and the dialogue starts up again. I can breathe again. Marc elbows me and says something like, "That was awesome!" I try to breathe. Stephanie leans over her mom and touches my arm, mumbling something encouraging. I mumble something back, mostly paralyzed still. The movie keeps rolling. I feel like standing up and cheering. I better not. I imagine people sitting behind me pointing their finger at my back, saying, "He's the singer. That's him! Right there!"
I heard the song might be used again, so as the ending approaches, I start to get nervous/excited again. Here's the final shot. The crane slowly lifts the camera away from the scene, zooming out to reveal the landscape just as the second verse of my song starts up. It's obviously the end of the film. People are sniffling. I'm singing. The first lines of credits start rolling and the crowd starts clapping. I can't hear my song. More clapping. They keep clapping. That's great. I tell myself, It's okay. They'll hear it on the DVD. It's okay. More clapping.
After the screening, there's a nice Q&A with some of the cast and crew. The little girl who played Clancy gets a huge reception, like she's the new Anna Paquin or something. The screening concludes with a showing of the alternate ending, one that wouldn't have used my song again. I'm thankful for the actual ending and my encore.
The room is buzzing as people get up and make their way out of the theater. I got to have a couple cool conversations, one with the guy who scored the film, and another with an actor who reminded me of Nathan Lane. Me, Marc, Stephanie and her mom, Jolene, decide to hit the town and celebrate. After being hit so powerfully by the whole screening experience, it was nice to hit something back.
In my next blog, I'm going to write about the day that followed. The day we shot the music video for "Precious Memories" and how I felt like I was simply pretending to be the person I had always dreamed I'd be.
August 26, 2008
Video Shoot In Louisville
August 11, 2008
Will Anyone Ever Pick Me?
It has become very important for me to identify what the Evil Voices In My Head are telling me. If I don’t, I just feel overwhelmed by fear and stupidity.
For instance, as a writer I hate walking into a bookstore. Part of me wants to find something interesting to connect with, some new writer that will affect my life like Anne Lamott or Eugene Peterson. All the covers plead for me to judge their contents by their prettiness. Truth is, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. But instead of discovering beautiful new literary connections, I get bowled over by the silence. Like leafing through page after page of a dating service notebook filled with women last named A-G. So much muted potential, prettied-up with a fancy exterior. But mostly, it’s the overwhelming silence of all those unsold books that is so deafening to me. And I really want to be one more of the unsold authors stacked on those disorganized shelves? What could possibly be wrong with me?
All those words on all those pages. All those hours spent by someone somewhere, hoping their efforts would have some value. All those months waiting for a publisher to pick up their manuscript. All those hours wondering if that publisher will ever do anything to promote their dang book, or if it will just get lost in the shuffle of their better-selling, celebrity-driven, ghost-written titles.
It’s very similar to going into a record store and seeing all those unsold CDs just sitting there, patiently waiting for someone to give them a chance. So much unnoticed music. At the same time, there are so many artists that sell a ton of records. So many authors who sell a ton of books. And still, so many artists and authors who have personally affected me. I’m grateful they chose to throw their heart down the chute of creativity so that I could have my life changed by their expressions.
This, I believe, is truly what is compelling me to create—to write, to sing, to communicate. Because I still have a glimmer of hope that it’s possible to affect another person with what I create. People usually throw out the flippant cliché de significance: “Even if just one person was affected by what I created, it will have been worth it.” Bleck. I agree in theory. But if one person was affected, couldn’t there possibly be one million more people who could be affected as well. Wouldn’t that be better for everyone? And by everyone, I mean my bank account.
There’s significant symbolism in desiring to have my voice heard. So much in society tells me I’m just like everyone else, that there really is nothing special about me. I can’t escape the feeling inside of me, though, telling me I am actually a very unique and special individual. Heck, that even you are a very unique and special individual! That indeed there is a very special story being written with my life, and that by telling that story, other people can be inspired and encouraged to live out their own story with more clarity and significance. That by my sharing how I’ve been awakened to the power I have to love and serve others, and the incredible consequences of living life that way, that just maybe you might want to join me on this journey as well. And that just maybe, the heavy load you have been asked to carry around will somehow get a little lighter. That somehow one or two layers of onion-skin-like filters will be peeled off of your eyes so you’ll be able to see more clearly the beauty of this life. For that reason, I keep creating. To say thank you to those who have gone before me and changed my life, and trusting that something beautiful happens when I shed my fear and (alleged) stupidity, and simply step up to the challenge of telling my beautiful story.
I learned a great lesson from my dog Kirby on the very first day I met her. I had just bought my first house and knew I needed to add a dog to the picture. So I visited the local animal shelter to take a look at the most needy, abandoned dogs.
They know. The dogs know when a potential master walks through the door to all their pens. They can smell it, I believe. So they do what I would do if I was in that same predicament. The door creaks open, and they start barking at the top of their lungs. “Me! Me!! Over here!!! Way in the back!! Don’t forget me!! Pick me!! I’ll be awesome, I promise!” they yip and howl. I was just browsing, trying to hold my heart in check. I walked past one obnoxious dog after another. I didn’t want a housemate who would drive me crazy with her incessant noisemaking. Then I saw her. As soon as our eyes met, this most beautiful of yellow labs dropped her front legs straight in front of her, as if she was actually bowing toward me. She stretched for a brief second, and ended lying down flat, staring straight up at me with her huge brown eyes. Not a noise. Nothing but a gentle, noiseless plea to be chosen. Brilliant. The more the barking continued from all the other dogs, I knew I found the one for me.
There are many days I feel like I’m stuck in a cage, certain that if someone important would just pick me and my impressive creative projects, my life would be as it is intended to be. Full of joy and significance. The truth is that I truly am free. I am free to create and express my heart and explore this life, seeking ways to find understanding and truth through it all. I am free to live outside the cage of others’ expectations. And I am free to be a quiet participant on the bookshelf of life. There’s great value in my story and I trust it will find the exact audience that needs to read it, so there’s no need to worry about the days that pass when no one gives my cover a second glance.
But between you and me, it sure would be fun if someone would just pick me.
For instance, as a writer I hate walking into a bookstore. Part of me wants to find something interesting to connect with, some new writer that will affect my life like Anne Lamott or Eugene Peterson. All the covers plead for me to judge their contents by their prettiness. Truth is, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. But instead of discovering beautiful new literary connections, I get bowled over by the silence. Like leafing through page after page of a dating service notebook filled with women last named A-G. So much muted potential, prettied-up with a fancy exterior. But mostly, it’s the overwhelming silence of all those unsold books that is so deafening to me. And I really want to be one more of the unsold authors stacked on those disorganized shelves? What could possibly be wrong with me?
All those words on all those pages. All those hours spent by someone somewhere, hoping their efforts would have some value. All those months waiting for a publisher to pick up their manuscript. All those hours wondering if that publisher will ever do anything to promote their dang book, or if it will just get lost in the shuffle of their better-selling, celebrity-driven, ghost-written titles.
It’s very similar to going into a record store and seeing all those unsold CDs just sitting there, patiently waiting for someone to give them a chance. So much unnoticed music. At the same time, there are so many artists that sell a ton of records. So many authors who sell a ton of books. And still, so many artists and authors who have personally affected me. I’m grateful they chose to throw their heart down the chute of creativity so that I could have my life changed by their expressions.
This, I believe, is truly what is compelling me to create—to write, to sing, to communicate. Because I still have a glimmer of hope that it’s possible to affect another person with what I create. People usually throw out the flippant cliché de significance: “Even if just one person was affected by what I created, it will have been worth it.” Bleck. I agree in theory. But if one person was affected, couldn’t there possibly be one million more people who could be affected as well. Wouldn’t that be better for everyone? And by everyone, I mean my bank account.
There’s significant symbolism in desiring to have my voice heard. So much in society tells me I’m just like everyone else, that there really is nothing special about me. I can’t escape the feeling inside of me, though, telling me I am actually a very unique and special individual. Heck, that even you are a very unique and special individual! That indeed there is a very special story being written with my life, and that by telling that story, other people can be inspired and encouraged to live out their own story with more clarity and significance. That by my sharing how I’ve been awakened to the power I have to love and serve others, and the incredible consequences of living life that way, that just maybe you might want to join me on this journey as well. And that just maybe, the heavy load you have been asked to carry around will somehow get a little lighter. That somehow one or two layers of onion-skin-like filters will be peeled off of your eyes so you’ll be able to see more clearly the beauty of this life. For that reason, I keep creating. To say thank you to those who have gone before me and changed my life, and trusting that something beautiful happens when I shed my fear and (alleged) stupidity, and simply step up to the challenge of telling my beautiful story.
I learned a great lesson from my dog Kirby on the very first day I met her. I had just bought my first house and knew I needed to add a dog to the picture. So I visited the local animal shelter to take a look at the most needy, abandoned dogs.
They know. The dogs know when a potential master walks through the door to all their pens. They can smell it, I believe. So they do what I would do if I was in that same predicament. The door creaks open, and they start barking at the top of their lungs. “Me! Me!! Over here!!! Way in the back!! Don’t forget me!! Pick me!! I’ll be awesome, I promise!” they yip and howl. I was just browsing, trying to hold my heart in check. I walked past one obnoxious dog after another. I didn’t want a housemate who would drive me crazy with her incessant noisemaking. Then I saw her. As soon as our eyes met, this most beautiful of yellow labs dropped her front legs straight in front of her, as if she was actually bowing toward me. She stretched for a brief second, and ended lying down flat, staring straight up at me with her huge brown eyes. Not a noise. Nothing but a gentle, noiseless plea to be chosen. Brilliant. The more the barking continued from all the other dogs, I knew I found the one for me.
There are many days I feel like I’m stuck in a cage, certain that if someone important would just pick me and my impressive creative projects, my life would be as it is intended to be. Full of joy and significance. The truth is that I truly am free. I am free to create and express my heart and explore this life, seeking ways to find understanding and truth through it all. I am free to live outside the cage of others’ expectations. And I am free to be a quiet participant on the bookshelf of life. There’s great value in my story and I trust it will find the exact audience that needs to read it, so there’s no need to worry about the days that pass when no one gives my cover a second glance.
But between you and me, it sure would be fun if someone would just pick me.
August 6, 2008
Nashville - A Gold Digger's Town
Nashville is such a city of promise. It reminds me a bit of the California Gold Rush of mid-1800. Some lucky random guy found gold in an old mill, and before long, 300,000 men, women, and children flocked to the Golden State from all over the country, and even as far away as Latin America, Europe, Australia and Asia. A handful of people recovered millions of dollars worth of gold, but most people went home none the richer. As you can imagine, the boom brought with it a considerable amount of economic good for California.
Unfortunately, the Gold Rush wasn’t without its negative affects, as Native Americans were attacked and pushed off their land, creating race and ethnic tensions. Not to mention environmental harm caused by prospectors literally overturning every stone, trying to get their piece of the pot.
When I first heard there was gold in them there hills of Nashville, it wasn’t long before I knew I needed to pack up my wagon and trek across the country from Minnesota to see what I might uncover.
Heck, I had as good of a chance as anybody, right? I remember thinking a well-intentioned, charismatic, halfway-decent singer like myself stood a pretty good shot at a record deal. I had bought records and seen concerts by artists who appeared to be a lot more mediocre than me. People say the record industry just puts out crap. I say, why can’t they just put out my crap?
I packed my wagon (a tiny Plymouth Horizon that used to belong to my Grandma Bob) to the gills with my CD collection and enough underwear to last a week. I was lovingly sent off by an extremely encouraging group of people who had probably never met a prospector. Sure, they’d seen them on TV or in the movies, but a real life dream-chasing gold-digger? Probably not one. I know I hadn’t. I had no role models.
It wasn’t long after I arrived in Nashville I learned that finding opportunities in the music biz is a bit like panning for gold. You can fill your pan up with all kinds of sand and rocks, sifting through it all with a fine-toothed comb, hoping that one little fleck of something shiny might emerge. After a long while of finding nothing of value, it’s easy to begin wondering if the problem is actually me and not simply that I’m looking for gold in an already scoured riverbed.
Did the empty-handed forty-niners who left California realize the randomness of finding the gold, or did they possibly think there was something inherently wrong with them? I’m not saying that's how I felt. But it was.
Without any prospects, I basically had to constantly sniff around, turning over all kinds of stones, looking for opportunities. Or friends. I found out early enough that you had to pick one or the other.
There was one guy I had met early on in my time here in Nashville who was a considerably successful songwriter and was part of a group that was doing pretty well on the charts. We hit it off as friends and started hanging out. I met his wife and kids—it was that level of hanging out.
One day as we were driving somewhere he told me, “Mark, I don’t think I can be friends with you. You don’t fit into the business side of my life, or the family side of my life.”
Sure, he was busy, and was probably just trying to create margin in his life. But I was floored. It wasn’t enough that we enjoyed each other’s company, and experienced a unique interpersonal connection. I just didn’t fit into his purpose-driven realm of relational possibilities. I’ve experienced rejection before, but never for such awkwardly verbalized, heart-blocked reasons.
Someone wise once told me, “Friendship in Nashville—don’t take it personally.”
I’ve held onto that gold nugget of wisdom for years.
Unfortunately, the Gold Rush wasn’t without its negative affects, as Native Americans were attacked and pushed off their land, creating race and ethnic tensions. Not to mention environmental harm caused by prospectors literally overturning every stone, trying to get their piece of the pot.
When I first heard there was gold in them there hills of Nashville, it wasn’t long before I knew I needed to pack up my wagon and trek across the country from Minnesota to see what I might uncover.
Heck, I had as good of a chance as anybody, right? I remember thinking a well-intentioned, charismatic, halfway-decent singer like myself stood a pretty good shot at a record deal. I had bought records and seen concerts by artists who appeared to be a lot more mediocre than me. People say the record industry just puts out crap. I say, why can’t they just put out my crap?
I packed my wagon (a tiny Plymouth Horizon that used to belong to my Grandma Bob) to the gills with my CD collection and enough underwear to last a week. I was lovingly sent off by an extremely encouraging group of people who had probably never met a prospector. Sure, they’d seen them on TV or in the movies, but a real life dream-chasing gold-digger? Probably not one. I know I hadn’t. I had no role models.
It wasn’t long after I arrived in Nashville I learned that finding opportunities in the music biz is a bit like panning for gold. You can fill your pan up with all kinds of sand and rocks, sifting through it all with a fine-toothed comb, hoping that one little fleck of something shiny might emerge. After a long while of finding nothing of value, it’s easy to begin wondering if the problem is actually me and not simply that I’m looking for gold in an already scoured riverbed.
Did the empty-handed forty-niners who left California realize the randomness of finding the gold, or did they possibly think there was something inherently wrong with them? I’m not saying that's how I felt. But it was.
Without any prospects, I basically had to constantly sniff around, turning over all kinds of stones, looking for opportunities. Or friends. I found out early enough that you had to pick one or the other.
There was one guy I had met early on in my time here in Nashville who was a considerably successful songwriter and was part of a group that was doing pretty well on the charts. We hit it off as friends and started hanging out. I met his wife and kids—it was that level of hanging out.
One day as we were driving somewhere he told me, “Mark, I don’t think I can be friends with you. You don’t fit into the business side of my life, or the family side of my life.”
Sure, he was busy, and was probably just trying to create margin in his life. But I was floored. It wasn’t enough that we enjoyed each other’s company, and experienced a unique interpersonal connection. I just didn’t fit into his purpose-driven realm of relational possibilities. I’ve experienced rejection before, but never for such awkwardly verbalized, heart-blocked reasons.
Someone wise once told me, “Friendship in Nashville—don’t take it personally.”
I’ve held onto that gold nugget of wisdom for years.
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