having a sound
I’d planned to write about the dangers of perfectionism, but I didn’t bother. You can find enough articles on that already. But while I was researching for the blog post I didn’t end up writing, I remembered a story.
I was on the stage at Lydia’s Pub in Saskatoon. It’s since been demolished and replaced with something not nearly as good, but in its day it was the beating heart of a briefly booming music scene. I was there for a songwriting circle. The other writers took turns showing off their versatility; their songs mixed funk, jazz, bluegrass, reggae, folk, and psychedelic genres. These people could do anything.
Each time it was my turn, I leaned into the microphone and apologized for my own limited range, introducing another angst-ridden, Celtic-inflected rock ballad in the key of G.
I mumbled to the crowded bar, “I know these songs kind of sound the same. I should really stretch myself a little.”
My friend Jeff was in the audience that night.
I say friend, but Jeff is a lot more than that: mentor, teacher (literally my grade 11 English teacher), songwriting genius, rock historian, storyteller, recording artist, serious motherf—er of a lead guitar player, and a better rock’n’roll accordion player than Weird Al. He’s the first person who talked to me about Iggy Pop and the Velvet Underground as dissenters to the Woodstock generation, the naïve genius of Jonathan Richman, and the concept of mass hallucination as it applied to Jim Morrison in Miami.
Anyway, Jeff stopped me as I came offstage.
“You were wrong up there,” Jeff said. “It’s not true. You don’t need to ‘stretch yourself.’ And your songs are supposed to ‘kind of sound the same.’ It’s called having a sound, Jay. When you hear the Ramones or Springsteen or Zeppelin or Johnny Cash or Patti Smith, you know who you’re listening to, because they have a sound. And their limitations help define it. They’re not perfect, and no one wants them to play funk-jazz fusion.”
He had a point. The greatest performers can evolve and develop, or even re-invent themselves, but they’re great because they focus on being who they really are. They embrace what’s different about them, instead of trying to fix it, because different isn’t broken.
David Bowie was all about ch-ch-changes, but he always sounded like Bowie. When he sang “Under Pressure” with Queen, alongside the pitch-perfect, operatic Freddy Mercury, it was Bowie’s creaky voice that grabbed the listener—its imperfect, idiosyncratic sound.
You don’t need more examples from me, because you’re already noticing the same thing about your favourite artists. And maybe about yourself.
But Neil Young. In 1985, he was part of the Canadian supergroup who did the one-off “Tears Are Not Enough” single for African famine relief. His big moment was singing, “Somehow our innocence is lo-o-ost,” beautifully off key. There’s footage of producer David Foster telling Neil he’s singing flat and needs to try again. But Neil doesn’t try again. He grins wide and says, “That’s my sound, man.”
On another occasion, my friend Jeff was heard to say, “There are a lot of really good guitar players in this town, but that’s so boring. I’d rather see Jay stomp on his distortion pedal and make some ugly, messed-up noise.”
I don’t know about you (because you’re not me). But I’d rather not be perfect. I’d rather have a sound.