Posting videos on social media feels like creating a fan base.

Buying another plugin for your DAW feels like getting better at mixing.

Playing the same song over and over (with the same mistakes) during practice time feels like getting better at your instrument.

Criticizing major artist’s work feels like developing your own artistic voice.

Complaining about the music industry feels like finding your artistic path despite the music industry.

Substitutes are fine for now and then, but eventually we want the real thing.

If you want a good hang, invite a bunch of fun, interesting people. Then insert a few oddballs.

If you want to play the blues, play a bunch of “right” notes, with a few “wrong” notes.

If you want to make a great recording, get the best musicians doing their best work. Then leave in a little tape hiss, a few mistakes, and some less than perfect gear (see: analog).

Too much of a good thing, is sometimes too much of a good thing.

. . .

A musician friend of mine was recently fired, without warning and for no fault of his own, from a gig with a high profile artist. We talked on the phone the day after. He was angry, but the conversation didn’t devolve into bashing the artist.

My friend said “I’m grateful for having been on the gig for two reasons. The first is I got to watch a master of their trade (the artist) perform every night. I learned so much about what to incorporate into my craft from how he did his craft.

I’m also grateful because I got to watch him treat people poorly, and run his business poorly, and see the consequences of that. Now I know what not to do when I run my own business.”

. . .

When we’re wronged, broken, ripped off, snubbed, and put down, we get to choose what we put between the broken pieces.

The producer needs to know she picked the right musicians.

The musicians need to know they’re good enough to do the job.

The label needs to know that the songs are worth spending all this money on.

If you can see what each person’s fear is, you can stop worrying about if you brought the right pedalboard. You can focus on delivering what the person hiring you actually needs to relax and do their best work.

We did several stage productions, but we also did street theater. Shakespearean improvisational street theater, no less.

If you want to force a highschooler out of their comfort zone, put them in a toga, drop them with a few friends in a public place, and tell them to interact with people for two hours in character.

. . .

I had a great session a few weeks ago with some A-list musicians. The night after the session, I got on each one of their instagram pages and messaged them.

I told them how much I enjoyed my time working with them, how much I looked up to them as musicians and how inspired I was by the way they did things.

As I started to press send on the first message, I almost deleted the message. It was too over-the-top, not the cool move, “too much”.

At least some of the guys were bound to roll their eyes when my message popped up in their DMs.

I pressed send anyway. Because I knew I was genuine, and I’m not responsible for what they read into it.

And once you’ve done crowd work in a toga with strangers, you just don’t care anymore about looking stupid.

You’re stuck because the best direction isn’t obvious.

Writer’s block = writer’s overload.

Good news: doing something, anything, always reveals the path forward.

When she finishes, we ask questions. “How much darkness do you want in this song?” “Is the song better served with a slightly slower speed?” “How washy do you want the chorus?”

Every person in the room has spent decades learning their craft. Most have produced dozens of artists. We’ve each brought tens of thousands of dollars of equipment to the studio. It’s hour #4, and we’ve blocked out a long 10 hour day to record just 3 songs together.

We decide on a musical direction together, go into the tracking room and run it a half dozen times. The producer comes in between takes, explaining little things to focus on, channeling us down the right path.

We all finally lock in musically and stay there for a whole pass. The band shuffles into the control room to listen back to the recording.

As the music fades out, a quiet comes over all of us. Something sacred and magical has happened in this musical moment, and we’re all aware of it. A few people slap each other’s backs, a few people hug. Four hours well spent.

. . .

The quickest/most efficient way to record a song is to pick any of the very capable producers in the room, sit down with a midi keyboard and a laptop, and knock out the song.

They play all the parts themselves (because usually if you’re genius level at one instrument, you’ll be passable on a couple other instruments), and you finish out a song in a day or less. It’s cost-effective, quick, and efficient (Or if you’re in a very big hurry and don’t mind something generic, fire up AI and generate a song with a prompt and humming a tune into your iPhone).

The second option (the one with lots of people in the room) is expensive, time consuming, difficult to coordinate.

It’s also the way to have the most fun, to make music in community, to bring the best from every person’s talent in the room.

It’s people working together to find the right musical path. It’s harmonizing humans and making thousands of real-time musical choices based on what every one else is doing.

It’s laughter, inside jokes, conflict resolved in good faith, grace, and communal working together toward a goal.

It’s extravagant, playful, serious.

It’s wonderfully inefficient.

It’s the practical art of making magic.

Say “We can definitely work with you on the price, no problem. What part of the work would you like me to not do?”

Usually one of two things happen:

1. They look at your proposal, find a few things they don’t particularly want or need, and cut it. You make less, but do less. You maintain the relationship with the client, and figure out how to pitch better to them in the future.

2. They look over your proposal, and think about how difficult most of the things on the list are going to be for them to do themselves. They keep it as is, with a renewed appreciation for your work.

-Makato Fujimura

. . .

I was in a band starting at the age 14 with a few friends a little older than me. We practiced in the basement, and even played about a dozen shows together at youth groups and parties. We thought we’d make it big. Listening back, we were pretty terrible.

But we learned a lot. We learned how to stand onstage for 30-45 minutes and be somewhat entertaining. We learned how to memorize music. We learned how a mixing board worked. We learned how to compromise on creative points. We learned what the cheapest food at gas stations were at 1 AM in the morning.

And we had so, so much fun.

Then I was in another band at 16. Same deal: learned more skills, thought we were going to be uber successful, and we weren’t. Still had a great time.

Same at 18. Same at 23. Same at 25. Same at 28.

Learned how to negotiate deals with venues, to program synthesizers. Learned how to unlock steering columns on vans when they locked up on tour. Figured out the best strategy for distracting drunks away from picking fights with bandmates. Learned tricks to create moments onstage that got the audience’s attention. Learned what the cheapest meal at Taco Bell is (it was a cheese roll up, with a side of grilled chicken that you folded into the cheese for a makeshift quesadilla that only cost $1.50 each).

Then I moved to Nashville and started playing with artists and bands that were already successful. Very different vibe: tour buses, rented rehearsal spaces, big crowds every night.

And again, I learned a lot. Learned how to communicate with a monitor engineer. Learned how to pick the right gigs. How to prepare music for an artist that has had hits for 20 years. Learned what audiences expect in a crowd of 10,000 versus 500. How to balance a family with the turbulence of working in the music industry. Learned what food to request for after the show, so I don’t get a stomach ache bouncing around the bunk on the tour bus.

. . .

Skills stack layer on layer for years. Not because I’m trying to strategically improve skills so I can get better gigs. But because I have a deep love for the music, and the people I am surrounded with while making the music.

And the wonderful privilege of getting to do something for a long time is having more and more tools to offer up in love when the moment is right.

If there’s several accomplices, and one villain gets double crossed by another, there’s a good chance everyone is going to take out everyone else by the end of the show.

The formula works, because we all understand that people tend to act in the future like they did in the past (and part of being a villain is sticking to your mindset, no matter who it hurts).

If an artist asks you to replace a current member of their band, without first letting the band member go, run from that gig. We’ve all seen enough films to know what comes next.

The second best time is 3-6 months ago.

If it’s the day before the gig, you’re either ready or you’re not. Cramming might help a little, but it’s unlikely.

Your time is probably better spent having you show up in the best mood.

Relaxed, receptive, and ready to have the best time, no matter what happens.

The best thing to do the day before the gig, might be figuring out strategy for preparing next time.

• If you say yes to something, do it 100%. Don’t justify not putting in the work because you don’t think you’re making enough money. If you can’t take the time to nail it, say no to the gig.

• You will get judged by how closely you follow what the usual guy does. Don’t try and reinvent the music unless the MD specifically tells you to get creative.

• The artist or band you’re subbing in with has spent decades getting to where they are. They deserve to have someone care as much about their music as they do.

• You won’t get everything perfectly locked the first time you sub in, so be open to criticism and ask what needs to be better the next time. Don’t pretend you nailed everything if you missed stuff.

• Swagger/confidence is key. Practice to the point where you can be outwardly confident onstage.

• Your reputation as a musician is judged based on what level you can show up to every gig with, not just your regular gig. If you are great with your usual artist or band but flounder every time you do anything else, people who can move your career forward will notice.

• If someone has hired you to play with them, you are already good enough and belong on that stage. Act/prepare accordingly.

Goal type #2 is about setting massive, seemingly unattainable goals that force us to change how we work. I want to be making 1 million a year by the end of the next 5 years. I want to be on tour with an A-list artist by X date. I want to own my own recording studio in the next 2 years.

Goal type #1 is useful for overcoming small challenges, teaching ourselves how to stick with something, and for building self esteem.

Goal type #2 is useful for changing how we fundamentally work and function. If we set a big goal that’s impossible to achieve doing what we currently do, we have to change what we do to achieve it. If the goal is attractive enough, we might just make the change.

Either goal type by itself is useful, but when you stack both together with consistency, some really amazing things are possible.

Acoustic resonance is when the soundboard in the piano sympathetically vibrates with a sound wave. Every piano resonates at a different frequency, based on the texture of the soundboard, the shape of the piano, and other factors.

An obvious parallel between humans and resonant pianos: each of us “vibrate” and respond to a different frequency. And the only way to find that frequency is to try out a lot of different pitches.

Maybe you played a gig over the weekend. Or maybe Monday is your first day home from a four day tour (a common pattern in Nashville). Or Monday is the start of your weekend because you don’t have a session until Wednesday.

As musicians, our schedules are always a little (or a lot) chaotic, but it also gives us flexibility to decide what we do, and when.

The problem with schedule is also the gift: we get to decide when Friday is. Just don’t make the mistake of deciding every day is a Monday.

There’s also perks like staying in 5 star hotels in Mexico, or flying to Hawaii for gigs that includes lots of paid time relaxing on the beach. It’s hard work, and a lot is expected musically and physically. But I feel very spoiled at a lot of the shows.

A friend asked how to get a gig like that. So here’s how to land a consistent spot (without having a current member step down, which is rare for obvious reasons):

• Find a small cover band that’s playing some weddings occasionally, who also has good management and a good band culture.

• Ride in a van and trailer around the country for about 6 years with all of them.

• Invest in each other’s lives to the point where you feel like you’re playing shows with your family.

• Help with load in and load out. Troubleshoot the sound system. Stay in kinda sub-par hotels. Deal with strange/difficult gigs for not a ton of money for a long, long time.

• Get lucky and have the leaders in the group start pursuing high end wedding and corporate work, and help build a team around that goal.

• Spend 4-5 years going through the stress and work of transitioning to luxury entertainment.

I never planned on joining a cover band. I did it because I needed money, something to fill the gaps in my touring schedule, and because I wanted to work with other amazing musicians. Along the way I’ve found some of my best friends and had some of the best musical experiences of my career.

The best time to join the right cover band (or any other band) is 10 years ago. The second best time is today.

Once all the wires were run and everything set, both of them sat down at the back of the control room on the couch.

One brought out a phone and started scrolling. The other quietly watched the entire time as we recorded. He stayed locked in for the entire 8 hour session, listening, proactively solving problems before they were problems, and watching the main engineer the whole time.

The other intern would pitch in when a need popped up, but was usually too distracted to see problems before they became problems.

No idea how either’s career will turn out, but I would lay money on who gets called back next time.

List #1:

• There’s no money in the arts

• I need a record label’s backing before I start making art

• I have too many obligations to devote the time to creating

• The tools/process is too expensive

• I don’t have the right connections

• I don’t have a good enough support system

List #2:

• I’m afraid I’m not going to be good enough

• I’m afraid I’ll fail

• I’m afraid when I finish what I make, no one will care

• I’m overwhelmed at starting something

• I’m not smart enough to do this

• I’m worried when I do my best work, I’ll find out I’m actually average

The second list is embarrassing to say aloud to colleagues (let alone ourselves). So we usually use list #1 to give ourselves reasons not to overcome the fears in list #2.

Mise en place is easy to miss when it’s done well, and painfully obvious when it’s done poorly or not at all.

Ironically, I figured out that I had this many chorus effect plugins while I was thinking about buying another chorus effect.

What I really needed wasn’t a new effect plugin. What I needed was someone to say “these are all the chorus effects out there, and this is what they sound like”.

Or even more helpful, having one plugin company create a product that has all of the more important chorus types available in one plugin. Then their pitch is easy. “Just buy this, and you never have to hunt through plugin lists for the right chorus ever again”.

If you make Art, your job is to be your own Curator to your audience. Responsible curation is what allows us to build a reputation, trust with an audience, and gives us the best shot at being remembered when someone needs what we make. Our pitch should be “If you’re looking for this specific feeling and this specific experience, that’s what you’ll always get with my art”.

And then we need to say it again and again for the rest of our careers.