Ogunquit, ME – “Songwriting” – Jonathan’s – July 21, 2000

There are about 200 songs waiting to burst out of me. Sam is finally in the rearview mirror (thank goodness), and I’m relieved I could extract three songs from that one heartache. But now I’m wading through a sea of half-formed ideas on these worn-out 90-minute tapes. Here I am, sitting cross-legged on my paisley bedspread in a hotel room—#354—surrounded by cassettes, some with jackets, others bare. Each side holds at least ten song snippets. It’s raining in Maine, and I’ve sent the boys off to breakfast so I can focus on songwriting for our next album. We’re playing at Jonathan’s in Ogunquit tonight, but this morning is all about songwriting.

Armed with my trusty handheld tape recorder, a fresh set of guitar strings, and a mud mask from the local pharmacy, I’m ready. I probably look ridiculous with this green mask, but as I wave the guys off, I look confident.

But frankly, I don’t even know where to begin. Do I work forward chronologically or backward? Do I leave the songs I started co-writing with Soucy for last or do I tackle them first? Do I listen to each tape in the background while cleaning out “pretty bag”— when inspiration strikes, drop my rag and pick up my guitar? The only thing that seems clear is that I’d better start finishing more songs as I start ‘um or I’ll always be in a pile of ideas wondering where to go next.

I close my eyes and pick a tape at random. It’s labeled “Blue Room Writing May 2000,” side A. I pop it into the recorder, rewind, and hit play. From the speaker, my soft voice whispers, “This one is in G. It’s 3 a.m., May 20th, and I’m holed up in an Albany bathroom, trying not to wake Delucchi.” I explain the chord progression—G, Am, Em, D for the verse, and F, Em for the chorus—then strum the chords, hum a melody, and sing a few lyrics. This is my process. I start with a chord progression, get excited like a fisherman with something on the line, grab my tape deck, and hit record. I explain where and how I am for context, and talk the chord progression into the mic. I then strum the chords over and over into the tape deck, start humming over it on the second or third time through until something clicks. Then I let lyrics carve out a river bed into the landscape of sound I’ve created for them. It’s a meditative process. I imagine myself as a pen allowing ink to flow through me. Sometimes a songwriting session yeilds only a single lyric or a few random bridge ideas. Other times, the whole song will fall out of me in less than 10 minutes.

I take the tape recorder and my lyric notebook into the bathroom of room #354, listening with one ear while I shave my legs in the sink. When something stands out, I grab my notebook, pause, rewind, pause—until the song is complete. It’s a bit like reeling in a fish.

In three hours, while the boys are gone, I manage to finish “Wait” and nearly wrap up a co-write with Soucy called “October.” Suddenly, my legs are smooth, “Pretty Bag” is spotless, the guys are back, and our next album has some meat on its bones.

“What’s that on your face?” they ask, alarmed. Oops. I forgot about the mud mask—meant for a 20-minute treatment—now seemingly adhered to my skin. At least we have new songs to keep us entertained while they try to scrape the clay off my face with hotel towels.