Not Knowing and Going

I am back from my annual songwriting retreat, having been sequestered from Sunday August 9 until Thursday August 13, mid-day.

This is something I do every August, but it is a self-organized solo situation.

I'd been told a story 20 years ago, about Irving Berlin, and how it was that he wrote the famous

"White Christmas" when stuck in a stuffy hotel room in Palm Springs.

I can understand fully why Irving would be dreaming of a White Christmas, especially as he probably didn't have the air conditioning that we take for granted now.

I knew nothing of The Korakia Pensione, save that kitchens were available and privacy possible.

Composed of 28 "suites" The Korakia dates back to the 1920s, when a Scottish painter, returning from Morocco, designed the cottages to be a retreat for traveling artists who wanted both space and hang time. It's said that his friends Errol Flynn and Lionel Barrymore were among the guests!

This is the sort of vibe I seek. I have no desire to converse, or soak in pools with other vacationers.

Though the first night is a bit spooky, I seek silence, a guitar, a table and naught else.

Historic places are not quiet, if you can manage to find your own stillness. There are many voices.

It's been my experience that voices speak, and once they begin, they will continue to reveal, until they decided you have had enough.

And so, having no idea what I would write about, I sat.

Words did come.

Puzzling through them, I wrote, and discovered, as words hit the paper.

If you are thinking this is a strange process, I would agree.

My first song happened about 7pm Sunday evening.

I don't want to reveal lyrics here just yet, but the gist of the song was pretty clear.

What if we meet someone and feel a closeness instantly? Could we feel as though we had met before?

On Night One, I knew I was headed into a mystical zone. The music wasn't sad, but it felt musty , old, like yellowed paper. A nostalgia for a time barely remembered but felt.

Could empathy be simply a revisiting of a prior time and love?

I lay in bed with this tune running over and over and over in my mind, but woke at 1am to write more.

Words came, and I couldn't wait to capture them.

Again I had no idea what I was writing about.

And so the next three days flowed in this manner. I had no plan and no structure.

I didn't even know what genre I was writing inside.

It wasn't until I had completed ten songs in three and a half days that I knew I had veered into a folk riddled world. All of my singing voices, recorded, sounded ancient, high-pitched, like voices you'd hear on an old victrola, with a slight tremolo

I feel in listening to what I recorded that I was singing from another time.

The question still remains: will any of this music be recorded? Is it so weird and unpop-like that it would have few listeners?

And if it doesn't feel like modern music, is it worth recording at all?

Where did this music come from?

Detuned guitars. Slow ballads that feel like Emmie Lou Harris. Or Blossom Dearie?

Just last year, I was writing for electric guitars, with high energy and passion, burning off my grief over the loss of my own dear Henry James.

This year, I felt to have entered into a world of the 1920s. Prayers and secrets and vows, and reincarnation.

Did the place bring out this music?

This week I will record what I wrote, properly, in my studio.

This is part of my process.

I think I must have 20 albums, ten songs each, albums I have never recorded, or performed.

The rituals of going into the desert and writing, however, matter even more than the possible outcome.

Not knowing, just going, reminds me of being a kid and talking to trees. They did speak to me then.

And because of this retreat, I can say they still do.

It's just a matter of listening. They have stuff to say.