Don't Believe

Last week I had a bit of a breakthrough. It gives me one more reason to suspect what I've already suspected for awhile now: that the creative act is not the act of the artist alone, but that the painter or the novelist or the songwriter is joined in that act by something beyond her conscious self.

Almost two years ago, "I" wrote a song that didn't really sit right with me. It struck me as too overt in sentiment and as a bit disingenuous. I felt that I had drawn a caricature of my psyche that was an oversimplified version of what was actually going on inside of me at the time. But I also thought that my reasons for feeling uneasy about the song were unhealthy and ego-driven because I didn't like the speaker/narrator and didn't want people to think he is me . . . even though I knew he really is. On the other hand, it was a damn catchy little tune that wouldn't let me resign it to my song grave. So it's hung around on the edges of my repertoire for the last couple years, patiently awaiting my attention.

The song is called "Don't Believe," and I wrote it during the Summer of 2007 while I was working at a camp in Prescott. It was my second year as the music director for the Summer camp program, and I enjoyed the enthusiastically kind regard of almost everyone there: campers, counselors, staff, clergy (it's the Episcopal Church's camp). But there were some who were indifferent to what I was doing, and one who struck me as particularly hostile.

Imagine with me the scenario. I have an acoustic guitar, my voice, and some songs that, at the beginning of camp, no one but I know. I stand alone in front of 100-150 kids, high schoolers, college students, and full grown adults; I play and I sing. I do this about 4 times a day in a variety of contexts: on a lawn before breakfast, in a classroom setting, in a dimly lit room in the evening, around a campfire after dark. My task is a delicate one. A guy with a guitar is no match for a hostile crowd of youngsters. I crash and burn if I don't win the affection of the group pretty quickly.

I had my own room at the camp, and in the evenings I would try to write songs. The way I generally write is to sit with paper, a pencil, a guitar, and a small recorder. The initial stage is usually a jumble of melodies and chords and words. I rarely have clear ideas at this point. I emote. I've learned to follow the lead of this stage when I write, even if I don't have a rational grasp on what comes out. The first thing to come out on the night I wrote "Don't Believe" was a chorus:

hey, why don't you believe? why don't you believe in what I play?
hey, why don't you believe? why don't you believe in what I say?

Immediately, I pictured the one consistently hostile face in the sea of expressions I looked out at every day, and I proceeded to build a lyric from how it made me feel. Now, mind you, I did not dwell on that face or that person before I wrote the chorus. The negative regard was minimal compared to the smiling, singing masses. But when I heard that question, "Why don't you believe?" I addressed him.

your feet, firm
your arms fold
your face, the critic in the crowd
your loveless
eyes hold
my gaze as I slip the guitar down

And for the second verse:

you find
what I fear
there's nothing here but hollow sound
no tone
you hear
will lift your regard off the ground

Then a bridge spat out aggressively:

I'd rather be ignored
by a room of a thousand strong
I'd rather be ignored
than to feel you looking on

With a little tweaking and tightening, I was done. But what was I talking about? I didn't care that much about that guy, did I? Where did these feelings come from? Did I really need his approval so badly?

I never answered those questions. I played the song for a few friends and felt like I couldn't own the lyric nor could I pass it off to a character, so, like I said, I set it aside.

For some reason, the cognitive and emotional tension I felt had dissipated enough by this Winter that the song found its way into a set of demos I began recording after The Via Maris broke up last November. And when Rob and I started to work on this new record, it's one of the first three tunes we were able to finish before he left for tour.

So after a month and a half of the song being back on my lips and in my ears, Jana and I were driving to Prescott last weekend, and I popped in the rough mix to give it another listen. When "Don't Believe" came on she said, "I never really got this song until now, that it's you talking to you." But I was deep in thought about the production and responded with some convoluted drivel about how there are several layers, I guess, blah, blah, blah, blah and that was that. It wasn't until the middle of last week, after some other conversations with a dear friend, that what she said actually hit me. The critic IS me. I'm the one who doesn't believe in what I play and say. It's what I've been writing about here on this blog. I was speaking to the part of myself that isn't content with my audience of friends around a table. The part of me that found an ally in that hostile face at camp that silently challenges me to prove that I can do more than just "this." It's so obvious to me now. It was my breakthrough.

I wish the song was mixed and mastered and ready to share along with this post, but it's not. I thought that it was more important to share this story while it's fresh in my mind than to wait until the final version of the song is ready. Soon though, I promise. If you really want to hear it, I always have the current mix close at hand. Just come over.

-cs