Jill Block is co-founder and CEO of the Nashville Entertainment Group. A legend in the Nashville music community, she graciously shared her experiences on embracing new chapters and achieving success in a male-dominated industry.
iTunes? You betcha.
Video? You're daggum right.
I just wrapped up my first long songwriting session in, well, too long, and I'm ready to leap tall buildings in a single bound! A couple new rough drafts in the can, and one song that’s existed without a bridge for several months now has six to choose from.
Once I have some decent working ideas, I hit the town stand-up comic style, landing short sets at whatever venue will have me and road testing new material, low-key and unannounced. If a verse has a solid first line but that’s it, I’ll sing random words and see if anything sticks. If a song has six potential bridges, I’ll play a different bridge each set and gauge the crowd’s reaction - easy, when people are sitting in rapt attention (which is rare), and difficult when the audience is checking their Bitcoin portfolios (which is more common). Just like a comic, I record everything, listen back and tweak. Rinse and repeat until a tune’s ready to be recorded or performed at a “real” show.
My songs get exponentially better when they’re dancing around, gloriously half-naked, in the real world, out of the echo chamber of my over-active mind. If an idea exists solely on a hard drive, or god forbid in my brain, for too long, I start losing my grip - if I’m not sharing, I don’t feel like a songwriter, and if I don’t feel like a songwriter, I feel like a schmuck, and if I feel like a schmuck, I descend into Howard Hughesian, patchy beard-y whack job land.
It's an unorthodox approach I grant you, but fun! Try it sometime. If you're apprehensive, I understand, but also understand that Sir Paul could play unannounced at the 5 Spot and random industry guy in attendance still wouldn’t look up from his phone. It’s safe to be yourself out there, it really is, and changing up the creative process always reveals hidden gems.
Today culminates about a week’s worth of existential crisis combined with an insane work load. It’s been a barrel of laughs, let me tell ya. Starting tomorrow, I’m looking forward to settling into a consistent creative routine again, one that includes more time spent on thorough, adverb-heavy newsletter posts. But tonight, I figure I’ll share one final Neil Gaiman quote, one I reference whenever someone’s being a particularly unnerving assclown, which has been a common occurrence lately. It’s also the quote that inspired me to start the podcast, and this daily newsletter.
“I’ve never known anyone who was what he or she seemed; or at least, was only what he or she seemed. People carry worlds within them.”
And it brings me great joy, knowing there are worlds within me I’m only beginning to discover.
I watched Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage on Netflix recently, and it’s a fantastic documentary.
It comes as a surprise to literally no one that I’m a Rush fan, but I won’t waste your precious commute time evangelizing. Yes, they are nerdy and, yes, By-Tor and the Snow Dog is a dumb song.
What’s refreshing about Rush, and what’s captured so well in this documentary, is their genuine friendship - three misfit toys who literally banded together and made whatever the hell music they felt like. They don’t take themselves too seriously, have had the same manager since the beginning, same road crew, no major fall outs, no one pickled their brain on booze - they just kept at it, one show at a time, and built an unequaled dweeb empire.
Their music isn’t for everyone, but what music is? Provided you make it with your friends, share your art, and own who you are, you're bulletproof.
And COME ON…
held within the pleasure dome
decreed by Kubla Khan
I will dine on honey dew
and drink the milk of paradise
I adjust my glasses in salute.
Quite a few readers responded to my last post (thank you!), and I figured I’d share another favorite Neil Gaiman quote:
“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”
I remind myself of this whenever I’m feeling unproductive or creatively stymied, ie right now - ok, so the discipline’s slacked a bit, and that’s ok, rewatch Curb Your Enthusiasm and eat jelly beans, it’s good for you and you probably needed it. Maybe, just maybe, relax, you maniac - by being kind to ourselves and paying attention, we give inspiration permission to enter our orbit.
Today was frustrating, and I eventually threw in the towel in favor of re-reading "The Wheel," a short graphic novel by Neil Gaiman, one of the my favorite writers. I love this passage and reference it often - it reminds me that, if we're not careful, hours and weeks can blow away like dead leaves, with nothing to show but time spent never quite doing things. So, let's be kind to ourselves - try our best, however that looks on the day, make new things and share them with people who might enjoy them, hug too much, smile too much, and welcome love into our lives.
All musicians know that green room walls festooned with cartoon phalluses, conspiracy theories and creatively profane epithets is as classically American as drowning in student loan debt. So, when you encounter green room art that's edifying as opposed to spiritually gangrenous, it's worth sharing.
I was looking through old photos today and came across this shot from three or four years ago. Rules to live by, truly.
Consistent readers know there are four primary focuses that make up my “brand,” such as it is: writing this thing everyday, solo tunes, the TLTL podcast, and playing guitar in the Allen Stone Electric Experience.
This approach, depending on who you ask, is dumb, evidently so much so that I’m often asked about generalization vs specialization. People don’t use those terms, but I do because I wear glasses and am re-reading Dune.
Generalization means diversity.
Pros:
-You’re better prepared for the euphoric peaks and brutal valleys that define this line of work. A more generalized artist can experience downturns to some of their products and still keep on truckin’ with more successful offerings, which in turn can drive traffic to the rest of the business.
Cons:
-The logistics of keeping multiple businesses on track can be harrowing. There’s also the “huh?” factor - generalized artists are more apt to get the “I just don’t get it” treatment, usually coupled with the assumption their art isn’t as good because, shit, how could it be? That guy over there’s going all-in, after all.
Which brings us to specialization.
Pros:
-Sweat relief, just one thing to focus on! And people in this business like saying, “Oh, so-and-so, she’s the person who does X,” so specialist have a higher perceived value.
Cons:
-Putting your eggs in one basket, while easy to understand, is also risky. Tour flops? Record’s not selling? T-shirts get devoured by gremlins? By specializing, your livelihood comes from one place, and there’s less security - if the well dries up, you’re screwed.
Clearly, I’m no expert. Ultimately, it comes down to authenticity, and a career in the arts is a lunatic endeavor at the best of times - regardless of career approach, it’s important we celebrate and support each other, and continue building a community of crazy ninja badasses.
Episode 12 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!
I met Stevie Rees on a weekend run with Dwight Yoakam. I was struck, obviously, by his absurd musicianship, and his low-key ninja/buddha insightfulness revealed itself as I gained his trust via fried chicken. Sharing the stage was a joy, and he’s a freaking legend, which you’ll soon discover.
Amazing conversations are nourishing in so many ways, and the podcast’s helped me approach songwriting with fresh perspective. I put the one take videos on hold for a while because, after weeks of being graciously invited into people’s worlds, I realized some new lyrics were bullshit. I mean, nice poems, well constructed and all that, but out of synch with my current real estate in the universe. It can be a beautiful thing, selecting all, pressing delete and starting over, an invitation for honestly to take center stage.
I’m sitting at a picnic table in front of the Frothy Monkey on 12 South, writing this on my phone as I mingle incognito with tourists and bachelorette parties. Little do they know they’re in the presence of hipster R&B semi-celebrity, one with idiopathic scoliosis no less.
It’s warm rather than sweltering, mercifully not humid, and I’m luxuriating in what easily could've been a shitty day. Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens builds into my week addictively nourishing conversations, and today’s with J Human (a fantastic soul singer/songwriter) was one of my favorites - it elevated me out of an overly-caffieanted funk and inspired the finishing of lyrics I’d initially dismissed but am now really stoked on.
I’m acutely aware of the tiny ripple I make in the proverbial pond, but I promised myself I’d write this thing everyday, and I have. I promised myself I’d focus on my own music in earnest, and I have. I promised myself I’d share honest conversations about subjects that challenge and inspire me, and I have.
Where I rank in the echelon of nomadic, bespectled dreamers with crooked spines, well, that’s up to a presumably underachievering deity. But I feel better about myself than ever, and I know that counts for something.
I woke up this morning feeling envious, because I'm a musician, and everything around us exists to make us feel like we suck and shouldn't try at all, ever.
There’re two types of envy I experience - malicious and benign. Malicious envy's transparently awful, but isn’t it fun, talking shit and inventing whacky conspiracy theories? Clearly, other’s success is a personal affront, and oh sweet relief, I finally can blame my own inaction on some self-conjured boogieman.
Benign envy, on the other hand, is my friend. It’s normal, feeling a pang of something when you see a buddy holding up devil horns in front of ten thousand people. I don’t try to fight it, but rather harness that pang as motivation - to get in the gym when I’d rather shovel Cheetos into my face, to fine-tune lyrics, to write this newsletter.
Being surrounded by talented, ambitious and happy people means you’re doing it right, and I remind myself that the world’s already getting their stories. It’s up to me to tell mine.
No one denies that feeling envy is unpleasant, or feeling envious leads us down paths we wish we hadn’t taken. Envy is frequently corrosive and destructive. And yet, I’ve grown to appreciate over the years that the right kind of envy can serve an important function - competition and improvement.
Greg Ehrlich, my former compatriot with Allen Stone, was a guest on the podcast today, and it was everything I hoped it'd be and more. Greg was and remains the heart and soul of the band, and it was so much fun passing the ball over to him and the myriad stories of which he's chief protagonist. They are, of course, amazing, which is why I'm grinning ear to ear like a dingus.
Greg and I've buffooned around together a whole lot over the years, and we discussed how our being insanely lucky's emboldening rather than anxiety inducing - the Allen band's success doesn't make a lick of sense, but, then again, what does? Given the whole thing's preposterous, to a borderline insulting degree, why not push back the curtain of that random ramen shop in Tokyo, take a chance on the anarchist ping-pong bar in Berlin, and sky dive with strangers in rural France? Somehow, life's dropped us off here, so less thinking, more doing and, above all, celebrating friends made along the way.
Thanks, Greg, for reaffirming why I've chosen this whacky life, and always inspiring me, in your words, to "book a ticket and just go." Should we all be so fortunate, having legendary maniacs in our lives.
Another one take video for ya! Here's a song I wrote called "Sister of Mercy," featuring my pals Phöenix Lazare and HOWND. Check it out, if you like. Lyrics below...
I’m the child who sings
about the truth in everything
about how it does not matter
and how we’ll never win
I don’t know where to begin
sister of mercy, change me
cover me up with your silence, head to toe
sister of mercy, hear me, humbly
I will never fly where you cannot go
I’m an avalanche in spring
except I have not learnt a thing
from this long and lonely winter
that’s being burned away
by the tricks this naive light will play
sister of mercy, change me
cover me up with your silence, head to toe
sister of mercy, hear me, humbly
I will never fly where you can not go
Yesterday was one of those days where I found myself falling back into familiar all-or-nothing thought patterns, which often happens when I’m sleep deprived and eating like an asshole, which I have been lately. I figured I’d share my process for working out of the muck.
First, I make a list of all the all-or-nothing thinking. Here’re a few recent gems:
When it comes to crippling self-doubt, why mess with the classics, right? After a few rounds of creative profanity, I counter with thoughts that are more in tune with reality:
For me, this process isn't about feeling instantly better, but rather allowing a few rays of sunlight to poke through the clouds, which can be all I need.
And I feel it’s important sharing. We’re in this together, after all.
I’m sitting in the shade at Cornelia Fort Airpark in Nashville, attempting to procrastinate but instead, for the first time in MoaT history, writing this on my phone.
We write on our phones everyday - texts, emails, searches etc - but longer form writing I feel’s less common. I’ve resisted up until now because I’ve needed the ritual and intention of setting aside time to write, but my schedule’s about to become full-on lunacy - this newsletter’s important to me, and I want writing always to feel like a treat rather than a chore.
So far, I'm into it. I like throwing together sentences from a park bench (where I'm sitting now), beach (hopefully soon), or green room with particularly spectacular dick art (guaranteed). Hopefully, writing on my phone here and there will help me appreciate, maybe even look forward to, the random pockets of time touring musicians know too well, the “you can’t leave, but there’s nothing to do” moments typically occupied by Instagram scrolling.
Episode 11 of Trevor Larkin Talks and Listens is live!
A solo artist and member of Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness, Zac Clark is a mensch, raconteur and musician of highest order. He’s one of my favorite people - the transition from supporting cast member to The Guy can be disorienting, and Zac's handling things with predictable grace and good humor.
This episode’s actually an unreleased conversation from the Not Famous Podcast, recorded a year ago to the day. It’s one of my and Jeremy’s favorite’s, and I’m excited to share it with you.
Zac’s currently out on his first headlining tour - I caught the show in Nashville and it’s fantastic. Experience and be elevated, my friends!
I’m privilaged to have several confidants in this business, people who are a little older, exponentially wiser, and offer much needed perspective whenever I’m being an asshole.
I was venting recently to one of them, all the usual bullshit we creative types fixate on. This particular confidant, think stereotypical Oxford professor in appearance and Tourettes-addled marine in preferred language, offered something that’ll stick with me for a long time.
“You’re original. And it’ll be your biggest weakness, until it’s your greatest strength.”
Let’s all endeavor to keep our heads down, stay the course, and create unrelentingly.
I’m writing this from the Seattle/Tacoma International Airport. I’ve been upgraded to first class on my flight to Nashville and figured I’d better write this now before indulging in a couple two-three complimentary cocktails and offering up a long-winded reptilian overlords post. At some point, Tom Brady will rip off his ill-fitting skin suit and sing, with disarming melodiousness, battle hymns from his home world.
I digress. Canada was great! Two festival dates under our belts, the Truck Stop Concert Series in Vancouver and Rock the Shores in Victoria. We’ve been playing together for so long now that a “bad” show’s not really in the cards. I had some gnarly technical issues during Rock the Shores - failed power supply, an overdrive pedal literally disintegrating during our set, thereby shorting out the entire board, and my having to jury rig a solution involving exposed live wires, all during the Canadian debut of “Brown Eyed Lover” in front of 10,000 people. But I was able to handle things with relative ice in my veins because I knew the band had my back, Bear’d adjust in FOH, and Tim’d tweak the ear mixes like a goddamn champion.
Chemistry’s a powerful thing. At this level, it’s a given everyone can play - it’s kinda the least important factor. There’s no fancy lick or aptitude on a particular console that substitutes years in the trenches together - guys who know your playing better than you do, can cover your tuchus, and like you well enough to mourn your death should the haphazard MacGyver bullshit go sideways.
When Tom Brady finally reveals his saurian self to a long-suspecting Bill Belichick, I hope this crew charges with me in the first wave of resistance.
Since posting the first picture of the Gypsy Guitar, my inbox’s been inundated with everything from hyper-technical questions to “bro, that guitar looks siiiiiiiiiiick.”
The guitar does, in fact, look sick, and I promised Ken and Nate at the Walla Walla Guitar Company a brutally honest assessment once I’d played the Gypsy on a gig, which I did for the first time last night in Vancouver BC.
I love my hometown and really, really, wanted the guitar to be amazing - it sounded great at the house, but touring with boutique instruments can be challenging. Bluntly put, they're often designed to look cool on the wall of a lawyer's office, falling hopelessly out of tune once the AC kicks on. My world is, in a word, different - hundreds of shows, disinterested airport baggage handlers, and my beating the daylights out of the thing with less deference than I’d show a chainsaw. I’ll sacrifice all manner of geek-tastic accoutrement as long as the goddamn thing stays in one piece.
I’m happy to report that not only does the Gypsy look like it belongs in a museum, it received an enthusiastic thumbs up from our FOH, Ryan “Bear” Drozd. I put it through the wringer last night - maniac bends and Ramones-worthy bludgeoning, all through a mediocre back lined amp - and the Gypsy sang like a freaking bird.
Thank you, Ken, Nate, Terry, and everyone at Walla Walla Guitar Company, for making a player’s instrument.
I’m writing this poolside at the opulent Sutton Hotel in downtown Vancouver BC. As touring musicians, we’re conditioned to think a can of Beefaroni in a van with functional-yet-moldy AC’s the height of luxury, so frequenting spots where a quinoa salad’s thirty bucks feels pleasantly unsettling. I’m grateful my misspent youth’s equipped me with fingers dextrous enough to make a day job as yet unexplored.
Our production manager, Tim Burke, is berobed, wearing sunglasses indoors, and insinuating he might embarrass me at the ping-pong table. He’s new to the team and doesn’t know, and it brings me great joy knowing that, soon, he will know, and I hope his thorough ass whooping won’t result in only kick drum in my mix. Worth the risk, that I might reign down tiny-balled fire and fury. By the time you read this, Tim, you’ll have recovered from being reduced to a quivering heap of false bravado, and we’ll be sharing beers as comrades again. Thank you - my ear mix is perfect.
Traveling with this crew’s special. Looking forward to doing a lot more of it in the coming months.