Chapter Twenty-One
It seemed that no matter what else was going on in my life, I was inevitably drawn back to music. Concurrent with the road fight were periods during which I was motivated to write and record songs. In 1982, the professional work that was both my joy and my livelihood brought me to Austin to record my first album for Atlantic Records. A generous reviewer might have called One to One an eclectic mixture. A more blunt assessment would have been that the songs had no unifying thread.
Though Rick Sorensen never collaborated on a song with me, I internalized and communicated some of what I believed to be his views in “It’s a War,” “Lookin’ Out for Number One,” and “Little Prince”—all written in Gretchen’s cabin. But there were also songs with upbeat lyrics. I was the sole writer of “Golden Man” and “(Love Is Like a) Boomerang.” I’d written “Golden Man” about Rick Evers early in our relationship, and the opening and closing choruses of “Boomerang” expressed my long-held belief that love is worth the risk.
Then there was “Life Without Love,” penned by Gerry Goffin and our daughter Louise. That was the first song I ever recorded that I had not written.
But the best song was arguably the title song. With its exquisitely crafted lyrics by Cynthia Weil, I wasn’t surprised when Atlantic released “One to One” as the first single, but I was truly surprised when it hit the top 40. It probably didn’t hurt that I did some live performances that year, or that the message in “One to One” was consistent with what people wanted to hear from me. Such was not the case with “Goat Annie.” Few of my fans could relate to that song, and more than a few wrote to ask why I had included it on the album. The answer is, I wrote it to celebrate the independent spirit of the woman who had inspired the fictional Goat Annie. How could I not include it? I shared the opinion Jerry Jeff Walker was said to have expressed about records:
“A record is exactly that—a record of what you’re doin’ and thinkin’ at a certain time.”
One to One had been exactly that. And so it was with my second Atlantic album. Released in 1983, Speeding Time combined my exposure to some of the people I’d met in rural Idaho with a desire to incorporate some of the sounds of the eighties. Speeding Time was—how shall I put this?—not warmly received. I knew that people wanted more songs from me along the lines of those in Tapestry, but I was older now, and my life was different. I had written some of the songs for Speeding Time with Gerry, and I wrote others on my own in a small studio Rick helped me set up in a little-used room in the part of the lodge that had been the stage stop. As I wrote, I ran an eight-track reel-to-reel tape to record what I called a docu-demo. Unlike a demo to present a song to an artist, the purpose of a docu-demo was to document a song as it was emerging so I could refer back to a moment of creative magic that I might otherwise have lost. I employed a Linn drum machine that gave me the ability to approximate, with the touch of a finger, the sounds a human drummer makes. I also had a Roland Jupiter-8 synthesizer with presets that attempted to replicate the sound of a string orchestra, a horn section, or any other instrumentation I wanted. What I did not have at Robinson Bar was immediate access to a recording engineer or a community of cats.
Studio musicians were having problems of their own. Synthesizers were beginning to replace them in the studio. Producers were thinking, Let me see. $1,000 for a machine, one time only? Or $10,000 per track for an orchestra? And the machine doesn’t require a ten-minute union break every hour.
But I didn’t take my friends’ jobs away. I used my synthesizer as a writing tool and then went to L.A. to record with actual musicians. However, after I recorded the live tracks, since the sound of the eighties was all about synths, I felt compelled, however misguidedly, to add electronic sounds to what the live musicians had played. It was not my finest hour as an arranger.
I invited Lou Adler out of semiretirement to produce Speeding Time. I’m still not sure why he agreed to do it. That album included some of the worst songs I’ve ever written. I believe I may have hit a career low with “Chalice Borealis,” though of course I didn’t feel that way at the time. Still, some songs from Speeding Time have held up. Lou and I closed a circle when we recorded a version of “Crying in the Rain,” on which I sang both Everly Brothers’ parts and added—finally!—my own third harmony. And I still smile when I hear “One Small Voice,” which I composed after rereading Hans Christian Andersen’s The Emperor’s New Clothes. I’d like to believe that my performing “One Small Voice” in three different American presidential campaigns had nothing to do with my first two candidates losing.
After spending time back in 1977 with David Crosby and his pale young girlfriend, Nancy Brown, my perception of their relationship had inspired me to write the music and lyrics for “Alabaster Lady.” That song was really more of an epic, but it, too, appeared on the Speeding Time album. I thought it was incredibly generous of Crosby to remain my good friend even after he heard that lyric in which I was highly judgmental of him.
Sometimes songs reveal layers that not even the writer fully understands at first. When I wrote “Alabaster Lady” I thought I was speaking to Nancy Brown. Later I realized that I was also speaking to myself. “Alabaster Lady” is one of those songs that came through me, rather than from me. As soon as I recognize that a song is coming through me, I try to get out of the way and let the process be guided by whatever is driving me beyond what I think of as craft. People have different names for whatever inspires them, but anyone who’s ever created anything from that place knows exactly what I’m talking about.
Craft is when you sit in front of a blank page, a musical instrument, or a computer screen, and wonder how you’re going to come up with a second verse, the next chapter, an irrefutable argument in a legal brief, or that certain-to-get-you-admitted paragraph in a college essay. Artists, actors, and choreographers undoubtedly experience a similar agony contemplating their chosen medium. When I experience such agony I’m usually contemplating a hastily scribbled verse and maybe a chorus that I’m trying to shape into something resembling a good song.
When I hit a wall I usually stop and do something else. This effectively turns the problem over to my subconscious mind, which keeps working on it under the radar. When I return to the task, my subconscious has often solved the problem before my ego has time to assert control. When the ego is in charge, that’s when the work is coming from you. You may still be doing good work but the ego allows doubt to creep in.
First you agonize. How will I ever finish this?
Then you ponder. How did I ever come up with this?
Then you wonder. Is it good enough?
I offer this as the opinion of one woman: when the thing you’re creating comes through you, you know it, and it’s much better than good enough.
After Speeding Time, I didn’t release another album or tour again for five years—unless you count performing for political purposes.