Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story (25 page)

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W
HEN
I
WAS SIXTEEN
I had a dream that I got to open for Bob Dylan. I had just started writing songs and of course he was an idol of mine. I had no intentions then of becoming a professional musician, but I suppose my submersion in Dylan’s music could not help causing my subconscious to dream even if I dared not dream that big during waking hours.

I studied my favorite writers for years prior to writing songs. Pablo Neruda and Octavio Paz fired my passion for revolutionary writing that honored nature and the courage of the common man, giving a voice to the voiceless. Bukowski and Anaïs Nin taught me to be brave and honest as a writer, and not to use art as propaganda to sell yourself as more perfect than you actually are. Steinbeck and Flannery O’Connor taught me about character development and about the nobility in working-class heroes. Nabokov and Dostoevsky brought color, psychology, and intensity to fiction. Plato and Pascal taught me about economy and potency. I studied writers more intently than I did musicians. I studied singers, which led me to Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald and to great trumpet players like Miles Davis, who used tone and phrasing to convey emotion—which is what pure singing should do, when words don’t get in the way.

But at sixteen I began to get into singer-songwriters, ones who embodied all the traits I admired in my authors. I loved Loretta Lynn’s honesty and pride and authenticity—her song “The Pill” blew my mind with her frankness in saying that she no longer had to feel like a hen in a coup laying eggs, that she didn’t have to keep having babies every time her husband got a hankering for sex. Joni Mitchell, of course, blew me away with her originality and her poet’s voice and complex chord and melody
structure. Neil Young with his grit and tension, which was married to a softness that could be heard on
Harvest
and
Harvest Moon
. Merle Haggard, who was so prolific and willing to say what was on his mind, and to also pay unabashed tribute to his heroes. I suspect he also listened to jazz, as I could hear strains of elegant melody and passing chords amid his everyman’s topics. I loved Tracy Chapman and saw her as a modern troubadour whose heart was full of a soulful need to give a voice to the underrepresented. Rickie Lee Jones with her whimsy and her bite, her unique harmony layers and her funky rhythmic beats. And then there was Dylan, of course. Whose intelligence and beatnik New York City background and whose fascination with the great folk heroes before him all combined in a revolutionary way that still leaves a footprint so large it takes several of us to fill any one step.

As a new songwriter, I found that all these influences, along with my own hurt, my own longing to give a voice to the voiceless, my own need to make sense of the world around me, made their way into my songs. I did not write love songs as a sixteen-year-old. I did not write about crushes or about mean girls. I wrote about my life—about the injustices and inequities and the search for answers and self-responsibility. Songwriting lit me up because for the first time I was able to combine many of my passions: poetry, storytelling, character development, melody, shape, and singing. I was in heaven. I had no idea that a mere five years later my dream of opening for Dylan would come true, or that many of my heroes would actually mentor me.

When I got the call to open for Dylan, my first record was considered a failure. I had received critical praise—the London
Times
said I was the most glittering singer-songwriter since Joni Mitchell. The
New York Times
said I was bursting with talents. But many others called me naive, overly optimistic, and completely off-trend in a country gripped with a
fascination for grunge and obsessed with apathy and cynicism. While I was living in my car I had learned to let go of cynicism in order to survive. True cynics all kill themselves. The rest are posers, trying to use clever sarcasm and snarky remarks to hide insecurity and the fear that if they put themselves out there they will fail. I learned that inner safety exists only in vulnerability, in having the courage to admit that the glass is half full and half empty, and to choose to live your life within the part that is half full. To have faith. Anyone can try to beat life to the punch, lower their expectations, and feel smart because they predicted disappointment, even braced and hardened their hearts for its impact. But to look at life with an open heart, take it on the chin and say
I am more yielding, I am more open
, takes real courage. This is where I was in my life and in my writing. I wanted to document my yearning to not be a victim in my life, but to affect its outcome.

And I was on fire. I didn’t mind if I was called naive. The critics and journalists who responded with acrimony to my music betrayed their own sense of fear and their unrealized dreams, as far as I was concerned. I learned to toughen my skin and ignore them while at the same time remaining soft enough to create and to feel the people I actually sang for. I saw a different response to my music in my fans—people like me, out there struggling every day who were desperate for a way to feel empowered and more hopeful. They weren’t concerned with being cool, they were earnest and eclectic, and they wanted a sense of camaraderie and support. We found a way to connect to each other online, in the early days of the Internet. Fans began to call themselves EDAs—Every Day Angels—a term coined from a lyric in “I’m Sensitive.” They shared bootlegs of live shows and lyrics to unreleased songs and built a community.

Still, after a long year of playing for fifteen people in each town I visited, the record had gained no real traction. Atlantic Records had tried all year to get me played on the radio at the height of grunge, and I was
beginning to fear that I would be dropped and wind up in my car again. I played my guts out that year, opening for the Ramones, Belly, Catherine Wheel, and grunge audiences. The difficulty of playing for the audiences, along with being called worthless by the press, would make anyone lose some heart.

I began to doubt that the small groundswell I’d somehow inspired would ever become more than a ripple. I started to feel silly and awkward and like maybe I should just try to write stuff that sounded like what was on the radio. I could do that. I could change, if that’s what it would take to stay out of my car.

The decision not to take a huge advance bought me a lot of time at the label, because I was affordable. I didn’t cost a lot to support on the road—I toured in a rental car with a friend driving. No tour manager. No fancy bus. Hard wood grows slowly, and I was trying to live by that idea.

It ended up being the best thing I did because it continued to ensure that I was the cheapest act to support, even if I had the most difficult music to break. I wrote letters to every secretary at the label, the ones who did a lot of the real work, as well as the department heads who were fighting for me. I sent postcards from the road to thank them for what they were willing to do to help me live my dream. I tried to make sure people knew what this meant to me, how deeply I cared about it, and how thankful I was. I hoped everyone would feel gratified and energized to keep fighting for a long shot like me. I learned that a lot of the artists and mangers were brats. They beat the label up, they complained, felt cheated, were suspicious, ranted and raved. I worked hard, and if they said jump, I said, how high? Every artist on the label was talented—the only competitive edge I had was to be the person they would rather pick up the phone to call. It was so humbling to have a team of people fighting to help me achieve a dream.

We first tried to get “Who Will Save Your Soul” onto the radio, but
after a year we gave up and tried with “You Were Meant for Me.” But it was too simple, everyone felt—a country shuffle and four minutes long, a full minute longer than songs on the radio were supposed to be. We decided to revamp it to make it sound more “radio,” and hired Juan Patiño, who had produced Lisa Loeb’s “Stay.” I gutted sections of the song to make it shorter, we cut it faster and with more of a pop sound. I was enthusiastic about trying to make it work, but when all was said and done, I was too embarrassed to tell Atlantic I hated it. It cost about forty grand to recut, and I deeply feared that if it became a hit, it would be my only one.

To my amazement, Danny in the radio department caught me in the hallway of the New York office one day and said he didn’t want me to change for radio. He wanted radio to change for me. He and Andrea Ganis redoubled their efforts to gain traction on “Who Will Save Your Soul,” and we came up with a strategy for college radio. I began touring college campuses and building another small groundswell with students. Enough to get a little more notice.

Enter Bob Dylan. He was looking for an opening act for an East Coast run and somehow my name came up and I was asked to do it. I was ecstatic. I never expected to meet him—I assumed I was some promoter’s idea. At the first show, his tour manager came out and said, “Welcome to the road. You have thirty minutes—don’t get offstage late. If anything, get off early. And just wanted to let you know, Dylan will not see your show or meet you. He doesn’t really do that, and I’ve found it’s better to let the opening act know that upfront.” “No problem,” I said.

Four nights later he came up to me again, and said, “Well, you’re not going to believe this. Dylan heard your stuff and he’s been watching your show. He wants to meet you downstairs in his dressing room.” I was stunned. I walked downstairs and knocked gingerly on his door. I heard that iconic nasal voice say, “Yeah. Come in.”

I opened the door and there I was face-to-face with my hero. I tried to take it in stride. Or at least to not trip awkwardly before I even said hello. I sat down immediately just to be sure I wouldn’t, and then had no idea what to say. Luckily I didn’t have to. He was full of questions. “Hey, uh, I like your song ‘Who Will Save Your Soul.’ How did you write that?” I’m sorry? Was Bob Dylan asking me how I wrote a song? My mind was spinning and my mouth would not open to speak. I sat staring at him like a deaf mute. Maybe fearing I was a bit slower than he anticipated, he approached it from another angle. Quoting my own lyrics to me. Again. Flabbergasted. I must have managed to stammer out some kind of response.

“I see you reading side stage before you go on—what are you reading?” he asked. Proust, I told him sheepishly. “Oh yeah, I learned French to read him.” Of course Bob Dylan learned French to read Proust.

Dylan invited me to his dressing room after every show. He went over lyrics with me, talked about books, asked me what I was listening to. Far from the stories I’d heard about how eccentric he was, in our conversations he was curious, humble, engaging, sweet even. He seemed to believe in me and later I heard that he liked the fact I was touring without a band, just my guitar. It’s harder if you can reach someone else’s audience like that, it means something. He liked my yodeling and asked if I’d heard of the Blue Yodeler. No, I said, he sounds like a superhero. “Oh, he is,” Bob said, clearly a fan. He asked for my address and said he was going to send me some CDs.

One night I worked up the courage to ask Bob a question in return. I sat there night after night looking at Dylan’s nose and tried to resist the urge to reach out and give it a squeeze. Finally I blurted out, “Can I feel your nose?” Much to my surprise he simply shut his eyes and leaned forward and presented it to me. I squeezed it firmly but politely. As I’d imagined, the curve at the tip had a springy cartilage-y feel that was very
satisfying. I filed it away mentally in my data bank and we resumed our conversation without ever referencing it again.

The last night of the tour Bob invited me onstage to sing with him. I was shocked and his tour manager seemed to be as well. Bob asked if I knew “I Shall Be Released.” I knew it well. He gave me a verse to sing on my own. I waited in the wings as he played his show. He gave me a very flattering introduction and I walked out and over to a backup singer’s mic. He waved me over to come sing with him. On his mic. I felt my knees get weak. There I was, sharing a mic with my hero. Our lips nearly touching. His pale blue eyes inches from mine. Singing one of the classic songs of all time. I guess I sang my verse, though I have no recollection of it. I might have been hyperventilating. At the end of the song, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Isn’t she wonderful? She reminds me of a young Joan Baez.” Then he gave my hair a sort of fond little tussle, like a kid sister he was proud of. I nearly fainted. My CD may not have been selling. Radio didn’t want my music. The world might not ever discover my music, but Bob Dylan liked my lyrics and my chutzpah, and that was all I needed to stay my path. I left that tour reinspired to be true to myself.

A few years later, once I was selling out large venues, Bob asked me to open for him at the El Rey Theatre in L.A. I showed up with bells on. I got done with my set and Bob had me up to his dressing room. “Congrats on all your success. You’ve sold like a bazillion records.” “Thanks,” I said. He continued: “Hey, you didn’t play ‘Who Will Save Your Soul’ tonight.” “Yes, I did,” I replied. “I ended on it.” “Huh,” he said. “It must have been in a different key.” Well, he had me there. I had dropped it a whole step to accommodate a tired voice that night. He said, “Hey, did you ever get the CDs I sent you?” He had sent me the Jimmie Rogers anthology, and I said, “Yes, thank you—I loved them.” “You never called,” he said. I could not tell if he was kidding or sincere. “Well, I didn’t have your number and
I didn’t think you were in the phone book.” He took out a piece of paper and wrote his number down for me and said, “If you ever want someone to write with, let me know.” I was floored. Surely he must be joking. I left the room and was whisked away to do some interviews. Afterward, about halfway through his set, I reached in my pocket for the number, only to find it
gone.

twenty-one

every day angels

W
ho Will Save Your Soul” had its day on the charts and the label felt that we would not get traction on any other songs, and so I went back into the studio to record a second record. The lack of success and sales vexed me and I found myself listening to the critics. In Woodstock, New York, I began production on a reactionary record that was edgier, with more angst. Flea came to be my bass player, and related his own tales of being in the public eye, which helped give me some perspective on just what being a professional musician was all about. My mom told me that some die-hard fans had asked if I would do a free show for them, which we said yes to, if they’d organize it. The date was set and I showed up to a small theater for what fans had dubbed Jewelstock. They had driven and flown in from all over the country and camped out, and they knew every obscure song of mine that had never been recorded. They circulated bootlegs, and I put on a five-hour show. They were amazing fans and really gave me heart at a time when I needed a lift.