You see, the past few years I’d been feeling stuck. I’d stopped gigging completely and had largely stopped playing music. Not because I didn’t want to, but when I get really low, I can’t make myself pick up the guitar. I know it’s the one thing I need to do to pull myself back up, and yet…my guitar just sits there in the corner watching me, and I try to avoid its glaring eyes.

This Substack was the best way I could think of to trick myself into playing again. And, well… it worked.

I’ve started putting a band back together. I have a couple gigs booked. The past few weeks, new song ideas have been soaring by like migrating birds, and I’ve managed to pluck a bunch of them out of the sky.

There are so many incredible music journalists, writers, historians, and curators here on Substack. I’ve loved carving a little spot out for myself here to meet other musicians and music lovers. I’m a musician, and I’m a writer, but I’m not really a music writer.

Ultimately, I’d rather be writing music than writing about music.

Music has always been a central part of my creative life. But there’s a lot more to it these days. I’m also a poet and filmmaker. I’m about 3/4 through writing my first novel.

Yes, I’m all over the place.

I’ve tried to pick just one creative outlet and stick to it, but it never stays sticky. Some ideas want to be songs, some poems, some films, some long-ass novels. Who am I to tell an idea what it is? To me, my job is just to help each idea come to fruition.

So, that is all to say: this little newsletter is going to change a bit.

The song craft/history essays I’ve been sending out take quite a bit of research and time. While they’re fun to write, the truth is I can’t really afford to spend that many hours on something that 1) isn’t really paying, and 2) isn’t my passion.

In the footsteps of many other artists who are building something here on Substack, I’ll be focusing more on making my various arts, documenting the process, and sharing thoughts and lessons learned along the way.

One thing I’m very excited about is continuing the livestream chats with other musicians and artists, like this one we did a couple weeks ago. At the end of these convos, we’ll each play some tunes live. Like micro concerts.

I’m planning to host regular-length concerts, too, with other musicians via livestream as well. Maybe quarterly?

As for the other aspects of my creative life, I’m still teasing out how I’ll incorporate them here. Some ideas I’m kicking around are:

• Serializing my novel (still trying to determine whether this is a brilliant idea or author-suicide because of the whole AI thing.)

• Documenting the process of pulling apart my long-ago recorded album into stems and remixing it (the original mix is all fucked up because I kind of got scammed…. hey, maybe I’ll write about that, too!)

• Releasing new original music (if I say it here, maybe I can trick myself into actually doing it)

• A songwriting series in which I take the chord progression for a song I love and write something new with it

• Essays about my experience making (and selling) indie feature films on a budget

This way, my creative projects and this newsletter can merge and fit much better into my ultra-glamorous life of working from home whilst chasing a peanut-butter-covered toddler around all day and building an independent film company with my husband.

Anyway, I want to thank you for helping me get back up. Truly. I’d been feeling hopeless that nobody cared about good music anymore, and then… there you were.

I have no idea what will happen with my music romance this time around. But so far my favorite thing about it is that I don’t feel desperate to find out. I’m just grateful: that I was born with a natural inclination for music, that my younger self put in so many hours of training that I now get to relax and enjoy, that I still get to play.

Maybe it’s cliché to say “music saves lives”. But… it’s true. It has saved mine many times. I owe it; I really do. So, I’m going to give it as much time and attention as I can afford. Our time and attention are what our art wants most, after all.

Something we’ve started saying at our house is: “Ask not what your art can do for you, ask what you can do for your art” (we all do a terrible JFK impression, but it’s fun to try).

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So, to kick this all off, here’s one of the few songs I wrote during my years away from music. It’s more country than I usually get, but I don’t mind.

This is another quick nap-time recording. Maybe I should just cut an album called Naptime lol

This little country tune doesn’t have a name yet… anybody have a title idea?

Until next time, my friends!

xoxo,

Lizabeth

And I absolutely loved listening to Natalie’s beautiful cover of “Breathe Me”.

Check it all out for yourself!

Also, please forgive the weird AI-generated thumbnail for the video… the app usually lets you pick your own image, but it just would not work for me this time.

I’ll be bringing more musicians and songwriters on for livestream chats in the months to come, so stay tuned for that!

xoxo

Lizabeth

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Just wanted to send a quick clarification. Yesterday, my newsletter went out saying that my livestream today with starts at 10 am, but it in fact starts at 11 am (PDT).

Natalie’s all the way over in GMT (+1), and my assistant (😏) got all mixed up about the time difference. Don’t worry, I fired her. She was totally out of control. Kept drinking all my coffee and eating all my snacks… spending all my money. I had a lot of money before her and then after her, none. Everything is her fault, it turns out. Good thing she’s gone, everything will be much gooder now.

OK! Hope to see you at 11 am (if you’re PDT) or 7 pm (if you’re GMT +1) or 2 pm (if you’re EDT) or whatever time it is by you… ok bye.

xoxo

Lizabeth

Kazaa was like a portal to infinity for me.

At 15, I’d stay up late and scroll through songs and songs and songs. Stuff I’d never heard of from every era, every genre. It was an endless treasure chest. One of these late nights, I stumbled onto a song that I must’ve heard on the radio at some point, but it felt brand new to me, felt like it was being played right to me.

The intro was hypnotic, so bare you could hear the shhhh of the tape between each vocal phrase. Then the infamous 5-beat count-in and one of my all-time favorite guitar licks, which pull you right into the sweeping rush of organ and up into the song.

If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m talking about Al Green’s “Love and Happiness”-- in my opinion, one of the greatest soul recordings in the history of ever.

For one, that night was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with the Hammond B-3 organ. I remember dancing in the partially finished basement with my headphones plugged into the back of the desktop so that I had to hunch over the old wooden desk. It didn’t stop me from playing the song over and over, dancing every time.

Listening to it now, I’m amazed at how simple the recording really is, how much space it leaves. And, even though I’ve heard it thousands of times by now, how intoxicated I still get by it.

A Quintessential Memphis Song is Born

“Love and Happiness” was recorded in 1972 at Royal Studios in Memphis, Tennessee. After recording all of the tracks for Al Green’s album I’m Still in Love with You, producer Willie Mitchell decided they needed one more song. Teenie Hodges, the house guitarist for Hi Records out of Memphis, had the kernel of an idea.

The story goes that Teenie brought the idea over to Al Green’s house one night, and the two of them fleshed out “Love and Happiness”, lyrics and all, in about 15 minutes.

There’s something about hit songs that makes them come out real fast, all at once. Like they’re so good they can’t wait to exist. Or they already existed in some other dimension and were just waiting for someone to pop them over into this dimension.

Anyway, Teenie and Al took the song with them to Royal Studios for the next session. As was usually the case with the Hi Rhythm Section (the name of Hi Records’ house band), each player developed their own part while learning the song. They worked it out together like that.

The song became a living breathing thing right there in the room, and then they recorded it live off the floor. And you can feel it breathing off the record, you can feel its heart beating.

It is alive. The playing is super clean, the song structure is clear, it’s all well-defined. But, it’s alive. It has the organic ebb and flow that all human-played music has. Amazing how rare that’s come to be now. Amazing how compelling it is to the ear.

As far as I can tell, Al Green’s vocal was recorded live along with the band, too. It dances with the rest of the instruments. And his tone is this perfect combination of laidback and passionate, with a slight dustiness that doesn’t quite slip into rasp but creates a feathery edge around the sound.

It’s unmistakably his own.

The horns and backing vocals were overdubbed. On the record, the full horn section was panned way far to the left and back, which makes it feel more like they were actually in the room, standing together as they would.

Most of the backing vocalists, which punch in with that infamous call-and-response “love and happiness” in the chorus, are panned way far right (with one singer tucked into the left side for balance).

The song wasn’t released as a single initially, but only as a track on the I’m Still In Love With You album. Not until five years later, in 1977, did “Love and Happiness” come out as a single. While the song was a favorite of DJs and listeners everywhere, the industry didn’t consider it one of Al Green’s smashes like “Tired of Being Alone” and “Let’s Stay Together”.

But, even though the industry didn’t push it, the people wanted it. The song became a timeless hit organically. The cream really does rise to the top.

So much so that, all those 30 years later, my weirdo 15-year-old self stole it off the internet and held it close like it was recorded just for her.

What I remember most about that night I spent dancing in the basement to “Love and Happiness” is an overwhelming feeling of connection. That song ushered everyone and every place in the world right to me; I could hold all of it.

It was the first time I felt the whole of existence beating at once. I actually cried, there in the basement alone, completely overcome by the love and beauty of everyone living and moving in the world. This is one of the many gifts that great music gives.

“Love and Happiness” is not trying to be a profound song, but it is profound. At least, it was for me when it found me that night. And every time I’ve heard it since then, I’m reminded of that gift. That it is possible to feel connected to all of life, that music can help us get there.

Here is another quick, stripped-down nap-time cover for you. Someday, I’ll have a keys player and a drummer and I’ll record it proper.

But first, I’d like to invite you to my very first livestream!

Tomorrow (Monday 7/20) at 11am PST, and I will be talking about Sia’s music and may even play a couple tunes for you, so come hang with us!

And for those of you who are interested in such things, here’s the musician lineup for “Love and Happiness”

Rhythm Section

• Al Green — Lead Vocals

• Teenie (Mabon) Hodges – electric guitar

• Charles Hodges – Hammond organ, piano

• Leroy Hodges – electric bass

• Howard Grimes – drums*

Horns Section

• Wayne Jackson – trumpet

• Andrew Love – tenor saxophone

• Ed Logan – tenor saxophone

• James Mitchell – baritone saxophone

• Jack Hale – trombone

Backing Vocals

• Charles Chalmers – background vocals

• Donna Rhodes – background vocals

• Sandra Rhodes – background vocals

Willie Mitchell — Producer/Sound Engineer

There’s really too much to put into one newsletter, so I’m making this a series.

This is part two: Florence, Alabama

After leaving the vortex that is Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, I rented a room in Florence, AL. This is the biggest town in The Shoals region, which includes Florence, Sheffield (where the original MSS is actually located), Muscle Shoals, and Tuscumbia. Florence is across the Tennessee River from the other three, and is home to the University of North Alabama.

Walking to downtown Florence, I passed stately university buildings and grand old Southern homes with those wide grinning front porches wrapped all the way around. For a warm Friday night, it was quiet, save the click of my boots on the old red-brick sidewalks. I was on my way to a smallish local venue called Flobama Music Hall.

A lot of drunken voices echoed off the brick buildings and narrow road as I approached Court Street. I assumed the laughter and yelling and clinking glasses were coming from the music hall. But as I rounded the corner, a swath of young to middle-aged people falling all over themselves proved me wrong. They were swarming some bar like sloppy bees.

The place looked like it had been plucked right out of Los Angeles and plopped onto this small town street.

It was chic, or trying to be– everything looked ultra new, colorless, nearly untouched, and everyone there was dressed for a night at the club. As I passed, a group of sweaty middle-aged guys stood on the patch of fake grass in front, trying to convince me to join in the fun.

“There’s live music up the street,” I said. “Y’all should come up there, it’s cooler than this.”

“This is where the party’s at!” They yelled.

I shrugged and smiled, but the whole scene broke my heart a little. The heartbeat of this area, it seemed to me, was and always had been music. But they didn’t seem to hear it. Maybe they were bored of it, having grown up there. Why you’d rather just get trashed at some hipster bar than experience live music (while also getting trashed, if that’s your bag), I’ll never understand.

Anyway…

As I walked into Flobama Music Hall, it was clear I was one of the youngest people there, besides the band and the bartenders. The place– which was one long, high-ceilinged room with a bar along the left side, a large stage at the back, and variously sized tables throughout– was about half full.

On stage, two guys sat in wooden chairs, playing their acoustic guitars and singing. It was relatively simple, familiar music, but I was immediately impressed by the quality, which was above and beyond what you’d normally find in a small venue in most towns this size.

Since I was still a big drinker at that point (yes, I’d also knocked a few back before leaving the house, but “alcoholic” sounds depressing, so “big drinker” it is), I ordered a tall whiskey soda, sucked it down, and ordered another. I sat at the bar because I like being on the outskirts of things.

The two guys on stage, I would eventually learn, were the lead singer and lead guitarist for a local band called Outlaw Apostles. They were playing country and rock covers, and stripped-down originals that they’d later play as a full band. The originals were good, surprisingly good. And they knew it, too; you could tell. They weren’t showy, but they had that quiet confidence that can be so hypnotic in a performance.

There was one song in particular that has stayed with me: “Josephine”. It sounded like it could be an Eagles tune but with more of a southern edge. The harmonies and progression, particularly on the chorus, were evocative and catchy without trying too hard.

With the full band, the song really came to life: a harmonized, slightly wailing guitars intro, all of the five players (if I remember right) harmonized on the chorus. I’d say it was a hit, or would’ve been if it’d come out in the 1970s.

The band put on an excellent show, and that’s because they were clearly having a great time. Just fucking around up there with their buddies, playing songs they loved. They were loose but still engaged with the crowd and each other. They were having fun, not trying to impress us. So often performers forget that this is what people want to see.

After the show, they came down to the bar for drinks. I complimented them and we started chatting. The lead vocalist, the son of local musicians and had grown up in The Shoals, started talking about how they’d all come up together, playing since they were kids. He was relaxed and naturally charming. Then he asked about me.

I told him I was a writer visiting from Los Angeles. Suddenly, his demeanor changed. A serious look washed across his face. He started talking about how well they were doing– getting attention from this and that important place, and this and that important person said he was going to be famous, and some other impressive things.

Then, he leaned in and told me his big plan: he was going to move to Los Angeles and really take it seriously. He was going to make it. He loved playing with these guys, but he knew he could really make it.

I nodded and smiled.

What I didn’t tell him was that I’d been a professional musician and songwriter for about 15 years, and had just decided to walk away from it. My trip to Muscle Shoals wasn’t long after that decision.

I was freshly heartbroken.

Because I loved writing and playing music so incredibly much. But I’d gotten so off track because of exactly the kind of thing he was talking about: trying to “make it”.

What I didn’t tell him at the music hall that night was: Don’t go. You’ve already made it. You have a band of great musicians you love to play with. Y’all are writing good songs that you can make even better. You can turn this into a successful business if that’s what you want. Don’t throw this away. This is a real thing.

This whole “trying to make it”, can be a parasite. It can make your voice not your voice, your body not your body, your ideas some contorted version of what you think people want your ideas to be. And usually, it makes your music… bad.

You end up writing super middle-of-the-road nothing songs. You write shit that you don’t really care about, because you’re trying to be some thing the industry will value. You become a clown.

Right before this trip, I’d put out a couple singles that I’d recorded with Elise Trouw: songs I don’t really even like, to be honest. When the quarantine hit, my shows were cancelled, and the release plans fell apart. It was like I’d woken up from being hypnotized.

I realized how much of my time I’d been spending being an advertisement– a caricature of myself. Some weird, distorted clown.

When I decided to write this series, I looked up that musician from Flobama Music Hall. Seems like the band toured a little in nearby states, but stopped playing over a year ago. He went to LA. He was on The Voice, which is cool.

At least on his social media, he no longer looks like an Alabama boy; he looks like another L.A. guy trying to make it. His new songs sound like… well, like he’s trying to make it. By which I mean, they kind of sound like nothing. His style is diluted. The southern edge has been sanded down to an easy, predictable vibe.

I’m not writing this to be a jerk, and I truly have no interest in being a music critic. I understand the ambition, I really do, and I admire the drive and courage it takes to try.

I’m writing about this because it is such a common story, and, in my opinion, it is a really sad story.

Culture, real culture, is created by us: artists, creative people, everyday people. We create it with and for one another. It is an organic, genuine, unpredictable process. It’s an extension of us— a flower constantly blooming.

But for so long now, we’ve been consuming the “culture” handed to us by the arts and entertainment industries, and pretending it’s the real thing. (This is not an indictment of pop music, btw. I love quality pop music.)

We watch endless shows and movies about people in NYC and LA who seem to barely work but always have enough money and nice clothes and parties to attend. We get convinced that their (fake) lives are what our (real) lives should be. We try to mold all our small, unique towns and cities into little versions of the TV cities. We listen to the music that’s trending, wear the clothes that are trending.

And, along with that, artists have been convinced that “making it” means being some version of Justin Bieber. And because of that, artists end up trying to make themselves and their music sound like whatever is trending, whatever the hits of the day sound like. They strip all of themselves out of it— they strip out all the culture.

The thing about all of this is…

It is a scam. It’s a top-down pseudo-culture. It’s the tail wagging the dog.

The great artists whose careers spanned decades and whose work has stayed relevant even after their passing all leaned into themselves— their weirdness, their culture and background and edge. This is what makes great music and art.

The idea that you’d have to leave Muscle Shoals— an area with such a long, vibrant musical history and culture, and, in his case, with a lifetime’s worth of connections— and move to L.A. to “make it”… is backwards. The fact that everybody my age and under that night was down the street pretending they were out clubbing in Los Angeles, rather than listening to locally-grown live music in their music-hub town… is backwards.

We got lost somewhere, but I truly believe we are beginning to find our way home.

And that’s good, because AI can pump out middle-of-the-road, sterile, nothing songs that sound like whatever hits are already hitting way faster and cheaper and honestly probably better than any of us can.

So, really, I think that jig is up. We have to get back to actual culture now. We have to lean into ourselves.

What a relief.

That’s all for this one… I’ll leave you with this lovely Tennessee River symphony… till next time!

xoxo

At that point in life, I hadn’t even heard of Muscle Shoals or FAME studio, which is where the track was recorded. But, I already knew there was something hypnotic about the sound of that recording. When I listened to it, I really felt like I was in the world of the song, like I’d stumbled upon this heartbroken, desperate man sitting all alone, pouring his heart out.

There’s this layer of fuzz around the edges of the recording that forms a room. That was the magic of so many of the hits that came out of FAME and Muscle Shoals Sound Studio– they created a world that we get to live inside of. It’s not background music, it’s an experience.

The track was recorded at FAME, as I said, back in mid-1967. The lineup was just about as good as you can get:

• Drums – Roger Hawkins (one of the four original Swampers, whom I wrote about in my last essay!)

• Bass – Tommy Cogbill (brought in from the Memphis scene)

• Keys/Organ – Spooner Oldham

• Vocals / rhythm guitar – Clarence Carter, of course

• Lead Guitar – a 20-year-old, mostly unknown Duane Allman

• Producer – Rick Hall (it’s hard to say how integral he was to the arrangement and mixing, because sound engineers & mixers weren’t usually credited back then… but he surely got his Rick Hall mitts all over it)

The story goes that Marcus Daniel, Clarence Carter’s regular touring bassist, had been frustrated with his progress as a musician and songwriter, so he prayed for help. Not twenty minutes later, he sat up in bed with the lyrics and melody to “Slip Away” in his mind.

Now, I’m always a fan of dream songs, and I’ve been lucky enough to get a few songs from dreams myself, but Clarence Carter’s story is a bit different.

He said that Daniel came in with some of the lyrics for “Slip Away”, and then the two of them sat down together and built the song. As usual, the truth probably lies somewhere between those two versions of the story.

Regardless, the songwriting is credited to all of Clarence Carter’s touring band – Marcus Daniel, William Armstrong, and Wilbur Terrell– though none of them actually played on the recording. This was not uncommon at FAME at this time. Rick Hall brought in the most elite session players around for any major recording sessions.

If you’ve worked as a musician at all, you know that playing live on-stage and laying down a recording in the studio are different skill sets. But, I digress (I’ve been daydreaming about getting back into performing and recording, so I think about such things a lot these days).

There are some later videos like this one of Clarence Carter playing “Slip Away” live, and they’re great. I love the song, the lyrics, his band is always full of elite players, and his voice is always incredible.

The song structure itself is fairly simple: the verse is a 1, 4, 5 progression (they recorded it in C-sharp), then the chorus is one, five, minor six, five– that minor 6th chord giving it a bit more heartache.

The bridge, which may be my favorite part of the structure, leans even more on that minor 6th chord. The progression walks down, A-sharp-minor, G-sharp, F-sharp, to the one (C-sharp), then around again. I don’t know about you, but I am a sucker for a well-placed walkdown.

The lyrics are straightforward and raw, which is perfect for this song. He’s not trying to be poetic, he’s desperate and pleading.

None of the live performances, though, quite capture the magic of that original recording. Somehow, the studio version feels more immediate than the live ones, which is rare and quite remarkable. Clarence Carter really sounds like he’s in the throes of desperate longing and guilt and lust and love. In fact, his vocal delivery, I think, is what made this song a hit.

Even though Carter pushed for the song to be released as a single, Rick Hall apparently didn’t think “Slip Away” was a hit. So, he tucked it onto the B-side of “Funky Fever”. It didn’t take long for radio DJs to start flipping over the single to play “Slip Away” instead, though, and the song quickly became Carter’s breakout hit. It rose to #2 on Billboard’s R&B chart, #6 on Billboard’s Hot 100 pop chart, and was certified Gold before it even finished its chart run.

Carter knew it was a hit, I believe, because he knew better than anyone just how compelling that vocal delivery was. Like I said earlier, I’ve always felt like I could really see him sitting there, with his head hung low, pleading with a lover who wasn’t around.

The spell of the song starts even before the vocal comes in, though. That first organ chord is an A# minor, which sets the heartbroken tone so well. Then Duane Allman’s descending guitar lick over the A# minor sounds pained itself. All of these elements build the room for Clarence Carter’s voice to echo into.

As a teenager listening to this song, I didn’t have experience with adultery or the complexity of adult romance, but I still felt his voice deep in my chest. I realize now that it wasn’t just the sound or the groove I became obsessed with, but the room it created for me to escape into and live in.

Great songs do this, I believe. They open up a new space within us; within our consciousness. Once that space is created, we can always return to it, we can learn from it as humans, we can pull from it as artists.

There’s a sort of laissez-faire singing style that’s been trending for a while now (I also talked about it in this article I wrote about Julia Cumming’s new album). Singing with this sort of flat, emotionless delivery. It’s a vibe, and that’s cool; I can think of songs that have this kind of irreverence that I enjoy, for sure.

But the power of a singer pouring their entire self into a vocal is timeless and transcendent and is why “Slip Away” has stayed so close to me all these years. It’s why the song has shown up in films again and again, why it’s remained a classic all these nearly 60 years after its release.

It’s also why I sweated it out in the actual woodshed to record my own, very stripped down, little bit country rendition of the song during my daughter’s nap time this afternoon.

As you’ll see, I wore the most appropriate band tee available (I’m in the market for a great Clarence Carter t-shirt, too, if anybody has any leads).

AND… if you know anyone who might enjoy this or any St SYD stuff, please pass this along!

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Thanks for reading and listening, my friends—

Until next time

xoxo

The plan was all a bit vague. I figured I would find the story once I was out there. But, as always, the story found me.

The grant program fell apart before I was supposed to present my writing, so it remained a mess of ideas scrawled in journals, on napkins and scraps, until now. There’s too much to put into one newsletter, so I’m making this a series.

Here is part one: Muscle Shoals

It was early September in Alabama. As I opened the door of my little air-conditioned rental car, hot swampy breath rushed around me. I stepped out onto a small gravel parking lot. The trilling chorus of cicadas rained down from the treetops and onto the roof of my destination: 3614 Jackson Highway.

A small, one-story brick building with the curtains drawn on the two front windows and a simple open sign. A bell dinged as I pushed open the glass front door. Immediately, I was greeted by the intangible but undeniable electric feeling of the original Muscle Shoals Sound Studios.

Believe me when I tell you, there is something alive in there.

The little waiting room was decorated with classic photos of so many bands and musicians I love: The Staple Singers, Paul Simon, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Linda Ronstadt, Leon Russell, Aretha Franklin, Willie Nelson, Clarence Carter, The Stones, Duane Allman… I could go on.

A young man appeared at the front counter. “Here for the tour, miss?”

“Yessir”

When it opened in 1964, the original Muscle Shoals Sound Studio was likely the only recording studio in the country that was owned and operated by its studio musicians. They called themselves The Swampers. They are basically the coolest of all time.

The Swampers had worked as house players at FAME recording studio, just a few blocks away. Lucky me, I got a selfie with it while I was in town:

At FAME, The Swampers helped create such iconic tracks as Etta James’ “I’d Rather Go Blind”, Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman”, Wilson Pickett’s “Mustang Sally”, and, a personal favorite, “I Never Loved a Man (the Way that I Love You)” from Aretha Franklin. (Here’s Aretha singing it live at Concertgebouw Amsterdam in 1968… goddamn)

After all these hits (and so many more), the owner of FAME, Rick Hall, made a deal with Capitol Records that would require them to be studio musicians exclusively at FAME. Since they’d already been making more money playing outside sessions than what FAME was offering, they decided they could do better on their own– it was a historic decision.

Since I am not a historian, this is not a history lesson, and this history has already been well documented, I’ll just give you some links to read up on it if you’re interested. Learn about it HERE and HERE. The 2013 Muscle Shoals documentary is also great:

The Muscle Shoals Revival

The unassuming building, which stands alone in a field on the side of the little one-lane highway, was purchased by the Muscle Shoals Music Foundation back in 2015 with the intention of restoring it to its original splendor. After multiple fundraising efforts, including a big one called “Sustain the Sound” led by Dr. Dre (because he’s a fuckin G) and Jimmy Lovine (Beats Electronics), the foundation initiated its 2-year-long restoration project.

I can say with absolute confidence, my friends, that they fucking nailed it.

Walking into that studio, I genuinely felt like I was walking back into 1970. They’d managed to track down a lot of the original gear and instruments, including the Hammond organ and black baby grand.

Anything that isn’t original is period appropriate and in near-perfect condition. The control room has a gorgeous custom desk mixing console and a vintage Studer 24-track reel-to-reel tape machine (photo below!)

It’s small. The main tracking room is about the size of a two-car garage, the control room fits the console, the reel-to-reel, and maybe four or five people. There’s a small vocal booth with the names of many of the iconic artists who recorded there scrawled all over the walls.

A tiny bathroom (photo below) with just a toilet and sink is where Keith Richards allegedly finished the lyrics for “Wild Horses”.

Every inch of the place is buzzing. Or breathing. Maybe beating. It’s not just some rooms, it’s not even just a recording studio; it’s like a mythical beast with a church in its belly you can come pray inside of.

The Swampers and the endless list of incredible musicians and artists who worked there created that energy, but the energy that built up inside it also created for them. It became a feeling that would end up being unreplicable.

During my tour, the lovely guide (who also looked like he was from 1970), explained that, in 1978, The Swampers decided to move to a larger building. They felt they needed a more sophisticated facility– better isolation booths, more tracks, etc– to handle the amount of high-level clients they had coming in. It was a smart move, and they continued to pump out incredible albums in that new studio.

But, my tour guide, and then the older gentleman who joined us later, who’d been a buddy of The Swampers, explained that something had been lost in that move. Call it the energy, the feel, or my preference, the voice of the original studio, just didn’t transfer.

About six years after moving, as booking numbers had continued to decline due to various changes in the music industry, The Swampers closed their doors. That was 1985.

The original studio went through a bunch of hands before the foundation reclaimed it: a television repair shop, appliance store, graphics design business. For many of the 34 years between The Swampers’ departure and the Foundation’s acquisition, the building sat empty in that field just off that little one-lane highway.

I imagine the spirit of it strolling around inside the building, stopping every few feet to remember who sang which lyrics in that spot, who cried, who yelled out of tune, who yelled out of passion, who played with such heart they lifted out their body and floated up to the ceiling.

The spirit looked out the windows, it hummed infinite songs to itself, it waited and it prayed and it kept the beat.

We owe The Swampers a lot. We’re all really lucky they existed (David Hood, the bass player, is the only Swamper still with us).

And, maybe most of all, I like to remember the courage, the little bit of madness, the spirit they conjured to go out on their own and open Muscle Shoals Sound Studio. And that, once they did and they built it and nurtured it, the thing they created became a life. And that life will continue living infinitely through the recordings.

Ironically, at this time in my life, I was in the process of stepping away from music as a career. My gig calendar and song release plans had been killed by the pandemic, and I felt defeated by all the social media content creation and shit I felt I was expected to do.

This trip reminded me of why I became a musician in the first place. The spirit of Muscle Shoals Sound Studios got in me, you could say, and it’s stuck with me all these years, pacing around the back of my mind, waiting for me to come back.

And I am slowly coming back to music. Whatever that will look like this time around, I’m not exactly sure.

But, I try to remember The Swampers and that spirit anytime I feel the urge to go back into hiding, to not share my art with the world. I try to ask myself…

What Would The Swampers Do… you know?

We are in a strange time in history when the need for physical place has seriously diminished. It’s an incredible time; I’m grateful to be here for it. But I do believe that physical gathering spaces, especially ones dedicated to art like recording studios, contain a unique power that we must hold onto.

recently reminded me that “recording studios are sacred spaces”. The next time I’m lucky enough to record in one, I will remember to treat it as such.

I know everyone hates Spotify, but there’s a playlist on there with all the tracks recorded at the original Muscle Shoals Sound Studio:

Part two will be up week after next (I’ll post these every other week, with song essays & covers on the other weeks). Until then, my friends!

xoxo

My then-boyfriend (now husband) shrugged and responded, “Umm… I thought you were doing it.”

“OK,” I said. Of course, I had no idea what I’d agreed to.

Making a First Film = Film School

While my husband and the rest of the team had been working in film and TV for decades, this was all of our first time fully making a film on our own with no studio support. Bring it all Back Home was our film school.

We were genuinely building the plane as we were flying it. Did we crash multiple times? Well, that’s debatable.

This was five years ago, and I had no film sound experience. I had no filmmaking experience at all. My background was in music and music production, which was what gave him the idea that I could be the sound person.

Much like a dumb teenager, I dove in headfirst without looking where I was going. I guess we all did.

That kind of brash, naive but bold energy is something you can’t fake, and it generates a certain breed of art.

During post-production, we used various rounds of temp music as we nailed down the sound. At one point, Big Star’s song “Thirteen” played over the opening sequence, and it was my introduction to the song.

I hear that same kind of naive but bold energy in “Thirteen”.

Rock & Roll is Here to Stay

“Thirteen” was recorded in late 1971 at Ardent Studios in Memphis and released on Big Star’s 1972 debut album, #1 Record.

Although the song is officially credited to Alex Chilton and Chris Bell, it’s widely accepted that “Thirteen” was essentially Chilton’s composition. Both of them would have been about 20 years old when the song was written– just barely out of teenager-hood.

By this point, Alex Chilton had already been somewhat of a teen idol as the lead singer for the pop group, The Boxtops. He started touring full-time at the age of 16, which meant he missed out on a lot of the “normal” teen experiences. Critics have often written about how “Thirteen” captures a sort of longing for what he’d missed during these years.

That may be true, but I’ve never been particularly interested in what inspires an artist to make a piece. To me, that’s personal and not really my business.

I’m interested in the world, story, and mood they created in the song “Thirteen”; the spirit of it, if you will (or even if you won’t, do what you want).

I’ll Take You, I’ll Shake You, I Won’t Make You

The song itself is excessively simple.

There’s no chorus, just three verses with a repeated but varied pseudo-hook at the end of each. The recording sounds like you stumbled upon them playing the song under a stairwell and they never even looked up to see you were there.

The instrumentation consists only of two acoustic guitars, a very, very light bass guitar, Chilton’s soft, kind of whiny but sweet vocal, and some pretty tightly harmonized backing vocals with what sounds like a phaser, lots of reverb, and maybe some tape modulation to give them a wavery, slightly psychedelic sound.

The guitar parts weave around each other. All the musical elements feel like they’re loosely braided together. It’s all very pleasant, slightly melancholy, and heartfelt.

But, what makes this song, for me, are the lyrics.

The Beautiful Arrogance of Ignorance

They remind me of the first poetry class I took in college. It was a graduate class with Garrett Hongo, and I really didn’t have any business being there. But I just marched in and sat down.

When he read my work, he leaned back in his chair and said, harsh but with a smirk, “well, I don’t know where the hell you came from, but you have your own voice. It’s masquerading and kind of arrogant because it’s ignorant, but it’s fierce and it’s yours, and that’s something I can’t teach. I anticipate you getting published very soon.”

The lyrics to “Thirteen” have that same kind of ignorance-fueled arrogance. They are masquerading as wise. But, probably because he didn’t know any better, the boldness behind them actually does carry a kind of wisdom.

Imagine asking someone: “Would you be an outlaw for my love?”

It’s embarrassing and ridiculous and overwrought and exactly what everyone wants to ask the person they’re in love with but never will. And that is why it’s one of the best lyrics I’ve ever heard and it kills me that I didn’t write it myself.

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Inexperience Can Be a Filmmaker’s Superpower

The fearlessness that comes with not knowing any better is exhilarating and powerful enough to fuel a whole city, or, say, the creation of an entire feature film with essentially no funding or support. It is something that can’t be bottled or emulated.

We have it for this short time (if at all), and then it’s gone.

If we captured anything in our first film, I hope it’s that– the reckless, exhilarating energy of having no idea where the fuck you’re going but running full speed right at it anyway.

Bring it all Back Home is raw. It is meant to follow in the footsteps of Elaine May and John Cassavettes. Long takes, natural and often competing dialogue, dingy, working-class locations.

We shot it mostly out in the desert in and around Lancaster and Palmdale, CA. The camera moved like it was a character, another guy hanging out with the three lead brother/buddies Eddie, John, and Elvis.

Here’s the logline, so you have any idea what I’m talking about:

A former star athlete on a cocaine binge returns to his hometown with a mission to save his friends from middle-age.

My husband and I did nearly all the post-production ourselves. Again, we were learning how to do it as we were doing it. Because of that, the production quality is a bit rough around the edges. But, so are the characters and their little town.

We ended up selling our little movie to Gravitas Ventures and releasing it in January 2025. It’s available now on Prime Video, Apple TV, and a few other places.

People say that “limitation breeds creativity”.

Making Bring it all Back Home, we were limited in every single way but in time and passion. Much like a teenager.

I’m just grateful I got the opportunity to run like an idiot screaming and crying and laughing right at the thing I love and capture it on tape.

I’m out of town for a couple weeks and away from my guitar (it’s breaking my heart), so I couldn’t record a cover of “Thirteen” this time. I am considering working out a little a capella version, though, and putting it up here, so keep an ear out for that!

xoxo

If you didn’t know, Boots Riley is very cool. He co-founded and fronted the politically-driven rap group, The Coup, in Oakland back in the 90s. He wrote and directed the surrealist dark comedy dystopian film, Sorry to Bother You, which premiered at Sundance in 2018 and went on to be a massive hit.

But I’ve been thinking about Boots Riley a lot lately, because that conversation I had with him back in 2016 keeps echoing in my mind.

From about 2014–17, I was a singer in this hip-hop group called Eastern Sunz. When I joined, they’d been a recording duo for years and had always performed to a backing track, but had decided to build a full band for shows and tours. We opened for The Coup at Mississippi Studios in Portland, OR, in 2016.

Both The Coup and Eastern Sunz have been described as “political hip-hop” or “conscious hip-hop”. To be honest, this is not really a genre I listen to. But, The Coup is also a party– their music is danceable, they were excellent performers. The night we opened for them, Silk-E sang with Boots on stage, and she was a show all on her own, just magnetic.

Anyway, after our set, while the other opener was playing, Boots very graciously complimented my voice and struck up a conversation. We ended up talking for maybe 45 minutes, mostly about the music industry.

It was 2016, so, of course, we talked about streaming and how it impacted underground artists (basically, that it buried them). We talked about the pressure for artists to focus on “content creation” and how bullshitty it felt.

But what’s really stuck with me about that conversation was something I didn’t have language for at the time, but have been circling ever since: a rising sense of scarcity amongst musicians.

Because of that, artists seemed to be holding their cards closer to their chests, for fear of losing what was theirs. There was more competition between artists, a sense of rivalry, even resentment.

He talked about how different this was from the music scene he got started in, where artists leaned on one another, built together. Within any given scene, established artists made an effort to help uplift newer artists. There was an unspoken expectation for this kind of mentorship and support. The general idea was that the more developed, successful artists there were, the bigger and more powerful the scene would be, the more work there would be for everyone.

What he was describing, I now think of as the difference between rival and anti-rival goods. In a rival system, attention, money, and opportunity feel fixed, so artists compete over them. In an anti-rival system, all of these things increase with participation.

If you’ve ever heard him speak publicly, you know his capacity for provoking action, for triggering enthusiasm to change. Listening to him talk about the music scene he came up in, I couldn’t help but feel both inspired and heartbroken at once. All I had ever wanted was to be part of a scene of artists who built and grew and created something vibrant and beautiful together. I suspect this is what many artists crave.

Boots Riley ended up buying my album (from my own project) that night. He encouraged me to keep putting my stuff out there, that my voice was something people really needed to hear.

He did what a successful, established musician should do for any emerging musician with promise that they encounter.

I’ve been thinking about this conversation I had with Boots a lot lately, mostly because of the state that all of the arts and music industries find themselves in right now. In so many ways, the traditional models are crumbling, and we have the unique opportunity to maintain control over our art. To build our creative careers in ways that work for us, not against us; that stoke our creative fire instead of stifling it.

Technically, we could all do this in isolation, I guess. We could each build a silo for ourselves and our own audience. But, wouldn’t it be amazing (and so much more fucking fun) to foster the vibrant arts scene we’ve always imagined? One where artists aren’t competing for a (perceived) rival good, but are instead contributing to the anti-rival good that is the world’s desire for innovative art and creativity?

I truly believe that the more great art there is in the world, the more demand there will also be for it. It is an echo of how our own creativity works: the more we use it, the more we have.

Other artists increase my value; they don’t diminish it.

Joel Gouveia over at published a two-part article a few months back, about the impending death of Spotify and the streaming model. You likely saw it, the 1st article went viral– it seems this is a topic people feel very strongly about. Joel talked about the ability artists (in this case, musical artists) now have to build a direct relationship with their fans, develop a sustainable income stream, and essentially stop getting fucked by the Spotify algorithm.

One of the things he mentioned that Spotify should do to adapt to the changing demand is to add a “native social or community component”. In the context of his argument, I think he mostly meant there should be a way for artists to communicate and build community with their fans. But I’m also interested in how artists can build with, support, uplift, promote, and collaborate and how this can be woven into distribution, as well as performance, production, etc.

In any given art or music scene of the past, the audience was just as essential as the artists. And that will always be true. What’s particularly exciting about this time in history is that we can now build this kind of scene with people anywhere across the globe. We no longer have to live in one of the major “industry” cities.

It seems that many of us joined Substack because we were craving this kind of creatively driven connection. And there are definitely people here trying to engage in this way. I’m genuinely grateful to have found Substack.

While I may not agree with all of Boots Riley’s political opinions (I am not a Socialist, for instance), I have immense respect for him as an artist whose determination has not only brought his own art into the cultural conversation, but has uplifted so many other artists.

I realize that we often romanticize the past. There were all kinds of other problems with the music industry back when Boots Riley was coming up. But I believe he was right about this shift away from the music scene and toward artists as individual businesses.

As we move into the next phase of the music, film, and arts industries, artists have the option to continue turning away from one another, viewing each other solely as competition, or we have the option to turn toward one another. My hope, of course, is the latter.

Small fires, if kept separate, can be tended and maintained, but small fires brought together will grow and grow and grow.

If you enjoyed this post, please share it with someone else you think might too!

Thank you for reading and being here with me while I experiment and build this publication. We have livestreams and other goodies coming soon!

xoxo

Lizabeth

Since there are so very many Dan fans here, many of whom know far more about the band than I do, I’ll do my best not to just say a bunch of shit everyone already knows.

To do that, I must start with a confession… I didn’t find Steely Dan until I was in my late twenties. Of course, I’d heard them on the radio, but I didn’t realize their brilliance until I first started to play their songs myself…

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I’d gotten a gig playing the Oregon Country Fair, and we decided to cover “Dirty Work” for the set. (Yes, it’s probably their most “pop-y” song, but that doesn’t diminish its greatness. That organ intro melts me every time.)

If you don’t know about the Oregon Country Fair, it’s basically a huge hippie party in the woods that started back in the 60’s with the Grateful Dead / Merry Pranksters crowd. Lots of live music, art, food, local artisans, family-friendly events, and also naked people, drugs, wildly elaborate costumes… it’s a scene.

Anyway, playing on the bill means you get one of the highly coveted camping passes to stay overnight. After the fair “closes” each day around 7pm, the real party starts.

I was incredibly grateful to be on the roster that year, but I was also terrified.

At that point, my anxiety and stage fright were peaking. To combat it, I stayed drunk most of the time, which of course made it worse. This all translated to me being basically unable to get any enjoyment out of performing. Unfortunately, I spent most of my time at the Fair quietly freaking out.

All our sets went really well, as far as I was told. I spent them trying to not have a panic attack on stage… so I just had to trust what everyone else said.

On the last night, we went out to catch our friends play a midnight show at The Ritz, which is this giant wooden communal showers. Lots of steam, tons of hot shower heads, and nearly everyone is naked, including the band. It being the Country Fair, we’d decided to take some acid. “Just one dose,” I said. “It’ll be a nice buzz,” I said…

(more on this questionable decision below).

Pretzel Logic Was the Beginning & the End of an Era

“Any Major Dude” was written by Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, and recorded in Los Angeles in 1973 for Steely Dan’s 3rd album, Pretzel Logic. The band tracked the song at The Village Recorder in West L.A., but it was mixed at Cherokee Studios in Chatsworth, as they transitioned studios mid-album.

This album was transitional for Steely Dan in many ways, actually.

At this point, Steely Dan had already let some players go and was starting its evolution from a more traditional, performing band to the elite studio recording project they became.

The line-up on the track was stellar, but it wasn’t all the previous core members.

• Donald Fagen – vocal, keyboards

• Walter Becker – bass, guitar

• Jeff “Skunk” Baxter – guitar, pedal steel

• Denny Dias – guitar

• Jim Gordon – drums

Jim Hodder, who’d been the primary drummer until this point, was mostly, if not completely, replaced by Jim Gordon on Pretzel Logic. Baxter and Dias would both be on their way out soon, as well.

Because of that, Pretzel Logic is a bit of a portal between eras. It holds a lot of the older, live band energy, but it also showcases Becker and Fagen’s more polished recording genius.

Personally, I don’t skip a single track on the album.

Steely Dan’s Perfect Balance

Like much of Steely Dan’s work, “Any Major Dude” feels like a pretty straightforward song. It’s easy to listen and move to, the groove is undeniable, all the players make it sound so easy. But the chord progression is perfectly complex: not too dense, but with enough movement and variation to keep you on your toes.

It’s mostly in A major, but they peppered in some out-of-scale chords. My personal favorite is the G major that plays under the lyrics “has come undone” and “seen better times” on the 1st and 2nd verses, respectively. Moving out of the scale there forces you to listen, and not just bop along hearing what you expect to hear.

Throughout the song, you can hear harmonies between the instruments that don’t quite fit in the scale.

“Any Major Dude” has lots of Mixolydian* flavors, especially in the guitar solos. That repeating guitar solo that comes up after each chorus sort of swirls around a G major without fully committing, which gives it that slightly modal, iconic Steely Dan sound.

The lyrics are not quite so typical of Steely Dan, however. They are, how do you say… nice. It really does feel like a pep talk from your weird artist uncle. Becker and Fagen said as much in interviews.

(Here’s a live version I’d never heard before!)

And then, there’s the SQUONK.

This was one of the first things that really struck me about this song. At the point in my career that I found this song, I’d already been told all kinds of stupid shit about songwriting that isn’t true.

One of these pieces of shit was that lyrics should be easy to say and easy to understand… you don’t want to send people to the dictionary trying to figure out what the hell you’re talking about (Wrong.)

Becker definitely sent me to find out what a Squonk is, and, once I knew, it made an already great song even greater. This is hard evidence that you should just write whatever the fuck lyrics you wanna write.

So what, you ask, is a Squonk? Here you go:

Steely Dan was (and is) a musicians’ band, and as such, people trusted them. This is the ideal for an artist, in my opinion. Because once you earn this status, you can make and write whatever the fuck you want, and, as long as the quality is there, people will be there for it.

I know Steely Dan gained my trust all those years ago with that acid trip in the showers… oh yeah, remember that? Let’s get back to it…

So, a couple hours in, I was standing under a shower head listening to my friends’ band, when my life and past and fear and ego all came rushing at me like huge, muscled defensive linemen. I wasn’t ready. And they knocked me on my ass (figuratively… I’m pretty sure I just stood, mouth open, with the shower spraying into my face for a real long time).

At some point, I saw myself as a little girl. She was hiding in the corner. And I had to tell her that everything was OK. That I was going to take care of her. That I was sorry for being so mean and neglecting her.

And then I just started bawling in the shower, surrounded by all these naked, high-ass hippies… there was nothing I could do to stop it. Sometimes, crying is like vomiting: you just have to submit.

Somehow I managed to get dressed and leave the showers (still soaking wet, finding a towel was out of the question). I made my way back to my tent, got in my sleeping bag, and put on some music. Since I’d been learning “Dirty Work”, Steely Dan was lined up to play on my phone.

“Any Major Dude” came on and, while I’d heard it before, I’d never really heard it before. It was exactly the song I needed in that moment. It wrapped around me like a warm, fuzzy, slightly yacht-rocky robe.

Walter Becker and Donald Fagen were like my very wise, very cool uncles telling me everything was alright.

I listened to the song over and over for hours. It was still playing when my band members stumbled back to our camp site just as the pale orange feathers of dawn began brushing away the darkness.

Steely Dan saved my acid trip that night.

And truthfully, I still consider Fagen and Becker my uncles. They kind of are uncles to all the musicians who’ve come after them.

Any major dude would tell ya.

Here’s my cover of “Any Major Dude”. Recorded in my garage while my baby was taking a nap and the neighbors decided to drag a bunch of large sheets of metal across their gravel driveway for like an hour.

So, it’s… imperfect. But, as always, it was a pleasure to play. I’ve included little video inserts of me doing the solos, I guess as evidence.

Thanks, dudes.

xoxo

*Mixolydian is the 5th mode of the major scale—so it sounds mostly like a regular major scale, but with a flattened 7th that gives it that loose, bluesy edge.

…we’ve been working non-stop to complete the post-production on our most recent film. We’ve got film festival deadlines to meet! I am the sound designer. This means I live in a strange, headphone-d world that feels a bit like being in an underwater tunnel. So much reverb!

This movie we’re working on is a wild one. Here is one of the posters:

To make it even stranger, my husband and I were both in the film. Editing dialogue for and watching footage of yourself being some other person is bizarre. Especially when that person has to resort to their most basic animal instincts, which means they often look… let’s say rough.

To give you an idea of what I mean, here’s the logline:

A young mother must protect her family when her drug-addicted ex-con brother-in-law and his shotgun-wielding mother draw her husband into helping bury a body.

By “protect her family” it means fight (physically) to get her stolen baby back. I told you, it’s a wild one. But it’s a comedy! I promise. Apparently, too, this is a Nondē film, meaning non-dependent. I just learned the term, and I’m into it— it makes us sound very sophisticated.

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Anyway, this is all to say that I am delirious. Our first deadline is midnight tonight. I have no “behind the song” essay for you.

BUT, I did write this essay about a new album that came out last month called Blame the Clown. It’s the latest from the band Twisted Teens, who are based out of New Orleans (I’ve been surrounded by New Orleans-related things the past couple weeks— I think it’s a sign).

I think it’s an excellent album. It’s a real testament to DIY recording. Great songwriting, raspy vocals, lots of pedal slide… what’s not to like? Give it a read if you’re in the mood for some music writing and exciting new music.

Here’s their Bandcamp, where you can purchase the album:

That’s all for now, folks! After we submit tonight, I might do something crazy like take a day off. Then, then, I’ll get an excellent, incredible, mind-blowing essay with a cover video together for next week.

We’ve got some live stream chats on the horizon as well!

I’ll repeat, I am delirious. Everything I’ve said here should be read with that information in mind.

Oh, also! If you wanna check out our other films, you can do so HERE.

When I was 21, I rode freight trains and hitchhiked down to New Orleans with a backpack and a shitty little guitar. My then-boyfriend had shown up at the place I was bartending in Portland, OR one night and said we ought to go down there.

So, we left a week later. Summer 2008.

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We got a shotgun apartment in the 9th ward. It was July, and we didn’t have air conditioning or any furniture, so we mostly sat on the little front stoop and drank malt liquor and played music. Music is what I went down there to chase, after all.

For those first few weeks, before my bartending money ran out, I’d float around the French Quarter streets, listening. Music oozes out of every pore on New Orleans’ broad, grinning face. More so than any other place I’ve been.

On every single corner, some of the best musicians I’d ever heard were out there playing in the heat for free. That’s not to say they weren’t making a killing; many of them were. But I couldn’t believe I got to stand there and watch them with no entry fee.

I’d been playing guitar for a couple years by then, but didn’t really know what I was doing, having been mostly self-taught.

After landing in New Orleans, it took me almost 2 months to get the courage up to go out and play. That first night, around dusk… I think it was a Tuesday. I shuffled through the neighborhoods toward the Quarter with my big awkward archtop guitar strapped to my back.

If you’ve been to New Orleans, you know Frenchman Street. It’s lined with many of the best music clubs in the city. Past all the clubs but before the street gets residential, I found a quiet storefront nook where I could busk while also hiding.

After a few songs, some tourists strolled up. They listened, clapped, tossed dollars and coins. Small waves of them came and went. Then, the set ended at The Spotted Cat just up the street. Through the front bay windows, I saw the band pack up.

The bass player and drummer came out to the sidewalk to smoke a cigarette. They looked in my direction, started to wander over. As they got closer, an older tourist couple appeared to save me from my terror at being heard by real musicians.

The bass player and drummer hung around across the street, listening, but I could at least pretend not to notice now.

I think I was singing “All of Me”-- a fairly easy standard that tourists always liked. The couple attempted to dance, the old man spun the lady around a few times. When the song ended, they clapped and laughed at themselves, paid me a few bucks, and drifted off toward the rows of houses.

I tuned my guitar to avoid the players across the street. They flicked their cigarettes down and started back toward The Spotted Cat.

Great voice! The bass player yelled over his shoulder as they went. Keep practicing that guitar!

The drummer walked backwards, smiling as he shouted, And sing louder, too! They out here to hear you!

I’m sure I thanked them. I don’t know what I said. But I took their words as a directive.

I was going to become a real goddamn musician.

If you want to play in New Orleans, you have to keep up, and the players you’re keeping up with are some of the best in the world, so you better get your ass moving.

I got a Real Book.

I went to shows not just to listen but to watch the players’ hands, the way they moved, how they communicated with each other.

I kept playing on the street, inching closer and closer to the action, though I never quite got up the nerve to try a really high-traffic corner. (Those spots are very coveted, too, and I wasn’t ready to fight like that).

I started playing with my neighbor, a drummer and excellent clarinet player (his name is Chadmo, and he’s a very cool artist, you should check him out).

I joined a trio, we played some shows, then disbanded, as trios do. I recorded an EP at Delgado Community College in Navarre.

Eventually, I got a residency at a bar down the street from our apartment–every Thursday night 7-10 pm. It was a dive. The mix of locals and tourists who wandered over from the Quarter all smoked inside the bar. I played under the moniker Dirty Old Man back then… I was so clever.

Did this all mean that I had become a real musician? Where does not real musician end and real musician begin? Am I a real musician now? Was I a real musician all along?

I have no fucking idea.

But, I do know that I drank up every ounce of music I could while I lived in New Orleans for those years, and I wouldn’t trade that for a diploma from the most prestigious music school on the planet.

If you find yourself standing on the edge of life right now, trying to decide if you ought to jump in, this is your invitation to go ahead on and dive.

They out here to hear you.

xo

And if you’re not familiar with the song I mentioned in this story, “All of Me”, here’s the GOAT singing it like warm syrup:

We’re talking about songs & songwriting here. Also, film & film music sometimes. Also, poetry, when appropriate. Also, some memoiristic stuff from my strange & varied past lives of wandering around being a weirdo musician artist.

Here’s a new original tune I wrote after years of barely writing. I have a long history of overcomplicating songs (and most things), so this was a practice in getting out of the way and letting the song do its thing.

It was the end of August 2001. My best friend’s mom was working the graveyard shift at a 24-hour diner so another neighborhood girl and I were sleeping over. We’d been listening to Aaliyah on our boomboxes all summer.

The little brick ranch house to ourselves, we blasted our favorite CDs, messily painted her mom’s makeup across our faces, and sat on the front stoop eating candy and watching for boys.

As the sun started to set, a younger kid stopped his bike in front of the house and yelled to us like some old-time newsy.

“Aaliyah’s dead!”

“What?” the three of us yelled back in unison.

The kid cupped his hands around his mouth, “Aaliyah died! It’s on the news!”

Once he saw his words had hit us, he got back on his little bike and rode off. We ran inside and flipped on the TV. There on the evening news was the small plane, crashed to pieces in a hot field, and Aaliyah’s face in the upper right-hand corner smiling out at us.

It felt like an older girl we knew from school had died; she seemed so familiar. She was only 22.

Behind us, the sun slipped away. The night felt haunted. We locked the door and sat on the floor watching the news story for hours.

Aaliyah was one of the handful of female vocalists who taught me how to sing. Of all her songs, “One in a Million” was always my favorite, so that’s what we’re talking about today.

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"One in a Million” & the Birth of a New Sound

“One in a Million” was written by Missy Elliot and Timbaland (Timothy Mosley) in Virginia Beach, VA, where the two artists were based at the time. Though Elliot had been building a name as a songwriter, they were both still relatively unknown.

Aaliyah was gearing up for a second album after the success of her debut, Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number (which was produced when she was 14 by R. Kelly, to whom she was illegally married… it was a whole weird, scary thing. A story for another time).

Missy Elliot and Timbaland had been brought on to come up with just one song.

The story goes, Elliot was nervous to show Aaliyah the song, worried it was too unconventional. But when they played her the demo for “One in a Million”, she immediately recognized it as something different, potentially iconic even.

The songwriting/producing duo quickly found themselves playing a central role in crafting Aaliyah’s album and ultimately reinventing her sound.

At that point, in the mid-90s, R&B was dominated by slow jams and huge, gospel-esque vocal deliveries. Actually, radio stations struggled to fit “One in a Million” into their regular programming, because it was so unique. The distributing label, Atlantic Records, pressured Aaliyah and her team to make the song more “radio friendly”. But, they refused.

They all knew they were onto something.

It could be argued that the song “One in a Million” launched the career of both Missy Elliot and Timbaland, vastly evolved Aaliyah’s style, and introduced a new sound that would quickly run wild through the 90’s R&B landscape.

That’s a badass track.

What Makes “One in a Million”… One in a Million?

This track flew in the face of many established R&B norms. To start, Missy Elliot’s lyrical phrasing prioritized rhythm over showcasing vocal range or ability.

The verses felt a lot like rapping but were still melodic, which was highly unconventional at that point. Aaliyah adopted a restrained, back-of-the-beat delivery style, allowing the rhythm to shine.

Timbaland’s minimal, kind of hypnotic production, which would later become his signature sound, provided the space this more laid-back vocal needed. The short, super reverb-y guitar lick that repeats throughout the song not only gives some melodic support, but is just so sexy.

And the bridge. We only get it once, and it does so much work. It gives Aaliyah a chance to show off her voice a bit. It introduces a new, super-tasty vocal rhythm on “anything you want anything you need anything you so desire”.

Most importantly, it refreshes the sound so that, when we go back to the verse, it feels new again.

All in all, “One in a Million” is just an absolute jam. I’m proud of my 11-year-old self for knowing that.

Yes, listening to Aaliyah helped me learn how to sing, but I never realized how much I owe to Missy Elliot. She’s what we call a monster talent. And if you don’t know, now you know.

Some years ago, I was doing a whole looper pedal thing and I took a shot at covering “One in a Million”. The video is rather low-fi (pretty sure I shot it on a little old digital camera), but I think I kinda nailed the cover.

Check out this video with a free trial as a paid subscriber! ☞

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The gig was at this big concert hall in Southern California. Unsurprisingly, the crowd leaned older– ladies with large hair-sprayed hairdos and sequined blouses, gentlemen in loafers and suit coats or sweater vests.

Having told no one about it, I showed up completely alone. Just me and my semi-hollow body Epiphone Dot.

The place was packed. It wasn’t a huge crowd, 600 people or so, but it was the biggest crowd I remember playing for without a band. I waited at the backstage stairs while the emcee cracked some jokes about old age and eventually introduced me.

One of the sound guys came up and whispered in my ear, “Pat Boone’s a legend, you better bring it.”

Normally, this would’ve irritated me, but I guess it was the pep talk I needed.

Because I marched out onto the stage and, well, frankly, fucking slayed that set.

Ladies were dancing in the aisles, people were yelling sweet epithets at me between songs. As usual, I played an almost all-original set, songs none of these people had ever heard, but they were right with me til the end.

Afterward, I floated off the stage, buzzing. That same sound guy appeared. “Get your merch, these people are dying to give you their money.” I stopped small at the bottom of the steps. I didn’t bring any merch.

“Well, your CD,” he said.

“I don’t really have one.”

But, I did have one. I’d recorded an album a couple years prior and released it with no announcement. (I’d gotten sort of played by the sound engineer, and the production didn’t sound right… it’s another story.)

“You don’t have a CD?” He hung his dumb mouth open at me.

“What do you want me to do?” Now I was irritated.

The guy basically rolled his eyes and stormed off. He was a dick. Why he cared so much, I don’t know, and it was definitely not his place to scold me.

But… he wasn’t wrong.

No CDs. No stickers. No email signup list. Not even a card with my name on it.

The thing is, I had all of these things.

They were buried somewhere in my closet. I even thought to bring them, but I chose not to. I wanted to not treat it like it was a big deal. And now everyone would leave the show not remembering who the hell I was.

This, on its own, isn’t really that big of a deal. Except that it’s just one example of how I sabotaged myself over and over and over throughout my years as a musician.

And the reason for this was simple. I was terrified of success.

It is simple in that it’s a simple sentence. We’ve all heard the phrase “fear of success”. Not uncommon, nothing new. But the web of emotional hangups, negative self-talk, and bizarre, self-destructive behavior was anything but simple.

Desiring something that you’re actively trying to push away for fear of attaining it is like a reverse Chinese finger trap. It’s very confusing.

For musicians, especially singer-songwriter, front-person types like myself, success is all wound up with fame. And fame, from what I can tell, can really mess you up.

Rates of depression and substance abuse (two things I’d already been struggling with for years) in touring musicians are off the charts. Something like 50% of touring musical artists meet the criteria for clinical depression.

And it seemed to me that touring was the only way to make real money and gain ground. This doesn’t mean there aren’t people doing it well, or that some artists don’t love touring all the time. But, while I love traveling and I had enjoyed limited touring, doing it all the time sounded awful to me.

Yes, I wanted success, and the validation and respect I assumed would come with it. But, on some level, I didn’t feel strong enough to handle fame. And I’m pretty sure I was right–

fame would have destroyed me.

In 2020, right before the pandemic, I recorded four tracks with Elise Trouw. Three of them I wrote, and one was co-written by Elise and the guy who produced her first album. He’d sought me out, wanting to produce my album as well, but I could only get enough money together for these four songs.

When the quarantine hit and foiled any release plans, I was left holding these songs in my hands. They were fine. But none of them felt like me. Again, I released (half) of the recordings with no announcement.

It was time to make a decision. Continue grabbing at some abstract goal with one hand while shoving it away with the other… or let it go.

I decided to walk away from music. That was a little over 5 years ago.

A fellow musician and Substacker, Hannah Bowers recently said this, and I think she’s absolutely right:

It had never occurred to me that I could define my own success; that I could be a successful artist however tf I want to be one. And really, that kind of freedom wasn’t readily available until recently.

In just the past few years, the world has cracked wide open. Artists of all mediums stand to benefit from this opening immensely. We can finally control our distribution. Halle-fuckin-luhiah.

We just have to be willing to be our own cavalry.

The truth is, we were the cavalry all along.

I’m still figuring out how to weave music back into my life. My time away allowed me to re-find my voice. It gave me space to move into filmmaking, which is this incredible art form that requires so much collaboration— something I’d been craving for years.

I know this essay doesn’t fit into the “story behind the song” format I established (I’ll get back to it next week, promise). But this felt important to share with you right now.

I’m not sure where this is all headed, but I really feel like we’re onto something here, you know? And I’m grateful you’re with me for it.

This is a new song. After years of overcomplicating everything I wrote, this one was a practice in getting out of the way and letting the damn song do its thing.

“Call Me @ Midnight”

xo

I do have some musics for you and also surprise! it’s spring!

Here in Oregon, the sun has finally pulled the long gray bedsheet down from over its head to grin at us. I’d fully accepted, as I do every year, that it might just be winter for the rest of our lives.

And then a beam of light reached down from the clouds, and another one another one another, until it was just Spring! Like winter never even existed. Life is f*cking wild like that.

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Speaking of life being f*cking wild, check out this video from 2020 with everyone quarantined away in their little Zoom boxes singing their hearts out.

I know it’s still a little too soon to be dredging up this bizarre time from our past, but this video is worth it:

Remember the waffles I mentioned earlier?

This next video… this is basically like eating a stack of fresh, steaming waffles. This is Wild Rivers singing “Thinking ‘Bout Love” with the Voices of our City Choir in San Diego.

If you’ve never heard of this choir, let me introduce them a bit. They are incredible.

Voices of Our City Choir is comprised of unhoused individuals and people working to get and stay off the street. The choir was co-founded by Steph Johnson, an amazing musician and songwriter who I had the pleasure of getting to know a bit while I was living in San Diego.

Members of Voices of Our City Choir often express how integral singing with this group is to their mental and emotional well-being. The community and creative expression the choir offers helps its members find their inner power and, for many, gives them a reason to stay off the street and keep working toward a healthier life.

Lucky for me, I got to see them perform live in San Diego a couple of times. I left each of those shows feeling like one of those floating lanterns — just glowing up toward the sky.

This is my favorite version of “Thinking ‘Bout Love”, and I’m excited to share it with you now:

Also, I wanted to share a link to other songs written by Robyn Dell’Unto, one of the two co-writers of “Thinking ‘Bout Love”. She is a songwriter worth knowing about, and songwriters too often get overlooked!

Here is a playlist of all the tunes she’s written for other artists:

That’s all for now! For those of you who are subscribed, thanks for bearing with me as I try out different days and formats.

Now in my second week on Substack, I still have no idea wtf I’m doing, but I think I see some beams of light starting to break through the clouds.

I hope these musics bring you some inspiration today 🫶 Until next time 🤘

I’d just gotten done playing a funny Covid-era backyard concert in L.A., where I lived at the time. All around me, people slipped their masks down to guzzle cocktails from cans. They tried awkwardly to mingle without facial expressions or standing too close.

Not knowing anyone there, his text made me suddenly less alone.

We were roommates then; we’d only known each other a few months. He was out of town on a movie shoot. I’d been trying to not think about him in any kinda way… Roommate thoughts only.

I snuck off from what was fast descending into a sloppy yard party to the bathroom to listen. Phone speaker to my ear, sitting on the edge of the seagreen bathtub.

“I guess we got caught up in telling a lie, now you’re leaving me lonely” a sweet, slightly trembling voice sang. “You’re just thinking ‘bout tomorrow. I’m just thinking ‘bout love”.

By could be a good one for us, he’d meant we could sing it. We’d been playing music together since we met – desperate for a creative outlet in the height of the quarantine.

I really did try to not let the thinking ‘bout love text make me think about… anything in particular.

I really did try.

The Making of a Quarantine Ballad

“Thinking ‘Bout Love” was written in Nashville by a couple of Canadians – Robyn Dell’Unto and Khalid Yassein – back in 2018. Two years later, Wild Rivers, Yassein’s band with Devan Glover and Andrew Oliver, cut the song for their EP Songs to Break Up To.

The original track has that natural live off-the-floor quality that’s become so rare in modern recording.

During the session, Wild Rivers decided to have everyone in the studio sing the Ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh backing vocals for the final chorus all together. This choice ended up being particularly compelling for the time it was released.

That’s because this was a quarantine hit – released just a couple of months into the Covid lockdown.

Like everybody else, Wild Rivers had to cancel their tour, which would have supported the EP’s release. But, they also had a captive audience; one that was holed up at home, desperate for connection.

Yeah, I am thinking about love, everybody said to themselves when this song found them curled up on the couch in their sweatpants. And when that last chorus lit up with those many voices, all those listeners felt less alone.

If that’s not one of music’s primary roles, I don’t know what is.

Yes, it’s another breakup song.

But, as Yassein has mentioned in interviews, it’s also a broader argument between practicality and romance. The person who’s “just thinking about tomorrow” is concerned with logistics, the other is “just thinking about love”.

But there is another argument here that’s worth mentioning.

The Quiet Power of Simplicity

This song, to me, makes a beautiful case for the power of simplicity.

The verse uses a 1-2-6-4 chord progression– nothing fancy, but perfect for a ballad like this. The chorus is a 5-6-4-1, which is a slight variation on a common progression.

The guitar work is clean, simple, straightforward.

All of this simplicity does the hugely important job of supporting what I think are the elements that really set this song apart: the lyrics, the melodies, and the vocal deliveries.

In particular, the specificity of the lyrics is so compelling.

Remember the night that we slept on the floor and you told me you loved me? Or by the lake when it started to rain and I just held you? The imagery is clearly specific to this real relationship.

Yet, it’s so familiar that it makes me feel like I’m being asked these questions, and I’m like yes, yes I do remember those quiet, yet profound moments!

I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that duets are… Well, usually cheesy. And that’s OK, there’s always been a place for cheesy in music.

With “Thinking ‘Bout Love”, I again come back to the simplicity. The grounded imagery and simple pleading of the chorus keep the song from toppling into over-sentimentality.

It should also be said that Devan Glover’s and Khalid Yassein’s natural vocal tones do so much for this song. Her tasteful vocal flourishes add such texture and make each round of verse/chorus unique while still building into the broad opening at the end.

We never ended up covering this tune (until now…)

But we did end up getting married, having a kid, making films, going on a bunch of crazy fucking adventures, and otherwise building a life together.

This is a break up song, but it will always remind me of those first notes of love. Of remembering, once again, that maybe I’m not so alone in this world.

Here we are in our garage… Yes, Sebastian’s head is cut off & the camera is crooked on purpose.

Share 🎼 Songs to Save Your Day

While “Long Distance Love” doesn’t contend in popularity with Little Feat’s “Willin’” or “Dixie Chicken”, it has been a favorite amongst musicians and songwriters through the years.

• Jackson Browne was known to play it during his live shows:

• In 2024, Sweet Relief Musicians Fund put out a tribute album to Lowell George. Elvis Costello cut this full-band version of “Long Distance Love”:

• Back in 1980, Nicolette Larson recorded “Long Distance Love” for her album Radioland:

• Louis Bertignac has often played the tune singing his sweet French translation of the lyrics:

• You can even find “Long Distance Love” sampled (albeit awkwardly, but most definitely) in Atmosphere’s track “Modern Man’s Struggle” off his God Loves Ugly album:

Now it’s your turn…

And here is your prompt:

“Long Distance Love” is a song about the moment of realization. The singer wants the person they love to love them back the same, but they’ve realized that, no matter what they do, that kind of love isn’t coming.

So, think about a moment in your life when you had a major realization: that something or someone wasn’t what you’d thought, or that something in your life needed to change. Create from that place.

(For now, writing is the only medium we can include in the comments, but in a couple months, we’ll move into a subscriber chat where we can share photos, audio, and video, too🤘)

Write any which way you like – fiction, poetry, a quick note, or tell a story like you’d tell it to a stranger in a bar… anything!

Not one for prompts? No problem. Just listen to your favorite version of the song and create something from the mood it evokes for you. Or write about what the song “Long Distance Love” has meant in your life.

Can’t wait to see what you make!

xo,

Lizabeth

We were roadtripping back to L.A. on I-70 from a gig in NYC. We’d just finished a classic diner breakfast in Hugo, CO. After months of being broke af, our stomachs and wallets finally were full.

One of us put Little Feat on to hear “Willin’”-- an appropriate choice for our very American, legally-ambiguous road trip.

January’s mid-morning sun streamed through the car as we climbed the Rockies. We’d only been dating for 6 months by then – you know that buzzy but still a little nervous kind of love.

When those first few Rhodes chords of “Long Distance Love” landed on me– the dragging shuffle, Lowell’s syrupy, heartbroken voice– I was immediately hooked.

It’s been on regular rotation in my life’s soundtrack ever since.

The Story behind “Long Distance Love”

Little Feat first cut “Long Distance Love”, along with seven other tunes, for The Last Record Album in 1975. Lowell George wrote the song while they were in the studio recording the rest of the album. The working theory is that it’s about the struggle of being in a relationship while out on the road touring.

But that’s not what I hear in the lyrics.

I hear someone longing for the person they love to love them back– not at a distance, but fully– and knowing that they never will.

And that makes sense – the guy didn’t have a reputation for being chill. He did things all the way. He had that dreamy intensity that so many great artists have.

Lowell George was what many people would call “too much”, and that was his superpower.

If you ask me, being too much is every artist’s ultimate superpower.

The Subtly Brilliant Craft of “Long Distance Love”

Part of what makes the song so charming is the structure, which is just a little odd. The last measure of the first and last verses has two extra beats, presumably to make space for Lowell’s sweet vocal phrasing of you got to stop your pleading and do she know she hurt me so?

What really gets me, though, is the chord progression.

Especially, the chorus starting on an E minor (the minor 6th of the key), then moving to a D over F sharp (D/F#). That F# in the bass gives us just a hint of harmonic minor in the natural G minor scale, which is just so tasty.

If music is a foreign language to you, what I’m trying to say is that the song is weird…but smart.

All of the elements are serving the melody, and that is why it’s great.

The structure, the chords, the pacing– they don’t do what they’re “supposed to do”. The focus was not to make the song easily replicable, but to let the melody play out the way it naturally wanted to, the way it showed up in Lowell’s head.

The 1975 recording is perfectly imperfect– the drums aren’t quantized, the vocals aren’t pitched.

Just the rich sound of a real band in a real room all together playing a real, honest song from the heart.

Thankfully, Little Feat let a crew from the BBC film some of their recording sessions for The Last Record Album. “Long Distance Love” got a special little promo video out of it:

Driving over the Rockies that morning, we listened to “Long Distance Love” on repeat. The car flooded with feeling– a sort of heartbroken freedom, an electric longing. I fell in love over, over, and over again.

Yes, I wanted a love that was “all in”. And I wanted it for everything: for us, for the road, for my life. I wanted every last drop of life that exists, and not from a distance…

Don’t you?

Lowell George passed away in 1979 of a heart attack.

It was no doubt tragic– he was only 34. But, somehow it has always felt fitting that it was his heart that killed him. He had so much of it; it seemed always to be boiling over.

No other song, in my opinion, captures that quite like “Long Distance Love”.

It’s been a minute (5 years, to be exact) since I’ve recorded myself playing music. Here’s my version of Lowell George’s “Long Distance Love” live from my backyard.

RIP, Mr. George– thanks for all the bangers.

If you enjoyed reading and listening, tell your friends! Subscribe to catch the next one! I’d love to have you along for the ride 🌚🌝

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Did you know this tune already? Do you love it now? This time, the chat is open to everybody - so tell me what you think!