Last week, I caught myself in a YouTube maze, video-hopping like a hungry man at a Chinese buffet. I do this a lot: follow videos sidebar-to-sidebar-to-sidebar, until I realize an hour has vanished and I've just watched every R.E.M. unplugged performance they've ever given or conceived of giving.

And it was somewhere between my third and thirtieth viewing of "Nightswimming" that I realized something: no band (other than the Beatles) uses background vocals the way R.E.M. does.

This week's song: R.E.M. "Fall On Me"

Once upon a time, there was a band called the Beatles. The Beatles had three active singers and a fourth that they used for comic relief and novelty songs. They employed all three singers frequently, providing background vocals for each others' songs, and adding harmonies to choruses. Occasionally, however, they used background vocals to add a new dimension to the song; it's wasn't another singer, it was another voice.

For example, the vocal prompts before each line of "Help" enact the co-dependence the song's about. John literally and figuratively needs the help of his bandmates to get through each line, and they take each others' lead: "(When...) When I was younger, so much younger than today/(I never needed...) I never needed anybody's helping anyway." Perhaps the best example is "With a Little Help From My Friends," in which the background singers needle Ringo with questions after every line ("does it worry you to be alone," "are you sad because you're on your own," etc.). His "friends" are omnipresent, but they're planting doubt as much as they're providing help.

This, of course, was a brilliant device that gave each song an added dimension--rather than just use background vocals to add a catchy melody or a pretty harmony, the Beatles put their BGVs to work.

Though the Beatles' songwriting influence only grew after their breakup, this device largely disappered. Background vocals--duets, harmonies, doubled vocals on the choruses, etc.--are everywhere today; but the background singer as a second narrative voice has almost disappeared. Which brings me to REM, perhaps the only band to use this technique as frequently and skillfully as the Beatles did.

Like so many things, I first became aware of this effect from my brother. Many moons ago, whilst rocking out to "It's the End of the World As We Know It," he sang along with Mike Mills' background vocals rather than the lead melody. I'd never noticed Mills' part before, but can't miss it now. As Stipe gives his doomsday prophecy during each refrain, Mills replies with an upbeat, darkly comic twist: "time I had some time alone." Yep, that's one way to look at the apocalypse.

Once that song opened the door, I heard these nuggets throughout R.E.M.'s catalog. Call-and-response dual melodies fill their catalog. From "Orange Crush," to "Stand," their BGVs do more than strengthen one voice; they provide another perspective.

Which brings us to "Fall On Me." In so many REM songs, the "other voice" is that of the singer's guilty conscience, or nagging doubt, or comic relief. But Mills' lyrics only add to the frustration of the lead vocal. At one point, the background takes the voice of the rational inquisitor: "what's it doing in the air?" At another, it only adds cryptic imagery to the scene. At still another, it seems to talk about itself, "keep your conscience in the dark," forming a mantra of self-denial. There are no answers here--the second vocal only doubles the confusion. It's not surprising that during this unplugged performance, Stipe introduces the song as perhaps his favorite in the band's catalog--he's never shied away from ambiguity:



"Fall On Me" is a wonderful example of how a background singer can dramatically--and easily--deepen a song's meaning. Which makes me wonder why so few artists do this.

So, here's my question: can you name some more songs that use this type of background vocal? Some other artists that use it frequently? A few more from contemporaries, off the top of my head:
--The Raconteurs on occasion ("Together")
--Weezer's "Undone" is a decent example (the background singer breaks away from the lead at the last chorus, "unraveling" the song's structure)

Any others?

Ladies and gentlemen, dogs and cats, interlopers and cybermen: meet Michael.

Michael is a graduate student at Buffalo, where he studies people. Specifically, he studies migration, cities, geography, satellites, and (I believe) the history of lasers. I'm not sure. He's also the Blother (blog-author) of the Urban Complex, where he discusses how our cities work, how they don't work, how they might change to meet 21st century demands, and what lasers have to do with all of this (again, I might be making the lasers up). He's a smart fellow. In fact, he's a Fellow fellow, which I think involves a scholarship, high academic honors, and powdered wigs.

But I know Michael a different way: he was the guitarist and songwriter of my first band (we had many names, but my favorite was "Styrofoam Giraffe"). Back in high school, Michael and I formed a band and gigged around the Memphis suburbs like Hanson with buzzcuts. I would never tell him this now, except indirectly and with a modicum of ridicule, but Mike set the bar for every guitarist I've worked with since, as a musician, bandmate, and friend. I've always suffered the "artistic type" badly, because Mike's living proof that talented people don't need to be difficult people. I learned that from him early, and have carried it with me since. He's a great guy.

So, when he recently asked me to write "something" about New York and/or Nashville for the Urban Complex, I agreed. Of course, I know nothing about city development, human migration patterns, and/or lasers. I know the shortest route to ice cream wherever I am--that's the extent of my urban expertise. Still, I thought "I'm (fairly) urban and (potentially) complex. I can do this!"

And then a Mailbag question gave me my topic, like an email from the heavens (angels use Yahoo, by the way): "Hey Chris, what's the difference between a show in New York and a show somewhere else, say Nashville?"

Eureka!

Of course, the differences (and the reasons for those differences) are many and varied. But perhaps the biggest difference is also the most relevant to the Urban Complex: New York's layout affects its music scene in a unique and (I believe) positive way.

The first thing I noticed going to shows in New York (and playing my own) was how crowded all the rooms were. Every noteworthy venue was full most nights, rain or shine, early or late, seemingly regardless of the bill. Even open mics were well-attended by seemingly non-partisan crowds. This wasn't happening because New York crowds love music more than anywhere else (although they are great, active, engaged fans). Established venues in town have a built-in audience--regulars that come to have some drinks, hear music, and generally "check it out" on a nightly basis. Elsewhere (e.g., Nashville), artists have a crowd, but the room doesn't; your audience is generally whomever you bring.

There are many explanations for this, but I'll give three:

1) Population/density. The more people are in a city, the more crowded its places will be. Also, the sun is hot and puppies are cute.

2) Driving culture. This is the big one. Though New York has every mode of transportation in abundance (excepting rickshaws), it's primarily a walking culture. Rather than drive five minutes to Kroger, you walk five seconds to the bodega. Rather than drive to your favorite strip of restaurants/bars in town, you walk to your favorite block and hop around. While living in the city encourages real exploration, day-to-day life is about walking around the autonomous micro-city that is your neighborhood. Of course, you should leave your neighborhood; but (depending on where you work) you might not have to.

So, walking three minutes to your favorite restaurant/bar could double as a trip to hear some free music. If you live in the Lower East Side (and seemingly nine billion people do), you're likely a stone's throw from Rockwood, the Living Room, Mercury Lounge, Arlene's, and Pianos, to name a very few. If you live just a few blocks north, add in the Bowery, Webster Hall, Joe's Pub, Bitter End, Kenny's, and dozens more. In total, I'm talking about a 20-block radius. I personally live in the East Village (slightly further) and can easily walk to all of these venues. It's one of the reasons I picked this neighborhood--quick accessibility to a lot of music.

In other words, you don't have to "make a night" of seeing a concert at a destination across town; you can just swing by and check it out. And a ton of people do this.

Now, this isn't unique to New York--art districts in other cities make it easy for some locals to walk to venues. This typically happens only in our most populous (and most densely populated) cities, like Chicago and San Francisco. But it is different from cities like Nashville and Memphis, which have a smaller population, a sprawling city plan, and dominant driving culture. Which leads me to...

3) Really, an offshoot of #2: college-kid accessibility. Young people are obviously the lifeblood of any local music scene, specifically anyone from 16-30. In a small town without a local college, venues are geared toward high school students. In some bigger towns without a nearby college, venues target the twenty-something crowd. But for college-towns and college-heavy cities like Nashville and New York, undergrads are a huge percentage of the concert-going public. They're also the ideal audience: they're more open and independent in their tastes than high school kids, generally have disposable income, and have more free nights (and less responsibilities) than the post-grad crowd. Hence, collegians are vital to the activity and success of their local music scene.

But Nashville's music venues aren't readily available to its many colleges (Vanderbilt, Belmont, Lipscomb, Fisk, TSU, and MTSU in Murfreesboro). Sure, fans go to concerts in town--Nashville's a great city for music and the fans there are active. But, again, the issue is accessibility. If I went to NYU, I could walk to the Bitter End in the same time that a trip to the library took at Vanderbilt. What's more, Nashville's venues are staunchly 21+, whereas NYC rooms seem slightly--cough, cough--more lax. They know their location, and they know their audience.

So, while both cities have amazing fans, it's simply easier for those fans to find music in New York. That's been the greatest difference for me, gigging as a nascent artist in the city: the crowd's not just who I bring. Anyone can impulsively decide to walk five minutes, drop by the right open mic at the right room at the right time, play two songs, and potentially walk away with forty new fans. It's endlessly fun and rewarding from the artist's perspective.

Still, I'd sell a leg right now for a week on I-40 with Ruby.

So, you know, pros and cons.

But what do you think? Is this changing as more cities become less driving-dominant? Is your city developing more autonomous walking neighborhoods (Nashville, for example, has experimented with this over the last decade with mixed results)? Is your favorite venue in town within walking distance? And, if it is, would you actually walk there?

Hit up the Urban Complex and be sure to leave some comments, love, and/or lasers.

(And big props to Mike. Stay tuned for the Styrofoam Giraffe reunion tour.)

Sure, it's February 25. Sure, it's 35, raining, gray, bleak, and generally soul-sucking outside. Sure, the lingering sidewalk snow is caked black. Yes, you got tired of Iron & Wine two weeks ago. Of course, all of this makes you wonder if Floridians know something you don't. Sure, it's been this way for weeks and yes, absolutely, it'll continue through March.

But in here (pointing to my noggin) and in here (pointing to my hearticles), it's time for spring. Hang tight, dear readers, you're in good hands: nobody enacts self-delusion better than this blogger. What better way to pre-empt the growing season than with some Mailbag spring cleaning?

(As always, these are actual emails from actual readers. If you'd like to be in a future Mailbag, just drop me a line: chris@chrismilam.com. I promise that I read every email, so ask away!)

Chris, I'm writing as a longtime reader and fan, but I am mad today. I am mad because you didn't give us Songs for February, and I fear you won't give us Songs for March. I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore. Give us Songs for March, or I'll quit reading, or at least send a strongly-worded email to the made-up editor! --Matt, Jackson
First of all, the editor is all-too-real, and more than a little insulted right now. I think we all just need to take a deep breath before things escalate.

Ready?

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Got a machinehead?

I feel better. Here's the deal with the monthly playlists: I wrote each one hoping it might be definitive. In other words, of all the music in my iTunes that I've listened to and have identified with different seasons for many, many years, I finally wrote the comprehensive list for each month. Of course, they're not definitive for anyone but me. Everyone has their own Songs for March; that's the beauty of it. But my Songs for March were largely written last year, and if I tried to list them now, I'd repeat 91% of the picks.

Still, there's always room for an update. So, here now are Six New Songs for March (which may or may not be new):

Jayhawks, "Sixteen Down"
Everything--from the "thawing out" intro to the sadly-sung first word ("sunshine") to the major-minor/loud-soft/hopeful-gloomy conflict throughout--sounds like March. This song is one foot out of winter, but nowhere near the sunshine it's singing for.

Elliot Smith, "LA"
How do you dial up the melancholic anticlimax of March in song? Take one part sunny subject matter (Los Angeles). Add an upbeat guitar riff. A dash of instrumental harmony. And a LOT of Elliot Smith doing what Elliot Smith does. Pitch-perfect.

Lyle Lovett, "It Ought To Be Easier"
Leave it to Lyle Lovett to say what so many other songwriters dance around: "it ought to be easier." Yes, yes, and yes. While he's detailing a relationship that's harder than it should be, I'm wondering why getting to spring seems nigh impossible. When it comes to life, love, music, and the seasons therein, nothing good should feel like pulling teeth.

Whiskeytown, "Easy Hearts"
Whenever I think I prefer Whiskeytown's catalog to Ryan Adams' (sadly, the ultimate litmus test of alt-country hipsterdom), I remember it has more to do with Caitlin Cary's vocals than Ryan Adams' songwriting. My favorite of their many gorgeous duets, and a nice coupling with "It Ought To Be Easier."

R.E.M., "Near Wild Heaven"
Mid-tempo? Check. Themes of longing, frustration, wasted energy, and impatience? Check. The obligatory R.E.M. pick? Check.

(Sidebar: Longtime readers will recognize a growing R.E.M. obsession here. I once had a professor who said, "every eight to ten years, I fall in love with Walt Whitman again." Bypassing the unadulterated nerdiness of that statement, I know what he means. Every five or six years, I revisit R.E.M.'s catalog and hear it again for the first time. They never stop giving me something new.)

White Stripes, "Red Rain"
You knew a "rain" pick was coming. I picked the White Stripes because:
1) This list needed a rock-shot in the arm.
2) This was always my sleeper favorite off Get Behind Me Satan.
3) It has "rain" in the title.
4) It just came on my iTunes.

Sometimes it's that easy.

What are your Songs for March?

Chris, I'm a music business student in Nashville. You've talked in the past about the Nashville music industry and that side of the business as a whole. If you were in the Suits' shoes, what would you do differently? Everyone knows the industry's questions--you got any answers from the artist's perspective? --Jeff, Nashville

Wow, I am in no way prepared for this question. I have no music biz experience, and no formal business education. I've avoided math (subsequently, econ) classes at all costs. While I've worked with many industry pros over the years, our conversations are more along the "how good a drummer is Meg White" variety, than the "what's the emerging business model" variety. So, I'll just speak/type from experience, and hopefully we can find the Music Industry Miracle everyone's seeking.

If you put me in charge of Sony Music (or Universal, or any other major) today, I'd immediately do five things:

1) Hire a financial team of young, bright, Napster-generation music-lovers, and tell them to brainstorm new business models. More importantly, tell them to invest a little on a lot of different ideas. Break some eggs. See what works.

2) Fire everyone over fifty. Handle age-discrimination lawsuits by paying them with fiber coupons and calling cards. (Note: Not really everyone over fifty, but everyone who still wants to do business in 1978.)

3) Tell my legal team: "we're doing A&R differently...find a way for us to accept unsolicited demos."

4) Do A&R differently. Accept unsolicited demos. Which brings me to my biggest point...

5) Scout talent. Redistribute money, hiring, and energy towards A&R. Scout A&R talent first (as in, an army of A&R reps who love pop music and have a good ear/eye for new artists). Then, tell that army: "You listen to everything. You don't listen to all of everything, because 99% of it will be bad in a way that will never get good. But you listen to everything."

The goal is to monopolize talent. We'd take, probably, a 1-2 year hit (like a new football coach at a program waiting for his recruits to come in and develop), treading water with pre-existing artists we've retained. But if the scouting's done right, we could have a veritable monopoly on the biggest, brightest careers of the next 10-20 years.

This, of course, is the opposite of the reigning A&R philosophy. Because labels are hemorrhaging money, they're unwilling to take risks on new artists. They figure, reasonably, they can let the good, dedicated artists build up fanbases over several years, then sign on once they're a proven commodity. In a way, this makes sense (it minimizes risk). In a way, it makes no sense (it requires the artistic types be business types for half their careers). It's often a better judge of talented marketers than talented artists (one reason so many label execs scratch their head when the "biggest hometown band" doesn't blow up nationally).

But what if you used all your resources on recognizing the best unproven talent, then focused your business acumen on developing and selling that talent? Or is that too crazy?

An example: I know a guy (who will go unnamed) who worked for several years at a major label (which will go unnamed). He said that work stopped at 3PM every Friday for an in-office party. He said that every week, there was at least one label-hosted soiree for an artist's release, or anniversary, or signing, or whatever. He said there were more ridiculously expensive and self-congratulatory parties than you would believe. It was as if the label was owned by Billy Madison.

Now, what if you took away half that party budget (keep in mind, 95% of it should be taken away). For our purposes, we'll take away 50%. With that money, let's tell eight of our best A&R reps: "You will spend three weeks on the road. Each of you has a separate region of the country. You will go to as many concerts as possible in that region. You will see artists of every genre. You will see hometown heroes, and you'll see complete nobodies. You're diving into mosh pits, and you're sipping lattes in empty coffeehouses. The goal is to find the person that could be a great pop artist, regardless of genre, experience, or relative local popularity. You're scouting potential. Take note of everything, and report back constantly. You'll be paid slightly more than your normal salary for this time, plus a per diem, and points on any artist that ends up signing with us through you. Go get 'em."

You do this every six months, or every four if you're willing to further cut the party-budget. Sometimes you use the same scouts in the same region, sometimes you switch.

What's the downside? You blew the money on a 3-week A&R tour of America that you would've blown on champagne for a month? What's the upside? You're out-hustling your competition for talent they can't--or are unwilling to--find.

I think, right now, the opportunity's there for the right major to effectively put the others out of business over the next generation. It'll come down to two things:

1) Visionary, adaptive business models I'm not prepared to dream up.
2) Creative talent.

It's always about talent, except when it's not.

Chris! How excited are you about the May 4 releases (Josh Ritter, New Pornographers, and the Hold Steady)? --Karen, Cincinnati

Somewhere between "definitely" and "extremely." May 4 will be the grand finale for a great spring of new music. To wit:

Bonnie Prince Billy - March 23
--Pretty excited.

She & Him - March 23
--A little interested.

Dr. Dog - April 6
--Genuinely eager.

MGMT - April 13
--Extremely stoked.

Then, the Main Event on May 4:
--Josh Ritter, New Pornographers, and the Hold Steady. In the words of Ron Burgundy, "beep, bop, boop." Early releases have already leaked for the Ritter (download "Change of Time" free at his site) and the New Pornographers (via Pitchfork). Nothing yet--that I've seen, anyway--from the Hold Steady, but I'm sure it's a matter of time. From everything I've heard, there is reason to be excited. I think we're in for a good spring for new music.

Who am I missing? Found any (legal) pre-release releases yet? Let me know!

Fine, I'll bite: what's the deal with George Harrison, and why is he suddenly everyone's favorite Beatle? (P.S. Matt in Jackson, how dare you. I'm very real, and 140 pounds of vicious. Slow your roll.) --Your Editor, NY

What a grumpy editor I have! Matt in Jackson: just because you can take him doesn't mean you should. He's litigious.

To catch everyone up: the Editor is referring to my Fan of the Month questionnaire, in which I ask each FOM who their favorite Beatle is. Remarkably, nearly 80% of FOMs have picked George Harrison.

Now...
1) I expected to see a fairly even distribution, with Ringo in last. Maybe John 35%, Paul 30%, George 25%, Ringo 10%. So, this surprised me.

2) While it's interesting that there is a clear leader, it's fascinating that the leader is George. George. George Harrison. George. That guy.

3) I like George. In fact, I love him, frequently as a songwriter and always as a guitarist. I love everything about the Beatles. I've never understood Beatles fanatics who were John-or-Paul partisan: the Beatles were the Beatles because of the unique chemistry of all four guys. You can't love the band without appreciating what they each brought to the table. But...

How did the least famous Beatle become (among FOMs) the most popular? How did the guy who was once "remarkable for being the least remarkable" become the runaway favorite? What gives?

I've got three ideas:

1) It's just George's time. If you think about it--and want to force it (like I do)--every decade since the 60's has leaned toward one of the four Beatles. The 70's--clownish, muddled, and self-deprecating--link nicely to Ringo. The 80's--clean-cut, careerist, goofy--belonged to Paul. The 90's--serious, ironic, mercurial--were all Lennon. But the Oughts, especially the last few years, might finally be George's decade: it's been a time when the pop world values the non-pop artist. Everyone's selling 10K, but nobody's going platinum. It's not the anti-hero we love (that was the 90's); it's the non-hero. And George is the non-hero. Which brings me to...

2) George is us; we are George. The same thing that made him the least famous Beatle might make him the most relatable today. That is, he's less of a star, but so are we. It's effortless to relate to the music of the Beatles, but John, Paul, and Ringo were harder to relate to as humans. Every Beatle was incredibly famous, of course, but John and Paul were the "stars," and Ringo was more "walking metaphor" than "person who eats breakfast." Those three were larger than life, and made to represent a segment of contemporary culture. George was the lead guitarist in the biggest band on earth, the runt of the litter, and prone to earnest--if excessive--spiritual crises. In 1967, he was the fourth-most famous guy on earth; he just happened to constantly hang out with numbers 1-3. He wasn't us, but he kind of was.

If you want to push it further--and, as always, I do--it's not George's non-celebrity we relate to; it's his semi-celebrity. His fame is totally relative depending on his company. Similarly, everyone with a computer, internet access, and a Facebook account effectively stars in their own show. Their friends are wacky co-stars and supporting characters. Everything is public narrative, but only as public as they want to make it. In 2010, everyone is a little famous, relative to their context and company. As the oft-overlooked guitarist for the biggest band in history, George was too. So...

3) George wins, because today accessibility matters more to the average music fan. We're more connected to musicians than ever, and it's important for musicians to feel relatable. Because George Harrison might seem like the most relatable, he's frequently the most-favorite.

Two more side-notes here:

1) I love George Harrison as a guitarist, and his latter songwriting. But at no point of his career was he a better songwriter than John and Paul. And, really, it wasn't until Abbey Road (when "Something" became the wedding song Paul always hoped to write), that he even got close. He knew this, they knew this, and it was this crucial dynamic that helped him develop into a good songwriter. He wouldn't have written "Something" if he hadn't gotten tossed aside for eight years with the occasional "You Like Me Too Much." Which brings me to...

2) To be fair, February's FOM was right: I have teased George in this space before. There's one reason why, and it has nothing to do with music: George is the last Beatle I'd want to hang out with. The same thing that makes him relatable now (simultaneously uber-famous and overlooked) made him, for a time, hard to be around. John was moody, Paul was self-absorbed, Ringo was ridiculous, but George was volatile. The word "pipsqueak" comes up frequently in oral histories. Allegedly, being the youngest, smallest, and least famous of the group made George spikey.

Of course, these are just the rumors, and what the guy was like in a green room in no way affects the music I love. As a Beatle and solo-artist, I rank him third, which feels obvious, the way most right things are.

Am I right? Wrong? Ridiculous? Who's your favorite Beatle? Hit up the comments and let me hear it.

And, as always, just email chris@chrismilam.com to be in a future Mailbag!

Until then...

Once upon a time, a writer couldn't write. Specifically, this writer couldn't write, and it happened more than once. It happened all the time; in fact, it still does.

Writer's Block: my old nemesis dating back to schooling years. Often forced to write something for class, I'd think myself into paralysis and have a staring contest with a blank page--only to win, and lose, over the course of wasted minutes and hours. Writer's block was public enemy number one for Chris the Student, a sure and constant sign that something was wrong with me creatively. Why did this keep happening? What was my problem? And, given the completed assignments of my classmates, was I the only afflicted one?

A few years later, it still happens. Now, armed with experience, some veteran tricks, and the reassuring knowledge that I am not alone, I meet the Block head-on. I've gotten enough Mailbag questions about writer's block I decided to give it a separate post. Thankfully, I've got some answers, antidotes, or at least some extensive research on the subject.

Here are three sources of writer's block, and four remedies. Take it from a onetime victim turned confidante: the Block's part of the process. As such, it's not to be feared or fought, but rather embraced. Hug it, love it, and read on...

Source #1: Your Own Worst Critic
In high school, this was my primary source of writer's block: self-censorship. I couldn't--and didn't--write because I was scared of writing poorly. Every sentence, even every word, was an opportunity for failure. I stared at blank page after blank page, worried about not being good enough. In other words, the problem wasn't one of creativity or inspiration, it was of self-esteem. It wasn't that I had nothing to say (another source I'll get to later); it was that I didn't trust my ability to say it.

I find this happens a lot with young writers, or new writers: they are their own worst critic. The fear of being bad too often overwhelms their ability to be good. Lots of talented folks don't write because they're too hard on themselves. To a different degree, this is symptomatic of hugely successful writers and artists. Everyone from Chuck Klosterman to Tom Petty to Robert Redford has admitted to being unable to revisit past work--they "only see the mistakes." So, if you're your own worst critic, take heart: you're in great company. The trick is getting past it (read on).

Source #2: Running On Empty
The flip side of the coin, "running on empty" isn't about self-critique as much as creative block, or a lack of inspiration. You're writing, frequently, but feel creatively drained. Nothing's clicking. New ideas aren't coming, every word is a battle, and the end result is something uninspired, unoriginal, unfinished, or generally unsatisfying.

For me, this is the most frequent source of writer's block. The bad news is that it can be incredibly frustrating at the time; the good news is that it passes, and you know at the time that it will pass. For example, the moving process in September and October set back my songwriting a bit--I wasn't writing as many new songs as usual then because I was busy with the transition. In November and December, when I got back into my routine, I found that I was running on empty--the ideas just weren't there. I was still so drained from writing, recording, finishing, and performing the new album that I was simply out of new material. The well was dry. My brain needed to regroup.

Of course, this was really frustrating. One friend gave me some encouragement--he said writers aren't just vulnerable to this type of block, they're almost required to have it. Prolonged activity can create fatigue--just ask the NBA player who might need Tommy John surgery, but your average banker never will. In other words, "running on empty" isn't a sign something is wrong, but likely a sign that something is right.

And, again, it's cyclical: in the fall of 2008, I probably finished six or seven songs. In the winter of 2009, I finished close to forty. Ideas come and go, and there are always periods of your life that will be more prolific than others--it's a natural part of the process. The important thing is to stay ready. Which brings me to...

Source #3: Rust
The more you write, the more you write. Right? Personally, I know that I work best if I'm already in the habit of writing. The longer I go without it, the harder it is to get back into it, and the harder it is to create something satisfying off the bat. Think of it like any other type of exercise: an Olympic sprinter wouldn't run his best 100-meters after taking a month off. He'd need to train for a few weeks, get back into a routine, and get those muscles working regularly before he was back to full speed.

Which brings me to another question I get a lot: "how do I know if I'm supposed to be a writer?" I know talented people who appreciate writing and consider it a worthy endeavor, but rarely (if ever) put pen to page. In other words, some people have a feeling (perhaps formed by past friends, family, or guidance counselors) that they should be a writer, but never actually write anything. They often feel vaguely guilty about not writing, as though they're neglecting a true calling. This cycle of inaction-guilt-inaction-conversation-inaction only makes them feel worse about themselves, their work ethic, or whatever latent gifts they have. And for them I bring news of great joy and power, courtesy of my dad, long ago:

Writers write. Period. If you're meant to be a writer, you won't go without writing. More specifically, you can't not write. It's something you find yourself doing even when you're not thinking about it. It's something you'd do regardless of day job, night job, preoccupations, or time-sucking relationships. Writers write. If you don't write, ever, fret not: you're not a writer! You're free! Congratulations!

But if you are a writer, you must fight the onset of mind-rust like a rabid wolverine.

Here are a few remedies...

Remedy #1: Fill a Page
This goes with Source #1, and it was the single most-helpful trick I learned in college: fill a page. In a freshman creative writing seminar, we started every class by writing for ten minutes. Keep in mind, we weren't writing anything. The only rule was that you had to keep moving your pen across the page, without stopping, for ten minutes. Of course, as I was doing it, at the start of every class, all I thought was "this is boring," or "this is silly," or "this is meaningless."

But after that semester, I never had the "blank page problem" again. Without realizing it, I'd formed a physical (not mental) habit of filling a page every time I sat down to write. I did it without even thinking--I'd cleared the mental hurdle of self-critique by simply forcing myself to fill a page.

Another valuable offshoot of this exercise: it debunks the Myth of Importance (something I used to struggled with). I initially wrote with the idea that whatever I was created 1) was final and 2) had to be great. But writing nonsense for ten minutes takes away the mystique from the creative process; there's nothing scary, or final, or even important about anything. It's just you, moving a pen across a page. That's it. Relax, take a breath, scribble some nonsense, and have fun with it.

In other words: keep writing, and good stuff will come later. First, just fill the page.

Remedy #2: Go To the Bathroom
I'll let you in on a non-secret: I have the bladder of a 9 year-old girl. Also, I drink water, tea, and coffee constantly, especially when I'm writing. As a result, songwriting sessions are interrupted every fifteen minutes by bathroom breaks. It happens constantly.

But last winter, I noticed a trend: whenever I felt stuck, I'd get up to "do my business." Without fail, I'd have an idea in the bathroom. Of course, it's not the bathroom that matters; it's the physical act of stepping away from the computer, or paper, or guitar, getting up, walking around, and (this is crucial) continuing to brainstorm while you're actually doing something else. It's the weird mental middle ground of thinking about something without being aware that you're thinking about it--similar to the thoughts you have just before you fall asleep. I didn't know I was still writing in my head, and would come back to the guitar minutes later, suddenly knowing what I wanted to say.

If you find yourself stuck on something, step away from the desk. Get up. Walk around. Check your mail. Go to the bathroom. Get an idea.

Remedy #3: Read Something
For me, reading is part of writing; I can't do one without the other. Whatever I'm reading automatically influences whatever I'd like to write, but it's also good mental exercise. It keeps your brain actively engaged in something creative without the pressure of creating. Of course, literature is an endless source of inspiration, ideas, language, and a valuable escape, but other media can serve the same purpose. Listen to some completely different music. Visit an art gallery. Watch a movie. Let yourself occupy an alternative creative world, and you'll be amazed by what your brain brings back from it.

Remedy #4: Do Menial Labor
I can't tell how many songs came from mowing the lawn. Outside of "at my desk, with my guitar," "in the yard, behind a buzzsaw on wheels" is my most-prolific location. I once got an idea for a song while cleaning my bathroom: I heard water drip in the shower, and the different-sized drops each created a different sound when they struck the tile. It didn't "sound like a melody"; it was a melody. All I had to do was listen.

When I'm working in the yard, or cleaning a shower, or doing any menial labor, my mind is simultaneously shut off and completely open. It's taking in the surroundings in a way that I'm not remotely aware of. I'll realize after the fact that I spent an hour dreaming up a movie plot in my mind, or scripting a conversation with a long-lost love, or hearing melodies in the world I wouldn't have heard (or wouldn't have been open to hearing) before. It's a different version of "go to the bathroom." Step away from the creative process, and see what your mind will do when left to its own devices. You'll amaze yourself.

I hope this post helped some of you writers, or aspiring writers, get past the Block. If we learned anything today, writer's block is a natural, healthy part of the creative process, best combated by urinating constantly and working as a landscaper.

Don't say I never gave you anything.