Ruminations on Attending a Songwriter's Retreat.

Terrifying, uncomfortable, and incredibly life-affirming.

During the week of October 14, I attended a songwriter’s retreat just north of Austin, Texas. The following recounts my thoughts, experiences, and encounters during the week.

1.

I’m a songwriter. 

I started as a guitar player, like most guitar players do, jamming on Zep and Hendrix and Cream. I listened to Neil Young first as a guitar player and then shifted to listening to Neil as a songwriter, which changed my life. Cinnamon Girl. Powderfinger. Cowgirl in the Sand. All guitar-driven rock songs, but first and foremost, damn great songs.

My entire method of playing rhythm guitar is because of Neil. I liked how Neil approached playing acoustic rhythm guitar, scraping the side of his strings with the side of a pick and using a chug chug motion. For me, it’s a technique that defines folk rock. 

My focus shifted from the rock of the 60s and 70s to the pop of the 80s—specifically Elvis Costello. I heard “What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace, Love and Understanding” and wanted to make something with that energy. (When I discovered Nick Lowe wrote that song, it became another inevitable binge-listen.) I wore out Costello’s My Aim is True and This Year’s Model and Get Happy. I wanted to write songs like the ones on those records. I would find out later that that is probably a fool’s errand. But I would eventually take bits and pieces of it and try to become my own person.

As Jean Luc Godard said, “It’s not where you steal things from, it’s where you take them to.”

My fascination with songwriting dovetailed into the 90s when I hit my stride, discovering what would become my most significant influences – Mike Viola, Michael Penn, Neil Finn, Adam Schlesinger, Aimee Mann, and Jon Brion. These writers are sometimes called “power pop,” but I prefer my term - “Esoteric Pop.” It’s a kind of music that fits a particular niche - -songs that are primarily guitar-driven and Beatles-influenced. with lyrics on specific topics and intricacies, at times personal, at times observational, that use pop music formula combined with a high level of production with a singular “songwriter as author” vision.

These people make pop music, but not necessarily for the masses. You write for yourself first in a lot of ways. Although if you write enough songs and hang out long enough, you may be lucky enough to find the masses (i.e., Neil Finn’s  “Don’t Dream It’s Over, or Fountains of Wayne’s “Stacy’s Mom,” or Aimee Mann’s “Save Me”). Mike Viola was famously the lead vocalist for the theme to the Tom Hanks movie, “That Thing You Do.” 

I’m unsure how many songs I’ve written. Most are demos on hard drives and songs on CDs I released. I also have a bunch of songs in music libraries that get me a tiny check from ASCAP every once in a while. I’ve spent time in recording studios with musicians much better than I, which is a great learning experience in and of itself. Every musician must spend time in a studio because it illuminates your strengths and weaknesses profoundly and soul-crushingly. Ultimately, the microscope of the studio makes you a better player, performer, and singer.

That brings me to today, as I sit at a retreat center in Belton, Texas, on a songwriters retreat. The retreat is run by Andrea Stolpe, an alum of the Berklee College of Music and writer of songs for known artists. She teaches songwriting, and my goal is to gain knowledge that will push me out of my routine and change my viewpoint on writing songs. We all get in creative ruts or routines; there is always room to try something different. Creative tunnel vision is real. So here I am in the boonies in Texas with 30 strangers who also hope to glean some kind of songwriting “aha” moment. 

Andrea is an accomplished songwriter with a lengthy resume and a proven track record penning songs for artists. During the retreat, she displayed an impressive command of melody and piano. She hosts these retreats all over the US and the UK. The reviews are pretty good. I’m not sure what compelled me to apply to join the retreat, but something was pushing me. I sent her three songs, answered a few questions, and got accepted shortly after that, with a nice note about a song I wrote called “Haunted Man” for a music library. Nervous excitement ensued, as you can imagine.

But now here I am - and I am way out of my element.

I am generally doubtful and judgmental of people. As I sat there on the first night and looked around, I thought I was in the wrong place. Are these people songwriters? Are they creative? Can they put two meaningful words together? There were people from all walks of life here - young, old, and everyone in between, male and female. There are also quite a few Martin guitars in attendance.

Most of my songs are good. Not great, but good. People take to my vision of a song, and I’m grateful for that. But part of being at a retreat is opening yourself up to new people and what their vision for a song should be, and I’m generally resistant to that; I like to think of myself as open-minded, and other times, I am not so sure. Everyone writes their way, and maybe part of this retreat is me embracing that and shedding the delusion that there is a better way or another way.

I Ubered out to the retreat center with a driver who I don’t think spoke English because for the hour or so ride, he hardly said a word, and when he did, it was garbled Spanish. I checked in, got to my room, and joined a reception in the main hall on the grounds. I’m doing lots of walking to different buildings so far, which is fine, except we’re in Texas, and I’m hoping a rattlesnake doesn’t fly out of a bush toward me in the dark. 

At the opening reception, we each introduced ourselves; there was a palpable “I have something to say musically; I’m just not sure if I’m doing it right or if I’m any good at it” vibe in the room. I could sense self-doubt and a general feeling of unease that I found comfort in. We were all feeling it, and once the cat was out of the bag that being here was weird and strange, and speaking in front of a bunch of songwriters about their songwriting was hopping into the jaws of fear, everything seemed to normalize. This reminds me of another quote:

“Weird together, weird no more.” 

More than a few people use songwriting as a tool to release emotion, gaining meaning from putting words and music together to create songs in a cathartic release. I may not be fond of that approach, but I can appreciate the candor and honesty I hear from people. It’s refreshing and shows a rare openness. 

There was a mix of songwriters and performers, singers, and former music school teachers at the retreat, and we all ate dinner together buffet style and got to know each other better. I sat with some of the younger people, and we talked about recording and equipment and all the things musicians and songwriters talk about that alienate 90% of the public. “What recording software do you use?” “How quickly do you get proficient at it?” “Would you rather use a real or virtual amp when recording guitars?” “I generally think I suck most of the time.”

After dinner, we returned to the reception center and split into two groups. One group stayed inside, and one went outside. I stayed inside as we all went around the room and played one song, which, for some, was quite relaxing, and for others, it was terrifying as hell. I played a song called “Hope & Joy” at an excellent reception and felt I would be okay here now that I had one song out there and off my chest. 

Around the room, I heard a myriad of songs – a handful of love songs, a song about how scents make you remember a place (a nice song idea), a song about how love is better on the radio (also a nice idea) and a train song that was done in a fingerpicking style that wasn't my cup of tea. Still, I was impressed by the conviction in which it was performed. 

It takes massive guts and balls of steel to sing anything in public, especially something you wrote. If you strip nude on stage, you’d get arrested for indecent exposure, but playing and singing is a whole different type of naked. It’s your entire world laid bare for all to see, opening you up to brutal judgment and intense criticism. We all think we are worse than we are, and self-criticism can wear you out. The knowing eyes of the crowd are a juggernaut to the ego. The ability to let it go and let it all hang out is a skill.

After I listened to everyone inside playing a song, I moved outside to hear the other group. A kid here is just out of high school and has a great voice. And he’s going for it with every song, giving everything he has, and it’s impressive. Singing is so hard; just letting yourself go and letting your lungs do all the work is impressive when you see it happen. Witnessing great talent is bittersweet because the music business is fickle, stupid, unrelentingly hard, and guarantees are nonexistent. Hopefully, he has the stamina because he has the chops.

Another guy here is doing a fantastic John Mayer-esque thing; he is really trying to find his own identity. I think he will - he also is giving it his all, and it’s refreshing.

If you wrote a song that means something to you, why not go for it?

Sitting here at this retreat, I realize that all we have is now. And if I sit on the sidelines and stay to myself, the experience won’t materialize into anything meaningful. So I will collaborate, talk to people, meet them where they are, and hopefully write a few good songs. 

Today, we start this process. Terrifying discomfort, here I come.

2.

Am I an asshole? Am I a well-adjusted, open-minded human being who is tolerant of others? Am I an impatient idiot without respect for other people's creative processes? Am I impossibly opinionated?

On day two of the songwriting retreat, my inner voice talked to me, asking me many questions I had half-hearted answers to. I’m here to try to open my mind to new ways of working and approaching songwriting, and after a day and a half, I feel like a few doors in my mind have creaked open.

Our leader, Andrea, is taking us through some songs in the morning session. “Forget About It” by Allison Krauss, “One Headlight” by The Wallflowers, and “Older” by Sasha Sloan (a great song I had not heard before). There are a few million ways to write a song, how to approach it, and how simple or sophisticated you want to make it. And these three songs were chosen from the most straightforward (Krauss) to the most lyrically driven and sophisticated (Sloan). The Wallflowers speaks to me the most, considering the verses' darkness and nuance and the chorus's singalong poppiness (Me and Cinderella …). I also really dig the unique feel of the hi-hat hitting the upbeats. 

Andrea goes around the room asking for reactions and opinions about the song examples and what makes a good song. Relatability finds its way near the top, and that a song needs to stir some emotion inside you and move you somehow, which I agree with. 

One of my favorite things ever said about music, and I am unsure of the source, is this – and I’m paraphrasing: There are two kinds of music: music that impresses and music that inspires. Most music is impressive, featuring a level of musicianship and sentiment that may or may not be your cup of tea stylistically but always has something you can pull from. Other music inspires - it makes you want to create something the highest level of music can achieve. I’m impressed by Taylor Swift, but she doesn’t inspire me. On the other hand, I am deeply inspired by Fiona Apple, who kicks my ass every day to write something great.

This is the first day of our collaboration, and at the end of Andrea’s session, she pares us down into teams of three to write a song together. I have collaborated a little with friends and colleagues but never with strangers. Considering my day job as a creative advertising director, I am comfortable with collaboration. I know how to manage ideation sessions and be an enabler that keeps the conversation flowing to find a solution.

Still, I’m terrified and excited to see what my team can concoct in three hours and then be ready to perform our song by 8 PM. 

I get teamed with two guys, Mark and Scott. Scott, I have been talking to you on and off all day. He bugged me a bit, talking nonstop, inserting his opinions willy-nilly during Andrea’s session, and looking at me and talking as if I should be listening to him. It’s OK, and I know for some people, talking brings comfort, and some do it instinctively to fill space. He seemed to be doing both. 

That said, his song ideas were good, and he has an excellent countrified vocal style that I would put in the camp of the Jayhawks, apropos, since he came from Minneapolis.

Mark is a sweet guy in his 60s whose genuine excitement and love for music made up for his limited array of talents. He’s from Iowa and lives in Houston. Growing up around a lake in Iowa, he seems to have lived a kind of wild life.

Sitting there, the doubts and insecurity hit me like an unending series of uppercuts. I wanted some bell to ring –  a bailout. But I collected myself and knew that I was here for a reason and had to fight through it – I paid my money and committed myself to grow as a songwriter and person. This was less like stepping outside my comfort zone and more like I was walking off a cliff. The last thing I wanted to do was write a song with these two guys. But I also need to acknowledge the challenge and embrace the moment, give them the same benefit of the doubt they gave me, and see what happens.

We sat in Mark’s room, and I asked him if he had any ideas for a song. He looked at me and said, “World’s Apart.” 

Mark’s a thoughtful guy, and he talked about how we see strangers all the time, on the streets, on buses, and in public, who we don’t know at all, that we tend to judge and keep our distance. We live so close but so many worlds apart in his mind. He considered it a song about tolerance and a willingness to learn and embrace our fellow man regardless of our differences. 

It was an idea worth chasing, so we ran with it. My goal here was to be a collaborator and impose myself only where I thought it felt natural. As I said, I have an advantage due to my professional life as a creative director in advertising - I’m used to navigating a creative process. 

Still, this was uncharted territory.

The next three hours were fraught with immense peril, extreme tension, tiny disagreements, and clashing of ideologies that were frankly exhausting. When you write songs with other people, you realize that everyone feels music differently and has a different vision for how a song should present itself and what an idea for a song is. 

The hardest part is writing the lyrics, which is crucial for me. I rarely start a song with music. I need an idea and likely the makings of at least the words for the first verse and a chorus. They could be half-baked, but there has to be something that is at least there to work with. I can pick up a guitar and put chord progressions together all day. But words - great, meaningful words - take a lot of work to come by. 

At some point, however, I had to come to terms with the inherent imperfections in the process, given our short time frame and limited experience together. We started around 2 PM and had the makings of a half-decent song by around 5:30. We plowed our way through it a few times, which was like running on an obstacle course. The words of the chorus went like this:

It don’t cost nothing

It dont cost nothin to feel

your money’s no good here

Were all cogs on a broken wheel

Comes a change of heart

Were living in the same world, worlds apart

I’m not sure where the line “comes a change of heart” came from, and to me, it makes no sense in there, but one of us thought it should be there, and I wasn’t going to fight it. I like the sentiment of the rest, so it’s a minor victory. Compromise. 

After dinner, we rehearsed it several times, and the show started at 8. The performances were a testament to the creative process – it works. And while the songs weren’t perfect, the results were uplifting. During the show, It was fun to hear what the different teams had come up with, and you could instantly detect the incredible range of talent levels that are at the retreat – from people who have a genuine love of music who struggle to play and sing to people who have immense natural talent and charisma. 

There are three or four people here who fit that bill. 

Harrison, a kid just out of high school, has a gift for melody and delivering a commanding vocal performance. He gives himself entirely to the song. He has the kind of talent that could go far. Then there is Sophia, a young girl from Ireland, complete with an Irish accent. Her voice and music fill the room with joy, and she sings like you hear amazing Irish singers do, with rare lilting melodies and vocal gymnastics. Thirdly is Jordan, who can play the shit out of a guitar and has a white soul sound to his voice that is captivating. He’s also a low-key, friendly guy who is extremely humble. Then there’s Ryley, who has immense energy and enthusiasm; her melodies match her personality. She is also giving everything she’s got.

When it was our time to go up and perform, I was freaking out inside. “It’s too late to turn back now,” pops into my head. We play our song, “World’s Apart,” and it comes off. Not the worst, not the greatest. It was a valiant and respectable first go for three guys who had never written a song together—a satisfying accomplishment.

After the show, the night ends with everyone breaking into two groups and sitting in a circle, taking turns playing our songs. I played a couple of mine and got some nice compliments. There is some exciting songwriting talent here; everyone plays their songs with conviction and honesty. They’re serious about their music, and it shows. 

On day two, we will team up with different people to collaborate. It’ll be interesting to see who I get.

3.

You notice unique things about people when you hang out with strangers long enough. Little things, tiny details that speak to a person’s personality subtly. A guy here wearing a hat with a UFO on it with the words “I know.” He wants the world to know that he believes in aliens. There is another guy here who told me he had done ayahuasca over 100 times. 

Andrea, our fearless leader, has a tattoo that says “Feel.” I wondered when she got that and what the circumstances were. I wonder what people notice about me and how I’m perceived, but that’s probably the wrong way to go about life - thinking about what other people think about you.

What is most revealing about everyone here is their songs. After hearing at least one song from everyone here, I have started to think about my songs and why I write. From visual and aural evidence, I am sensing that a lot of the people here write songs from an emotional and very personal place - they want to get something off their chest about something that happened to them or a state of the world they have observed that either elates or upsets them.

I realized after this revelation that I don’t write songs from a deeply emotional place. Most of my songs are merely observational. That's not to say I haven't written a personal song or two. But most of my songs are throwaway observations about life and love and the oddities and quirks of existence.

However, delving into deeper emotional territory is something I should attempt. I have many things regarding my emotional state and experiences that I could write about, and I should try. My fear about it is this: I sense a weird kind of pretentiousness that comes off of singing something emotionally serious, and most times, when people are performing a song like that, it has a “look at me; I have something serious to say here” vibe that is manufactured and cheap, filled with maudlin emotion which for me, is kind off-putting. However, Neil Young did it pretty well. Maybe there’s a nuance there that I need to understand better.

I would likely want to present my overly emotional statement by juxtaposing it with an unexpected groove or rhythm countering the sentiment, like a punk song about love at first sight. The trick to a personal song is to make it slightly tongue-in-cheek (at least for me). Consider how personal Sheryl Crow’s “If It Makes You Happy” is – you feel her longing for home and disdain for the road, and the song is dark – yet feels so powerful in its delivery. Or John Mayer’s “Your Body is a Wonderland,” a severe song about intimacy that is funny to me. Or Father John Misty’s “Pure Comedy,” a brilliant song about the state of the world presented in an over-the-top and bombastic style of balladry that is tongue in cheek. 

My songwriting life lives in metaphors, pop culture references, characters, and narratives around places, things, and experiences that make up my identity. I get that the world could be a better place, that everything changes, and that love conquers all, but I can only see that through the lens of something ridiculously specific, the details of which highlight a state of emotion or stage of life. I take it from a filmmaker’s perspective, telling broad stories through a tiny aperture. 

It turns out that I’m learning about songwriting and creative sentiment, but what I am also learning about is myself. And that’s progress.

On day three, I get paired with Sophia, a 20-something from Ireland. Her voice is gorgeous, the kind of voice with full-blown Irish inflections that money can’t buy. She’s also wearing a Blur Parklife t-shirt, which gives her extra points from me. The third team member is Colleen, who hails from Texas via Indiana. She is a singer in a cover band looking to find her voice - and her voice is fantastic. Great cover band vocalists are hard to come by, considering the range and flexibility you need, and she’s got it.

We gather together and try to find a spot where we can be secluded to get our heads together. On the grounds of the retreat center was a beautiful little chapel, and we went inside to an empty, sunlit space with gorgeous wood floors and stained glass windows. It was serene and inspiring.

Sophia had a chord progression for a song and a lyric idea or two, and we went with it. Given the space, we joked that we should try to write a hymn, and our song came out that way. A lilting tune in  ¾  about a couple’s chance encounter. Performing it in that church with its natural reverb was perfect. 

I liked the song; we played it to an excellent reception that night. The song wasn’t perfect. If only we had more time. 

It was striking how the two collaborations I participated in were markedly different; my mind was expanding to musical possibilities simply by the people I was working with. The strange, undetectable, and unspoken connection to the people I was performing with was palpable for those few minutes, and as the last chord of the song rings out, you make a knowing eye contact with your team that says, “We did it.” It’s an incredible feeling.

We split up that evening again into two groups and did another song circle, and I played a few new things I’ve been working on. The opportunity to play my songs for everyone is worth its weight in gold. A comedian has to work out their material in front of people, and musicians do too. You end up getting a lot of your questions answered. Is this working? Is this not working? Do I sound like crap? Is this chorus any good? Do people even understand what I’m saying? 

It’s the strange irony of the retreat; while Andrea is our leader, and her wisdom is valuable, the insight you garner from fellow attendees is just as valuable. 

I'm looking forward to Day 4, the last full day of the retreat, and I’m already starting to feel melancholy about it ending. However, it will feel great to go home. In due time.

4.

I feel like I’ve gone through a few portals. I’m filled with love and emotion. I have been a part of two separate songwriting collaborations with two decidedly different groups of people, all beautiful in their own way. Who will I get paired with today?

In many ways, the retreat is a big one that includes three mini-retreats. That’s because there’s an intimacy to collaborating with other songwriters. You learn a lot about people, how they think, where they came from, how they feel, and what makes them tick when you write with them. You discover their quirks and inclinations, their stylistic tendencies, and the inherent biases we all have regarding music. 

The collaborations at the retreat are done in the same way many cooking reality shows are staged - where you get a prompt, like “make a cake,” and a timer starts in which you have an allotted time to finish your cake. Then, when the time comes, you need to present your cake. 

In the morning session on day four, I was sitting next to a woman named Melody (she came from a musical family) who was sweet, kind, and warmhearted. I do not know Melody, and at one point, Andrea, our leader, asked the group to work with the person next to us on a song idea. So naturally, Melody turned to me, and we started talking.

You’re not sure where these conversations will go. Melody is a classically trained musician and vocalist who owned a music school in New Jersey with three locations until she sold them all because it was too much to handle. She has lived a musical life centered around reading and teaching music and had trouble “feeling” it. And here I am, thinking all I do is feel it - I can’t read music. I am not classically trained, although I consider Elvis Costello a classic and know his music inside and out.

Melody starts telling me about a performance in which, between songs, she began to introduce her band. She had gone through the members and began introducing the next song when one of the band members had to remind her that she forgot to introduce herself. 

A kind of light bulb went off in Melody’s mind at that moment; all the times in her life when she had forgotten herself. She told me how she feels like she is always in service to others and always puts herself second - and she knew instinctively that it was something she had to work on. It was a moment of beautiful honesty with a total stranger. Her candidness touched me, and she was comfortable to share this with me. 

I felt like I had to give her something, and I wasn’t sure how prepared I was. I paused. And then I launched into a song idea around my stepson and how my wife gave him up for adoption when she was 18 and has now been reunited with him. He has been a part of our family for almost 10 years now. He’s a fantastic guy. But there’s a bittersweet joy around reunions of birth mothers and their children; the media paints it as something of great relief - but the relief only lasts a short time until the hard questions of life come to the surface and the circumstances at which someone would give up a child for adoption need to be addressed. My wife thinks of her time with him as making up for lost time – and trying to mitigate the past to have a better and fuller future with him. It’s the kind of story that would make a great song, and I wrote on it a little bit that evening.

Another songwriting note: when you are talking to someone about something important, everything you say could be lyrics. It may not sound clever or exciting at the time, but if you say to someone, “I’m having a tough time right now,” that is a line worthy of being put to music. It may not be clever or unique, but it’s honest, and in music, that is all that matters.

The exchange between Melody and I was significant. We connected on a level most strangers failed to communicate on. For me, life rarely reaches this level of purity of emotion. 

The magic of a songwriting retreat lies in the courage to open yourself up to others - share ideas, bits and pieces of your life, and try to make sense of it through song. 

Day four was also when Andrea invited a special guest to the retreat. Darden Smith, an accomplished songwriter and artist from Austin, Texas, joined us. His presence filled the room the minute he entered it; tall with short grayish hair and black-framed glasses, he could command a room, tell stories, and offer anecdotes with enthusiasm and energy. Clearly, songs were his currency, and he emanated a tireless creative drive tinged with a refreshing perspective on life. “It’s only a song,” he said, reminding us that it’s essential not to take things too seriously yet still be serious about our work. 

Darden was loaded with wisdom. “Allow people to build their own movie around it,” he said about songs, reminding us that listeners will decide on a song’s intention. He was loaded with other nuggets:

“Being lost is beautiful,”  he said. “Be moved daily.” He also described something he calls “The creative retirement account.” while many focus on retirement financially, he reminded us that we are also saving up creative capital to pull from when the time comes that we need it. 

I pulled from my “creative retirement account” that afternoon when I was paired up for my last collaboration with Jordan, a gifted guitar player and singer, and Shannon, an enthusiastic and bright singer-songwriter trying to find her musical way in the world. Her and I bonded over our shared love of Courtney Barnett. 

We jammed outside behind one of the residence halls and decided to challenge ourselves by writing something that wasn’t simply chords and a melody with an expected structure. We decided on a few things: it was going to have a refrain, not a chorus; it was going to have an extended guitar solo; it was going to have a section that was in half time; and it was going to have an extended musical outro. We checked all those boxes and wrote a scathing song about an egotist who thinks he knows everything and his ignorance hinders his life. The song began:

You’re only interesting if you’re trying to be

Your words fill the air like a dead battery

No spark, no charge

It was called “We Know You Know Everything,” and our performance rocked. We were so proud of ourselves that we pulled something like that off in such a short time. 

The night's jam was spirited and exciting; it was our last night, and we enjoyed a few beers to cap it off. 

5.

On the morning of the last day, we all gathered around and sat in a circle, and Andrea asked us to say a little bit about what we learned and give her our reactions to the experience. Seeing how we each received something different from the retreat was special. There were tears, Kleenex, and hugs afterward. 

Jordan was friendly enough to give me a ride to Austin back to the airport, and I was returning home. As he drove away, I couldn’t help but think that I felt like I was bound to these people for life in some way or another. 

Now, let’s go write some songs.