In late summer of 2015, my partner Erin and I were traveling together in British Columbia. We met an older couple who let us camp out on their property for a few weeks, under an old apple tree, in exchange for help with some chores. One night, they invited us into the house for a potluck with their friends. There was home baked bread, kale salad from the garden, clams dug up the day before, apple pie. After dinner, I was invited to play a song for the group, so I went over to the little piano in the corner and did a straightforward rendition of “Stardust,” my favorite standard, a tune I’ve played hundreds of times.
I hadn’t exactly poured my heart out, so I was surprised when I returned to the table and saw one of the guests was in tears. “That,” she said, “was the closest thing I’ve experienced to my dad being alive again. He used to play all the old standards when I was a little girl. He sounded just like that.”
These kinds of small, beautiful moments come along every now and then. They are true gifts. They remind me of music’s power. It’s like life is telling me in those moments: “keep going, you are doing what you’re supposed to do.”
Other times, life puts up a stop sign. With the arrival of the Coronavirus, I went from a steady stream of 5-6 gigs a week to a wide open calendar. Shows and tours were cancelled. My professional momentum, and all my income, disappeared overnight.
I know I’m not alone here. This is a global disruption. Not just lost income, but panic, despair, existential dread. The shock and stress of being a healthcare worker or even a grocery store employee suddenly on the front lines of a pandemic. For too many, it’s the end of life’s road. For too many more, it is the loss of a dear friend, a parent, a partner, a sibling, a child, a neighbor, gone quickly and with no safe way to say goodbye.
My own situation is far from dire. I get to hang out at home with Erin and our housemates, work on creative projects, cook elaborate meals, and keep in touch with family and friends, all of whom, thank God, are healthy. So far. I am beyond blessed, and I’ve never felt that so keenly as I do now.
Still, this is an obstacle, and obstacles require creative thinking. In my case, that doesn’t just mean how am I going to make a living, but also, and more importantly, how am I going to do the work that I am meant to do? How am I going to share it with the world, when my usual way of doing is suddenly impossible?
Today, I’m taking a step in a new direction. I’m launching my Patreon page. Patreon is a service for independent creators to receive financial support from their fans, and to offer special access and content in return. If you have enjoyed my music, my writing, or anything I’ve made, and want to help me keep making it, and make it bigger and better, you can become a patron. All you have to do is go to my page and pledge a monthly amount. Some artists set different tiers: the more you give, the bigger the perks. But I only have one tier, and I’ve set the minimum at one dollar. I don’t want an inner circle. I want one big circle that always has an open space.
The money does help. It allows me to focus on the work I really want to do. But money is just one form of energy. By becoming a patron, you're saying you’re on my team, you’re a part of my community. You're saying you believe in what I do, and that it’s important. Which fuels me far more than money could.
I’m trying to see this crisis as an opportunity to take a bold step forward, to find more ways to share my work with the world. This has brought me to an important question: what is my work, exactly? And what do I want it to be? On the face of it, till now, it’s mostly been writing, arranging, recording, teaching, and performing music. Plus writing the occasional essay in the form of an e-mail newsletter or blog post. But I see it as potentially much more than that.
My job is finding ways to tap into music’s magic powers of connection, and to bring it to anyone who wants it, whether that’s live or online. Music is food and medicine for the soul. It inspires us to be our most joyful selves, and it permits us to feel our deepest sorrows.
Again and again I have been amazed by what music can do, and humbled to play a role in delivering that magic, like when the woman at the potluck got another moment with her dad, or when folks have come up to me after a show to say “I needed that today,” or when fellow musicians have told me they started playing more because they saw me following my dreams.
I want to keep listening to this voice that assures me that music is the gift that I have to give to the world. I believe there are all kinds of ways I can share my music and my writing that I haven’t tried or even thought of yet. I see this launch of my Patreon page as the beginning of an era of experimentation.
For starters, I’ve begun three new projects. The first two are playlists on my SoundCloud: one of daily piano improvisations, and the other of thematic musical material that I’m making in Logic Pro. This stuff that you can use however you want, whether you’re scoring a film, a podcast, or a video game, or you want a sample or foundation with which to make your own music. You could even use it as a soundtrack for yoga and meditation.
The third project is what you’re reading right now. Consider this the first installment in a series. (I’m releasing it in podcast and video form in addition to this post.) Every once in a while, I will post another installment, just like this.
I am offering all of these projects as part of the emerging online gift economy that artists are creating in response to our crisis. However, it’s important that patrons have special privileges. Early releases, ticket giveaways, little songs and videos created just for you, that kind of thing. To start with, if you become a patron, you’ll get to download my unreleased song, “The Lost Coast.” It’s about an unforgettable experience I had bike touring in Northern California in 2018. I recorded it last fall at Robert Lang Studios with my band.
There is so much more I want to say. But it will have to wait until next time. For now, I want you to know: I’m here, I’m sending love, and I’m wishing you health and peace during these strange and turbulent times.
We are in this together.