I just finished watching Barton Fink for the nth time (from my sickbed, so please take the fever into account in reading the following comments – hell, I’ll probably delete this tomorrow).  This movie is still, unfortunately, the most accurate depiction of the writing process that’s ever been filmed; certainly, the most accurate depiction of my experience writing Departure and Farewell over these past two plus years.

I think it takes a certain amount of grandiosity to even believe that anybody save your own mother would be interested in the art that you produce.  If you have any self-awareness whatsoever (or shame – both of which seem to liabilities and/or in short supply among artists as far as I can tell), you spend most of your time second-guessing your ability to ever produce anything worthwhile ever again. Personally, I spend approximately 9 months out of any given year in this frozen state…and then, in the time it takes to smack a mosquito, work can come bleeding out of me (the Underwood in overdrive), and I am equally confident that this work – my work – could speak to millions.  My little brother (of "Horsey" fame and now a brilliant Neurologist) has labeled this artistic state “hypo-manic”, which I actually love. I used to say that I was “flowing” during these periods of plenty – and during the fallow periods, I would feel ashamed of such vanity; now when the songs are pouring out, I’ll just say I’m feeling hypo-manic (with a wink/smile), and when the tap turns off, I can refer back to the time plainly, clinically, “I was feeling hypo-manic”.  I feel fortunate that I am still able to recognize good work during the dry seasons, and I can use this time to polish, edit, and rewrite songs based on craft alone – I'll obsessively rewrite until the songs can stand on their own without me – whatever my mood/diagnosis.

Right at this moment, to continue using the film as a metaphor for this album: Charlie Meadows has left town because things have gotten “all balled up at the head office” and I’m walking around with a sealed box, wrapped in paper and tied with twine.  I’m not completely sure what’s in the box, and I’m not completely sure it belongs to me, and I’m afraid to open it…

Continuing along with the theme of influences, it struck me when I looked at that list, how many of those writers captured my imagination with by their astounding ability to explode traditional song forms and still maintain some sort of structural integrity. Growing up in awe of the great American songbook, where artists like the Gershwins, Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, Rogers and Hart, et al created these perfect, seamless constructions – it felt like traditional song forms must have been designed by G-d during the creation of the world; and Adam, naming all the creatures, heard a sequence of music, beginning with two verses, followed by a chorus, continuing onto another verse, etc…and Adam said “I shall name this the AABA song form” and it was good…It’s no wonder that I fell in love with writers like Rickie Lee Jones, Laura Nyro, and Scott Walker; they were somehow able to create these kaleidoscopically sprawling songs, where nothing made traditional sense, yet everything worked perfectly in its way. In some ways, these artists were working more in the mode of Carl Stalling who scored so many of the classic Warner Bros. Cartoons (with the help of Raymond Scott’s wild musical fragments).  Here, the "song" form was dictated by whatever happened on screen – directly underscoring every sharp turn and punctuating every exploding stick of dynamite; but these artists were scoring a very different sort of film, where the sharp turns led to places like “Lonely Avenue” and the explosions took place inside real hearts, leaving deep impressions.  Hearing these strange, forever expanding song forms was what ultimately freed me from that long, long shadow cast by the great Standards – they led me far enough away so that I could ultimately find my own voice as a songwriter.  And I guess it’s also no wonder, that though I am eternally grateful to these artists (and I still listen to them probably most of all), my own music turned out to be a sort of rebellion against these very same expanded forms that had liberated me. Once free of the past, I found myself able to look back at traditional song forms and suddenly, even these seemed too large and over-encumbered. I’ve been trying to boil song forms down to only their most essential elements ever since (hence albums like Twelfth Night have 28 songs and comes in under 40 minutes).  Or, I think right now I am most pleased with “Things Are Not Perfect In Our Yard” (a very long title for such a short song) from the upcoming “Departure and Farewell”: one short verse,  a chorus (consisting of just seven words), a bridge (just the title), and the only repetition (that tiny chorus)  – it’s the demi-glace of songs.

I'm a terrible maker of lists because I (i.e., Dan) feel so utterly compelled to attach caveat after caveat after disclaimer after overly-long explanation as to the criterion of said list (much as I’m doing now). But, I was asked to write a list of the 25 albums that have influenced me most in my development as a songwriter. Taking this request literally, I am including only music contained in album format which disqualifies some of the artist most influential to me (e.g., George and Ira Gershwin, Aaron Copland, etc…). Though these are all unquestionably some of my favorite recordings, they appear on this list only due to the powerful impact each had on me as a songwriter during a specific time in my life, and should in no way be regarded as the definitive list of my “favorite” albums per se (we are now in the disclaimer portion of the introduction); for example, though (again) a great album, I doubt Echo and the Bunnymen would have the same impact on me today as they did when I discovered them in 1985 when they blew away my Bangled-down, Whammed-out expectations of what pop music could do. Finally, this list is not in any order, chronological or otherwise – life’s too short and I’m far too monomaniacal…I will try (and probably fail) to not go back to edit this list in the coming days – I’m already regretting not putting “Violent Femmes”, “Dusty In Memphis”, and “Astral Weeks” on this list, not to mention that “Court and Spark” really may have hit me harder than “For the Roses”. In fact, don’t even bother reading the following:

1. Rickie Lee Jones – Pirates
2. Scott Walker – Scott 3
3. Laura Nyro – New York Tendaberry
4. Victoria Williams – Happy Come Home
5. Tom Waits – Swordfishtrombones
6. Stephen Sondheim – Pacific Overtures
7. Robin Holcomb – Robin Holcomb
8. Ray Charles – Modern Sounds In Country & Western Music
9. Randy Newman – Little Criminals
10. Paul Simon – Graceland
11. Palace Music – Lost Blues and Other Songs
12. Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On
13. Lullaby for the Working Class –Blanket Warm
14. Kate Bush – Hounds of Love
15. Kate & Anna McGarrigle – Kate & Anna McGarrigle
16. Bruce Springsteen – Greetings from Asbury Park
17. Judy Collins – Colors of the Day
18. Joni Mitchell – For the Roses
19. Gillian Welch – Time (The Revelator)
20. The Blue Nile – A Walk Across the Rooftops
21. Donald Fagan – The Nightfly
22. Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks – Last Train to Hicksville…The Home of Happy Feet
23. Adam Guettel – Floyd Collins
24. Joseph Canteloube – Chants d'Auvergne
25. Echo and the Bunnymen – Ocean Rain

Tall Steve had been carrying around that first beautiful verse from “Seven Angels” for many years.  I would often have him play it for me when we shared a room on tour, or before a show if I was feeling unsettled, and I in turn would sing it to my kids when the thunder outside got too loud, or the darkness too dark.  One night, during a particularly black storm, the one verse was not enough, and we started counting out the angels, and what sort of light each one was holding.  By daylight, the song was written.  Here it is (on our MySpace player), hot off the mixing reel, still unmastered – we hope you enjoy it…