The pundits said it couldn’t be done, but Folds proved them all wrong! He has instinct!
That places too much pressure on my instinct. It’s too results-oriented to feel artistic. I believe an artistic decision should be allowed to feel innocent, unburdened, and uncorrupted by considerations of outcome. Sure, I don’t deny instinct itself exists, or that it drives many of our decisions. But I’d rather leave mine to do its subconscious work in the shadows beneath the slats of my ego. Not on display, with everyone placing bets on it.
I used to feel guilty when I strayed from the Script™. Mine, of course, has always been tour-record-tour-record. Yours may be work-sleep-work-sleep, speak-travel-write-speak-travel-write, or even left-right-left-right. Whatever your personal Script™, others become accustomed to, and dependent on, your following it. Veering off to follow interests can raise great concern. For instance, anyone whose livelihood might depend on my success might not want to see me taking too many unlucrative detours. Too many of those and lights out.
But I no longer feel guilt for following what glows, for going off-book. It turns out that it’s actually my responsibility to identify and follow my interests. Being interested is why I still have a gig at all. Following my interests has resulted in rewarding but unpredictable gigs like The Sing-Off, an NBC prime-time singing show for a cappella groups. That came about because I was dillydallying around, recording university a cappella groups on their campuses, when I “should have been” touring or recording. Driving around with an engineer and mics and setting them up in cafeterias and dorm rooms didn’t seem like a good way to spend my time, to some people I worked with. At least at the time. But my business partners chilled after I signed solid contracts with a major network TV show. Who’d have thunk? Not I. I was just interested in capturing live college singing, but, sure, I’ll gladly take the opportunity and paycheck.
One standout detour of interest was taking a year to compose a concerto for piano and orchestra. I took a small commission and made the time because it was interesting. I agreed to a premiere performance of it with the NSO and the Nashville Ballet, which commissioned the piece. I did not expect that night to turn into six nights, and I’ve never otherwise sold eleven thousand tickets to premiere a new song or album. It turns out someone else was interested.
My manager these days, Mike, isn’t even a music manager. I just found him interesting, so we joined forces eight years ago. He’s not terribly concerned with the Script™. He could see how it was choking off my creativity. Mike’s from a politics background, so he’s quite happy to make time for me to travel to Washington, D.C., with Americans for the Arts to go to bat for arts funding, or to attend both the Republican and Democratic National Conventions for the same purpose. He books me on music-therapy panels or looks into letting scientists put me into a brain scanner while I improvise songs. These aren’t terribly lucrative endeavors. But they seem to keep leading to better artistic places and better gigs. Like my role as Artistic Advisor to the National Symphony Orchestra. That isn’t the sort of thing that normal music-biz managers would encourage. (To all those out there who think people who take government work are rolling in it: Uh. No.) It’s not where the Script™ would have taken me. But surrounding myself with the people I find interesting, and who share the same interests, keeps my inner robot at bay.
* * *
—
When it comes to my method of working, and how I spend my time, I’ll admit that I’m not terribly disciplined. But I am a hard worker and these are two different things. I’m fueled by obsession and hyper-focus more than by routine. The obvious downside to being undisciplined and obsessive is the very real risk that some things will go pear-shaped. I’ve taken some bad detours, as you’ve seen. For those like myself, it’s often hard to know when perceived instinct is actually just some corrupted impulse. Like the impulse egging me on to have another tequila. Hey, that’s not instinct! Or the one telling me to forgo sleep to spend another four hours robotically scrolling through eBay for a certain RCA speaker made in 1958. But the upside of my lack of discipline is that I’ve given myself a hall pass to roam. Over fences, through open doors, creatively.
I still see myself as a class tourist, equally uneasy and at home in different neighborhoods. There is no one class to be, no one club to join, no one way to create, no universal behavior of an artist, and there’s no such thing as cool. Any songwriter I’ve ever admired was probably kicked out of the Serious Songwriters’ Club™ long ago, if such a thing exists. I hope I’ve been kicked out too. I’ll settle for writing good songs.
Throughout my life, each time I’ve spotted something inspiring, a beautiful flicker, an idea, or a feeling I wanted to capture, there were always bullying voices—inside, and out—suggesting it was off-limits:
You can’t sing if you’re a real man.
You can’t move middle-class living room furniture into a rock dive.
You can’t put a serious abortion song next to an irreverent joke song.
You can’t use more than three chords, because Dylan and Cobain didn’t.
The word “microscope” in a ballad doesn’t work.
Don’t put too many names in songs.
Major chords are happy, and of course happiness is vapid—not cool, so stick with minor.
But why shouldn’t I be allowed to sing a nasty cussing song one day, compose a piano concerto the next, and finish the week doing a ridiculous cameo as myself as a raving drunk on You’re the Worst—all while writing a political song for the Washington Post? Do you know what Charles Ives, one of the great celebrated American composers of the twentieth century, did in his spare time? He overhauled the insurance industry and laid the foundation for the modern practice of estate planning. Is that cool? Or is that whack? It’s cool in retrospect, but what would the Pitchfork of 1918 have thought? I doubt there’s much indie-cred for a songwriter who works at State Farm. But I say, follow your interests and let your art speak for itself. Business is based on creativity too.
Beware of little things that can erode our creativity as we grow up. One after another. One at a time, small choices eliminated incrementally. Flickers slowly dimmed. It never ends. You have to tune those voices out because your interests, those creative flickers, are truly miraculous. They are what drive us to keep seeing what’s around the next corner. Chase ’em. Life is short. After you’ve put food on the table, if you’re so lucky, then what? You follow your interests, that’s what.
I believe deep in my bones that every person is inherently creative. But I also think our creativity has to be recognized, encouraged, cultivated, protected, and sometimes even put on life support. It can’t live without oxygen. But it comes back, if you want it to, like your appetite after an illness. Like the lightning bugs when darkness falls again.