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| Photo courtesy of Fabian Di Corcia |
It marks no surprise to family, friends, teachers or even enemies that I have chosen to pursue a career in music. As a kid, an early crop of red flags emerged as pigtailed performances as Baby Spice became a weekly meal of its own, to be served as an accompaniment to the roasted rack of lamb and garlic mashed potatoes of Sunday family dinner.
Further cause for concern was my elementary school pivot into the world of folk and country music. Family car rides became a stomping ground for the sparkle and shine of Shania Twain and the low rumble of James Taylor. I began to learn the fundamentals of classical music in the Toronto Children’s Chorus, and as such I developed lofty opinions on the likes of Bach and Beethoven.
Daily, I put my family’s patience in the hands of some of the best (and much of the worst) songwriting that this planet has paid host. The morning could begin with Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, but that does not mean that Green Day’s “American Idiot” was not going to be immediately queued up next.
I never gave much thought to the art of making a song. I had figured that they just sort of cropped up organically, like some sort of apple tree. At this point I had entered a specialized high school for gifted musicians. As a class, we travelled outside the city to a camp, getting to know each other and participating in team-building exercises.
Daily, I put my family’s patience in the hands of some of the best (and much of the worst) songwriting that this planet has paid host. The morning could begin with Aqua’s “Barbie Girl”, but that does not mean that Green Day’s “American Idiot” was not going to be immediately queued up next.
I never gave much thought to the art of making a song. I had figured that they just sort of cropped up organically, like some sort of apple tree. At this point I had entered a specialized high school for gifted musicians. As a class, we travelled outside the city to a camp, getting to know each other and participating in team-building exercises.
On the final evening we gathered around a stage, on which sat a baby grand piano, lit by the kind of spotlight so hot that it could cook an egg. I was eager to step on stage and sing any number of songs in my catalogue; the aforementioned James Taylor, Michael Bublé, or maybe a little Rihanna.
One by one, individuals took the stage, sat behind the piano bench and began to introduce themselves… and the song that they themselves had written. In that moment I felt something that I had never experienced; a soul searing jealousy, and an unshakeable admiration. Never, not once, not in my whole life had I thought about writing my own music.
I did not sing anything that night. I did not sing because in that moment I realized that I was no longer going to be singing “Sweet Baby James” or lip-syncing to the Spice Girls - I was going to make my own songs.
One by one, individuals took the stage, sat behind the piano bench and began to introduce themselves… and the song that they themselves had written. In that moment I felt something that I had never experienced; a soul searing jealousy, and an unshakeable admiration. Never, not once, not in my whole life had I thought about writing my own music.
I did not sing anything that night. I did not sing because in that moment I realized that I was no longer going to be singing “Sweet Baby James” or lip-syncing to the Spice Girls - I was going to make my own songs.
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