MinneapolitanMusic

I wrote a song.

The entire process was surreal. I spend a lot of time talking to people about songwriting and singing and craft, all the while keeping myself at a distance from the musicians I love by not understanding, first hand, what it is exactly that they do. Which is not to say that I don't understand where music comes from or why it can be moving, I was just... Distant.

Blog readers and friends know that for eight months, I almost religiously attended Jim Walsh's Friday night Hootenannies. It was the perfect ending to each work week, the perfect beginning to each blissful weekend, and a way to connect with other writers, thinkers, lovers, doers. It was an elixir, and I was its grateful consumer.

A few months ago, post-hoot, Jim graciously invited the entire audience over to his house to eat pizza and drink beers and stretch out the hootenanny for a few more hours, and my friends and heroes passed around a guitar and we all sang our hearts out. Afterwards, I couldn't let myself come down from the rush of it all, so I went over to a friend's house and played records and sang a little more and talked until the early hours of the next day. I went to bed, slept hard for a few hours, and woke up buzzing.

I don't know what came over me, but it just happened. I made a cup of tea and sat down at my piano (after clearing it of the piles of books and magazines piled on top of the bench and top; I hadn't actually played for months). I started playing a few arpeggios, plunking around. I was searching for something, but I wasn't sure what. A few chords sounded agreeable as a progression, and pretty soon I was humming and playing and riding one of the biggest creative waves of my life. Words fell out of my mouth. The hoot was still ringing in my ears. It. Just. Happened.

Then, a few weeks ago, I got up the nerve to tell Jim about the song, and he invited me onto the hoot stage in front of all of those same friends and heroes, and I played my little song.

"I'm not actually a songwriter, and I don't play guitar," I prefaced, and everyone laughed warmly.

"You wrote a song," Jim's brother, Terry, chimed in. "You are a songwriter."

Well, shit, I thought. Here goes nothing.

I was shaky. I was freaked out. A few minutes earlier the Cates had played a time-stopping version of their song "Daybreak My Heart." Erin's little girl started crying and jumped up into her arms as she sang, and within seconds Erin and half of the audience was tearing up. Stacy and I held hands and sobbed onto each other's shoulders. It was transcendent, and heartbreaking, and beautiful. I barely had time to recover before jumping up on stage.

I think my voice quivered a little. I made it through the song just fine, and Terry even helped play some of the chords and back me up. I felt so much love and gratitude and acceptance from everyone in the room, and all of the nights I had spent listening quietly and intently to the players on the hoot stage came around full circle. It was one of the best nights of my life.

Anyway, here are the words. Stacy took the photograph below.

Thank you, Jim. Thank you, every last hoot attendee. These past eight months of sharing and listening changed my life.


Friday Night

I think I'll go to a party
I think I'll bring you with
Let's go to a party
Smoke and drink and talk all night
Let's have a hootennany
'Cause it's Friday night

You can wear your new shirt
I'll wear my favorite shoes
You can get real deep on politics and doom
While I fall in love with half the songwriters in the room

Let's go to a party
I wanna bring you with
Let's go to a party
Smoke and drink and talk all night
Let's have a hootennany
'Cause it's Friday night

'Cause life is hard
And working's hard
Sometimes just smiling is hard

I think I'll go to a party
I think I'll bring you with
Let's go to a party
Smoke and drink and talk all night
Let's have a hootennany
'Cause it's Friday night

You can wear your new shirt
I'll wear my favorite shoes
You can get real deep on politics and doom
While I fall in love with everybody in the room