Wednesday, May 4, 2016

The Meet-and-Greet Fail

My Fragile Ego: Meet-and-Greet Fail with Gloria Steinem

Gloria Steinem had me at “I Was a Playboy Bunny.” She was real. She was funny. She was smart and pretty. By the way, her book was called Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions, and was presumably a book about feminism, but that didn’t matter much to me. I was an impressionable 14 year old, eager for gals I could idolize and idealize. I was in eighth grade.

Annoyingly, I started incorporating her ideas into my English papers at school. Didn’t much matter what the paper was about; I was determined to prove to my teachers that I was an original thinker (and by original, it seems that meant transmuting 1980’s Gloria Steinem ideas into an analysis of Tess of the D’Urbervilles).

When I was a senior in high school, Steinem released Revolution from Within: A Book of Self-Esteem. My spring term papers were thus loaded heavily with arguments from this well. My teacher at St. Christopher’s School saw right through the charade, and he asserted, impatiently, “So…if we all just feel good about ourselves, we’ll all succeed?”

When I landed in Ann Arbor freshman year, I didn’t know a single one of the 30,000 undergrads at University of Michigan. I introduced myself to a gal I recognized from orientation. Dana. Turns out she was from Toledo. “Toledo!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “That’s where Gloria Steinem is from!” She gave me a blank look and asked, “Who?”

Dana became my best friend. I dragged her, and several other freshmen women from our dorm, to the Michigan Theater when Gloria Steinem came to speak. I was excited to hear my idol in person, and I couldn’t believe my good luck when she announced that she’d be signing books after the presentation. We freshmen stood in line, edging closer in anticipation.

Finally, it was our turn. I shook Steinem’s hand and blurted, “I have read all of your books, I’ve admired your work for so many years, thank you so much for coming to Ann Arbor, blah, blah blah….” I ended the worshipful monologue with, “This is my best friend Dana, and she is also from Toledo!” Steinem barely glanced at me, turned to Dana and said “Wow! You’re from Toledo! That’s fantastic—it’s really great to meet you, Dana. What are you majoring in? Why are you here?” And so on. I stood there, the bump on the log, while Gloria and Dana had their moment.

Later, Dana and I laughed about the encounter. I made fun of myself for being the over-zealot. She laughed about her innocence (she’d actually never read a Steinem book, nor was she actually all that interested in Steinem—she’d attended the presentation to spend time with me).

But I never read another Gloria Steinem book again. And I lost touch with her work and her ideas. Not intentionally—not like, “Ha, I’ll show HER for ignoring me”—more like, a vague, unintentional disconnection took place over time. If I’d actually thought about it, it might’ve sounded something like this: “I’ve lost that special inner connection I thought I had with her. I thought her ideas were special to me, but I am not even connected enough for a brief, meaningful hello with her.”

Years later, I’m now a touring folk musician. In bluegrass, I’ve been through plenty of meet-and-greets. We call it the “Shake and Howdy” portion of the show. We wait in line to talk to bluegrass artists, and we have our moment—get the album signed, get the picture taken. I’ve been touring for a long enough to understand that it’s part of the show. Or, less euphemistically, it’s part of the…job.

That sounds awful, doesn’t it? But some audience members seem to intuit this, and they give a quick spiel about how much they’ve enjoyed your work, or why they felt connected with a certain song. It really is a wonderful part of the gig—to meet people who’ve connected with your work. But if you’re at the level of someone like Gloria Steinem—a generational feminist icon—how on earth can you patiently trudge through all of the many self-respecting admirers, enthusiasts, casual attendees, and/or insecure over-zealots as each night’s meet-and-greet goes on, and on, and on, and on?

It was probably refreshing to meet good ol’ Dana, the pretty Toledo freshman who had never heard of Gloria Steinem a few months ago.

But, in your fatigue, is it okay to unintentionally alienate a true and honest young fan—someone who has waded through all of your literature and dragged a horde of innocent young bystanders (and potential fans) to the show, besides?

So this brings me to my proposition. There needs to be a “Fragile Ego” line at meet-and-greets. You are allowed to stand in this line if you have met these requirements: A) You have read all of the presenter’s works/ listened to all of their albums. B) You have studied these works with great intensity, fervor, and passion, and you have attempted to assimilate them into your own work or daily life. C) This meeting holds great importance to your self-worth, for you have wrapped up a great deal of your self-acceptance in how well you’ve assimilated that person’s work.

From a business perspective: good call, right? Who wants to alienate her die-hard fans--the ones who go great lengths to champion your work and spread your virtues? But…how was Gloria to know that she’d alienate me by blowing me off? I was one of thousands of handshakes on a long book tour. From my naive perspective, though, I didn’t realize that I was that unimportant to her.

For true fans, it’s not business. It’s passion, ideas, and connection.

I mentioned my Fragile Ego Line idea to a music biz friend the other day. Her face lit up in recognition, and she said, “Yeah! You mean those people who come up to criticize you after the show?” I said, “Oh, no, actually; my line is for the opposite problem. But, very good point. There needs to be a different Fragile Ego line for those people!”

Those people can be in Line C, for criticism. They’ll come after ‘normal’ people and the other innocent ‘fragile ego’ die-hard fans, and the artist can then run away to the green room before Line C gets their turn on the platform.  Problem solved?

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Creativity & Connection. Thoughts about Allen Ginsberg & Elizabeth Gilbert's...Music

Great Literary Minds: Music and Connecting

Last week, I walked on a downtown Nashville sidewalk alongside Eat, Pray, Love author Elizabeth Gilbert. Well, me and about 487 other people, mostly women. We were walking to Hume Fogg High School, and we all wanted to hear what Ms. Gilbert had to say about creativity. Indeed, she’s a self-proclaimed expert: she is the author of Eat, Pray, Love, which was on the New York Times bestseller list for 3 years, and now she has written a book about creativity called Big Magic.

She’s a tremendously intelligent and humorous woman, and I laughed through her feel-good, conversational book talk. After all, I attended the program only because I wanted to hear her thoughts on creativity: where it comes from, what inspires it, what to do with it, and so on.

So at the end of the program, when she told the audience that she wouldn’t be able to meet and greet after her talk—I didn’t think twice about it. I’d had my fill, and I’d learned quite a lot. But she then told the audience that “music is the greatest connector” and she’d like to have a sing-along. So with her arms around the shoulders of her awkward-looking literary compatriots Jane Hamilton and Ann Pachett, she led a darkly alto version of John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads.”

The audience obeyed (she had asked everyone to look at the lyrics on their devices, so many folks were hiding behind their screens), and we all stood up and humored Elizabeth. Some folks got into it. Some folks just mumbled, embarrassed.

Was Gilbert trying to manufacture a “moment” with us? And was she doing it for herself (because she felt that we’d hate her for not doing a meet-and-greet)? Was she doing it for us? And…why did I even care?

Well, the moment struck a chord with me. It took me back, some twenty years, to an Allen Ginsberg performance I’d attended as a Birkenstock & bell-bottom clad, wide-eyed university student in Ann Arbor. I was a music and literature major, and along with my hippie, folkie, rootsy, band-mates (who were also literature majors), I would never have passed up the opportunity to see the great Beat poet.

The anticipation was magical; after all, I was part of a generation that worshipped the previous generation of literary and artistic greats. They’d broken down barriers with their anti-establishment views, and helped to bring Eastern consciousness to the West, and seemed to personify the ideals of what Woodstock symbolized. And so much more.

So when Ginsberg got on stage, and put on a musical…errr…concert of his poetry; well, let’s just say it was disappointing. Of course my respect for his literary accomplishments was not diminished, but my confusion about this choice of expression went something like this:

1) Wow. This guy really cannot sing and play in tune or in time. This is painful to listen to. And it’s so distracting that I’m not paying attention to his literary work, which is what I came to hear. My connection with his art is lost.

2) Ginsberg wants to connect with us. Perhaps he thinks that reading his works of poetry will be too limited and stagnant, or maybe that we won’t assimilate the works if they are read.

3) Ginsberg wants to have fun with this. He’s a genius and he can do whatever he wants. Music is fun, and the emotions it conveys are universal.

As I watched other audiences members (and especially my own bandmates) squirm uncomfortably in their seats while Ginsberg sang his poetry, my teenage mind came to some important realizations that evening. I was struggling with my own artistic direction and expression at the time. I was considering pursuing a career in creative writing, and was entering fiction contests. I was in a gigging band, majoring in music, and writing songs. I spent my summers at the School of Art studying life drawing and oil painting (and briefly considered switching my major to Fine Arts). I wanted to express myself, obviously, but you can’t jump from every window at once, right? You have to pick one.

That evening was a fine illustration of the power of music. Creators want to connect emotions and ideas with others. Here was a master of words and ideas; yet Ginsberg chose music to convey those powerful ideas. But why couldn’t his work speak for itself?

Both Gilbert and Ginsberg developed high-level, original creative ideas over time. I was willing to pay to sit there to listen to and assimilate their ideas, because they had value to me. Therefore it was confounding, and almost a bit condescending, that they presumably assumed that their audience came for a dog and pony show and thus they decided to water down their ideas with music that wasn’t up to the standards of their mastered art form.

So, bringing it back to Gilbert’s sing-along. Did we need that? Not at all—I think we’d have all been happy campers without the sing-along. Gilbert has a great mind: her novel Signature of All Things should have won the Pulitzer last year. Did Gilbert feel that she needed the music to make her presentation more connective, more potent, more like a “moment?” Or, maybe she just thought it would be fun.

As Gilbert says about the great paradox of creativity—it is so important that it means everything. And it is also so unnecessary that it means nothing at all.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Cute Office Assistant for Hire

Cute Office Assistant for Hire

My office assistant has "resigned" from her job, and I'm helping her to find a new place of work.

2012: Vocal Tracking on Daughters of Bluegrass Pick It Like a Girl (at 5 weeks old)
2012: Mixing Assistant on Rebecca Frazier When We Fall
2013: Vocal Coaching/Guitar Tech for Rebecca Frazier
2013: Efficiency Expert for Rebecca Frazier

Her salary started at $15/hour, but I told her that due to her recent decline in productivity, she may have to work for a little less than that. 

Actually, let me be a little more honest. If you are to go into business with her, you should know a few things:

-When I asked her to change my strings, she drooled on them and made a mess
-Rather than coaching my guitar practice as in the past, she began pulling on my leg and eventually knocked my metronome off the desk.
-She ate leaves off of my office plants.
-She continually risks her life for no apparent reason (for ex., crawling to the top of the stairs)
-She does not watch calmly while I e-mail, as in the past. She finds e-mail very annoying, actually.

That said, I'd be willing to let her go for a discount: $10/hour.

String Arranging
Working knowledge of Nashville Number System
Singing the Alphabet Song

Still reading? OK. I realize the market is flooded with Resumes right now. I will actually offer to pay YOU if you are able to work with her for a few hours a day. 

Smiles guaranteed. :-) 

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Passing Through a Portal: Baby is One

This week was a big milestone for my daughter. She turned one.

Since 2007, I have focused almost solely on babies. I have popped prenatal vitamins, fought insurance companies to get maternal coverage, renovated an old home to prepare for babies, and been pregnant three times.

I was pregnant in 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, and 2012.

I have been pregnant or nursing since July, 2008: almost five years now.

After giving birth to Jack in 2009, I remember the constant nagging question: "Will I give him a sibling?" After finally deciding "Yes!" and getting pregnant again when Jack was 14 months, we lost baby Charlie in 2010. We were pregnant with Cora six months later in 2011.

My days since 2008 have always been: "Baby, baby, baby!" Nursing, pumping, lullabies, cribs, first words, bloated pregnant belly, diapers.

But here's the difference this week. I look into the future differently now. I'm not wondering, "Am I going to get pregnant next month?" or, "I can't really plan next year, because I might be giving birth at that time." or, "Am I going to be too overwhelmed with a new baby to do that activity/gig/event next July?"

My baby has turned one. I gave away my maternity clothes to Bryn and Sisky. They aren't stored away in some "maybe next year" land in the attic.

The portal is mental. It has been a truly amazing journey to succumb to God's plans for my body, my family, and my children's births. It has been a lesson in gratitude, patience, and humility.

As Cora turns one, I cling to each baby day. It's such a bittersweet transition. She's starting to walk; she says "Achoo!" and grins when I sneeze. I'm aware that I will no longer have a baby, soon. I will no longer be planning to have a baby. Babies will be out of the picture. And I love babies. So I'm sad. But part of me is also grateful for the possibility to make plans. I've put in a good six years of not making plans.

Happy Birthday, C-Biscuit.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Lonely Newborn Days

Newborn Jack, April 2009

Newborn Cora, February 2012

A new mama e-mailed me today. She's a wonderful musician, and like me, she's also married to a touring musician. She said that of course she was thrilled with her new baby, but she finds she is lonely and that this new life is quite an identity change.

It's funny. In my mind, I've rewritten my motherhood. I remember mostly the great parts. When I remember having my first newborn, I think about sitting in the glider, nursing and singing lullabies. I think about snuggling with the baby. I think about dressing him up and taking pictures. I think about flying to Telluride and enjoying the music and mountains, while Jack was snuggled up against me in the sling.

But my friend's e-mail brought back old feelings. I remember feeling lonely, because my husband was on tour for six weeks when Jack was six weeks old. I remember going on long walks, feeling a little awkward in my bloated post-partum body. I remember the feeling that I couldn't "do anything," because I was new at being a mom--I didn't realize that newborns are actually the most flexible species, and you can go everywhere with them!

I especially remember feeling like my "life was over." Not in a bad way, but a different way. Musicians get used to a very social lifestyle. You play music onstage with your band; you hang out with promoters and fans after the show; then you have the camaraderie of your band while you travel. At home, you go to picking parties and hang out with music friends at shows.

Becoming a new mom is a drastic change. I was alone in the house, responsible for a small being who couldn't even smile at me. He kept me up throughout the night; he stayed up late and woke up early. The funny part, as I look back...I wish I'd known then what I know now. Newborns are EASY compared to 2 year olds.

Luckily I used that realization to my advantage when I had Cora. I took her everywhere. I played guitar constantly, letting her enjoy her toys and practice trying to roll over and crawl. I considered her "easy." And she was.

People say, "Little babies, little problems." So now, I have friends saying, "You won't believe the headaches that teenagers put you through. Enjoy this phase now, while you can." Wait--really? I thought this was the hard part. A baby and a 3 year old. You mean it gets harder?

I guess I'll need to take my own advice here. I tell people to consider newborns "easy," because it just gets harder when the baby becomes a toddler. (They don't believe me). Now, I need to convince myself that a baby and a 3 year old is "easy." Wish me luck.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Phoning It In

Mommy & Daddy on the Guest List

Ugly Mugg's--the East Nashville hang (for hipsters and moms alike)

I first heard Fraz use the term "phoning it in" when he'd been on out on the road. He was using it to talk about musicians "phoning it in;" that is, not necessarily "trying that hard" when they're on stage. Maybe using a bit of auto pilot combined with muscle memory. Every musician needs to do this from time to time; Tony Rice even  talks about it in his memoir, Still Inside.

It got me to thinking about how we mothers need to phone it in sometimes. Friday night, John and I were invited to a concert by some friends who were performing. We had VIP all access passes and were able to enjoy the show from a private balcony. My friend Cassie was babysitting, and John and I were enjoying a rare evening out together. That night, we got to bed around 1 am.

In the old days, we'd have just slept in on Saturday. No big deal. But Cora's morning alarm clock goes off between 4:30 and 6 am. It's non-negotiable. She wakes up, and she's up. Then Jack is up between 6:30 and 7 am.

How do you take care of two tiny kids on 3 or 4 hours sleep? You have to phone it in.

The most important thing a mother can do is to keep her kids alive. Period. That said, I try to avoid driving very far on days like that. I don't know the stats, but I do know that fatigue is a major cause for car accidents. It makes complete sense. For entertainment, I strapped Cora in the Bjorn and walked with Jack and a neighbor to Ugly Muggs for hot chocolate.

Secondly, I drink way too much coffee. It seems the only way I can get through days like that. Napping is out of the question. The children rarely sleep at the same time, and if they are asleep at the same time, it only lasts about 30 minutes.

And please feel free to judge me, but sometimes on "phone it in" days, I rely on movies a little more than usual. I realize that all children are different; I've been around laid-back 3 year olds. Their mothers smugly tell me that their 3 year old is not allowed to watch movies and TV. I ask them to spend a day with the most high-energy 3 year old possible--even Jack's dentist said it: Wow, you've got your hands full. Isn't my sanity worth something, here? Also, my daughter's life is at stake. What if I need to hop in the shower--do I really need my son to be kicking her on the head while I'm hopelessly watching from the shower?

Another coping mechanism: I have to fight the urge to be lazy about the kids' schedule on "phone it in" days. It's hard to fight the fight and enforce the rules of lunchtime, naptime, bathtime, tooth-brush time, bedtime, etc. Fatigue takes over, and the schedule can become overwhelming. But if I don't stick to the schedule, the kids can go to nap or bed late; this makes the situation even worse. Then you've got over-tired kids and over-tired mommy. That's a recipe for disaster, big-time. So on "phone it in" days, I have to be extra vigilant to strive for an on-time bedtime for the kids, and an early bedtime for me.

Thanks for reading, moms. I know that some of you can relate.

Saturday, January 5, 2013


Telluride 2012, Andy Thorn, Jake Joliff, John Frazier, Bridget Kearney, Shad Cobb, Jeff Autry, Rebecca Frazier

I recently played a set with John Frazier & Friends at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. After we played, a pregnant mother of a 2 year old approached me and asked, "How are you able to play guitar with a baby and a 3 year old?"

It turned out she had traveled to the festival as a finalist in the Troubadour Competition. She explained that she wanted to improve her guitar skills, but she wasn't sure how, and she couldn't find the time. We chatted briefly about some improvement techniques and about how a mother can fit guitar practice into her busy day.

This got me to thinking about chops.


How to get them. 

How to find the time to get them. 

How to  make the time to get them.

What they truly mean to a musician.

How they apply to life in all aspects.

How they affect our self worth as musicians and as people and in social and professional settings. 

How they create pressure, or not. 

How a young person can get wrapped up in acquiring them, and maybe lose perspective about the big picture (of music and of life)

When I was 20, I saw a beautiful blonde woman playing excellent banjo with a regional bluegrass band. I was floored. I approached her after the show. She was busy chasing a 2 year old. I asked her, "How do you play like that?" She barely had time to talk to me, and it was obvious her banjo skills were the last thing on her mind. This made me think she was even cooler--here she could play with such dexterity, but she didn't even care? She said, "I worked on it when I was younger, and now I'm too busy to play much anymore."

I was mystified. It would take me years to understand how to apply practice techniques that would improve my own "chops." I was one of the many young musicians who had grown up playing classical, pop, and folk, and therefore learned other people's arrangements from sheet music or recordings. I certainly didn't feel like a musician. While I was doing a decent job rendering other people's songs and arrangements--and even playing in bands that created original music--I felt compelled to learn how to "create" music. 

I was a music major at the time. Did this mean I was writing and arranging my own music? No. Did it mean I knew how to get "inside" a tune? That I could improvise? Not really. I was certainly learning a lot, with my 3.9 GPA in Music Theory, creating SATB Bach-style arrangements. But I wasn't learning how to play in bands. I had the task of figuring out, on my own, how to acquire chops. 

Chops are enigmatic, though. First of all, you have to think they really matter if you are going to invest the time to acquire them. There are many other things to do in a day. When you're not in the habit of sitting down with the guitar for a couple hours, every single day, it can seem like a huge time drain, and--let's face it--a bit frivolous. There are a million reasons why you shouldn't practice. You need to work, work out, get your hair cut, study for an exam, pay bills, walk the dog, shop for a birthday present....the list goes on and on. And there are the people around you--your roommates or your parents  or your kids might think you aren't being productive while you practice, and you don't want to be judged. It's better to be seen mowing the lawn, after all. What does personal practice time really "contribute" to the world?

It's a decision one needs to make. A person needs to feel that acquiring musicianship really matters. Only then can she spend the time necessary to improve. And once she sees results, the commitment to playing music becomes a happy addiction. It's a force of habit. It's exciting but sometimes monotonous. It feels weird to miss a day. It takes a bit of an addictive personality. 

Where does the time come from? When you are compelled to do something, you make the time. Our band's original banjo player, Aaron, would wake up at 6 am to practice before heading to his college classes. I have friends who have quit their day jobs and cashed in their retirement savings, just to allow for a year or two to practice. Once I graduated, I took a job as a waitress so I could work at night and play guitar all day. I also gigged at night.

I still think it takes a bit of an obsessive personality to spend so much time picking the guitar. In my twenties, I didn't want to spend the time to shop for clothes or shoes. And at one point, I stopped doing hair appointments, presumably to save time. I slept on a mattress on the floor of a couple basements. More than a few times, I never figured out my next place to live until my lease expired; this landed me on a friend's couch or floor quite often. I never minded; I'd play guitar in the park (alone or with friends) for six hours and then shower at the gym before returning at midnight to my couch-surfing quarters. When I look at photos from those days, I see a person in worn-down shoes, clothes that are ten years old, and shaggy, mud-brown hair. (The next time you see a shaggy-looking musician, consider that they aren't even aware of their ridiculous appearance. I thought I looked good during those days. And there I was onstage at the Boulder Theater in a jean skirt from middle school and water-stained clogs that needed to be thrown away)

This brings me to the next topic: what do chops mean to a musician? To someone who is obsessed, they need to mean everything. Chops need to really matter. Only later in life did I step back and say, "Oh, it doesn't really matter that I'm not great at guitar." I may have tied up my self-worth in my guitar chops. 

Yes, you do need to care about it in order to make the time to do it; you have to think it matters. But at the same time, you have to realize that it doesn't matter at all. Nobody else cares how good or bad you are, unless you are so ridiculously good that it reaches a high-frequency pitch of virtuosity.

But even the masters have to learn how to separate their musicianship from their feelings of self-worth.  It's a struggle for them, I'm sure. If you're that obsessed with obtaining and maintaining technical mastery, it would be difficult to be married and take care of children. It would be difficult to have friends and to show up for the hospital when a friend is ill, or bring food to a friend when she has a baby. 

Chops. Some people remain on a lifelong quest to acquire chops; some people acquire chops for a few years and then let it slide. Just like anything, chops require maintenance. I was a little annoyed when I first realized this. I learned how to speak German as a teenage exchange student. I thought I would always speak fluently, but the skill faded away with lack of upkeep. If someone tries to converse in German with me, some of it comes back awkwardly, in bits and pieces, as if from a dream long ago. So it goes with music. If you don't play for a while, you don't necessarily lose everything you've acquired; but you do need to work a lot harder just to get back to where you were. And so it is with everything in life. You learn how to do Calculus in high school. You acquire skills to take care of a newborn. You gain a personal level of mastery, and then you may let it slide, either because you don't need it, or you don't deem it important enough to maintain. Sometimes with music, people get burnt out and lose motivation and need a break. Or they are consumed by work and family, and they can't realistically fit the music in.

Since moving to Nashville, I've learned a lot from masters here. I suppose I assumed that they'd reached a level of mastery that was untouchable. Even their own lack of upkeep would never effect their virtuosity. They were all set, and the rest of us peons needed to keep on practicing just for the privilege of eating their dust. But when I got to know some of them, I realized that they weren't able to take their own mastery for granted. If they weren't playing sessions all day and/or gigging all the time, their chops would get rusty, too. They'd need to practice to get back to the technical level for which they were known. Some of them are players as well as engineers; so when they are engineering a record, they might not be able to play for a month or two. 

Really, what did I expect? Does an athlete train for a marathon, and then maintain that level of fitness with zero upkeep? But realizing that even my heroes had to work to maintain their chops really helped me. Because there was no ego involved. For them, it was almost like cleaning their houses: "I need to do laundry. I need to get my chops back up for that upcoming session. I gotta grocery shop and go to the bank."

The pressure is off for a lot of these people, I saw. They already know how to be virtuosic, but sometimes they have to let it slide. But they know they can get there again. So maybe that's why young people put so much pressure on themselves regarding chops. They really don't know if they'll ever get there. So if they care enough to want technical mastery, they need to go to extreme measures to get it, including tying it up with their egos. 

It appears that the moral of my story is that chops really don't matter. I'm not saying that at all. First of all, chops matter as much as you think they do. They are of relative importance, both to the player and audience members. Second, music is all about feeling. Chops aren't crucial to creating feeling from music, but chops can be inspiring and thrilling and exciting for those who witness the spectacle. And third, one who has acquired chops might be a little better equipped to relate feeling in his music, since he has invested so much time and has so much experience. That said, would you rather listen to a voice coach who has invested 30 years perfecting his vocal technique, or to Neil Young singing one of his poignant self-penned songs?

Late one night in college, trying to study, I couldn't help but stare at these words that were scratched onto a desk at the Law Library at the University of Michigan: 

"Moderation in all things." 

Some wise-ass had scratched underneath:

"Don't do things half-ass!"