By Barbara Lewis, Oct. 2001

My music and I have often communed with nature.

I was thinking about this as I raked leaves on the "lawn" of our semi-wilderness lake house. We were fortunate to be there for a few days recently, removed from city troubles in miles, if not in heart.

I was raking a deep bed of leaves onto a flat pine-needle-strewn opening in the woods where, several years before, I had placed three fat tree stumps to use as chairs. They still marked the spots where I sat to rehearse my one-woman show which required a lot of space for movement. (In the city, I rehearsed on a small stage in a theatre.)

On warm, quiet days that summer, I sat with my back to the lake, facing the deep woods as I sang and talked and "danced" my way thru this physically challenging piece of theatre. Animals, as curious as we humans are it would seem, emerged from the woods now and then to see what the racket was.

One of the most curious was a woodchuck that came out to look, then ran away, then came out again and ran away and on and on... When I sang, I could hear the birds whistling even more loudly than usual, as if to drown me out. And some of the crows from a flock that live in the trees near our house invariably showed up when I was rehearsing. They shrieked at one another high above me, perhaps with hilarity.

I have also, probably foolishly, walked out on the dock when the lake was freezing, to listen to and to sing with the haunting ancient sound the lake makes when air is trapped under the ice and water is freezing around it in long icy tubes.

My favorite time with animals and music happened in Vermont. My husband, Nicholas and I lived in a house built high on a cliff facing the Green Mountains. Our first day in the 3-level "tree-house," we met a young raccoon that became a good friend over the four years we spent there.

She often brought her kits (4 or 5 of them each year) over the roof and onto the deck to visit with us and to make mayhem. We called her Molly. And she came almost daily for a visit, with or without her kits.

All the songs I wrote during that time passed through her wise and patient ears. She would sit on the porch, near the open screen door, with her head cocked to one side while I sang some early, awkward versions of songs. I always sang in my full voice, which makes some dogs howl, but didn't seem to bother Molly.

She heard the songs again as they gradually took form and sounded better. Always alert, and interested, Molly was never openly judgemental. Although her sometime boyfriend, Wally, was not so kind on occasion.

I know these encounters have affected my music, though it's hard to pin-point exactly how. They were deeply felt experiences and surely they account for some aspect of my musical style, whether I write a song in New York City or seated in front of a quiet lake.

I had a strong affection for Molly. She could be a fierce animal when confronted with strange members of her own kind, or by unruly kits. But she was always gentle with us. She remained wild during our friendship. Still, she always came for a visit when I called her name out over the balcony to the woods below. I'm sure her memory of the raisin-filled Shreddie treats we offerred was helpful in making a decision to come when called.

Before we left the house in Vermont, I wrote a song about her. Here are the lyrics:

Molly's Song

Maytime in the mountains, trees are eager in their growing
Endless singing of the birds, consulting and consoling
Flowers blooming at their ease, content within the season
Life becoming as it will, no need for rhyme or reason
Rhyme or reason.

High up in the mountains, Molly lives in her own time
Simple pleasures carry her, a summer day, a starry night
A bunch of supple columbine
Independent, self-assured, she strolls the forest daily
Carries with her all she needs, an open heart, her place in time,
She knows freedom.

Summer is the season that she teaches all she knows
Children listen to her song,
Haunting the melody, eternal sounding tone...
Plunging into memory, no wisdom is withheld
Offerring the answers that send them
Send them careening, into their freedom

Freedom isn't something you can master like a crafstman
Freedom is a state of heart, it's laughter and passion

Snow upon the mountains, she is quiet, in repose
Unquestioning she sleeps alone, content with all she knows
Morning into evening, no sighing over yesterdays
Living out her seasons from moment to moment
This is her freedom, her freedom

Freedom is a state of heart you lose
If you don't use it truly
Freedom, freedom, freedom

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     People often ask me, incredulously, where on earth do I get ideas for songs. After all, they note, the lyrics and tunes usually are not about relationships, like many of the hits we hear on radio today. Nor are they about typical kinds of loss, though there is certainly emotional pain in some of my music.  

     When I begin to create a song, I usually have a movie-like drama playing in my head. I see a person or several people living through a dramatic event; the beginning of a journey, a startling moment of discovery, a haunting encounter with a stranger. The characters are fictional but the events they experience have a powerful effect on me. I feel the passion of their discoveries. 

     Sometimes drama develops from a real-life event. When the story of Hara's Quest was born, I was with my husband on Captiva Island, Florida. 

     We were alone at sundown on a long stretch of white sandy beach. It was hot, even for a summer evening on Captiva Island - around 95 degrees. The humid air shimmered with heat. We watched transfixed as a Great Blue Heron, tall and slender, strode down the sand to stand just a foot away from us. It turned and looked gravely out to sea. We followed its gaze and saw several dolphins glide in close to shore. The ocean water was still, like a quiet lake. The dolphins' eyes were bright. 

     The animals watched us. We watched them. The Great Blue stood by like a sentinel or a gallant interpreter of our close encounter. I felt as though time stood still. When the meeting ended and we once again were walking down the beach alone, the name "Hara" drifted into my mind. I knew then this woman would be the subject of my next group of songs: that she would take a long journey out to sea, and that dolphins would play a pivotal role in her life. I knew too that her journey would teach me a great deal. 

     Of course, moving from this magical moment to the completed group of Hara's Quest songs took a number of steps and many months. (See the Hara story in Hara's Quest.) But the event on the beach fueled my passion to guide Hara through an ocean journey. 

     Song writing has given me the chance to explore some of the most intriguing questions about who we are and where we are going. I have written about what it might feel like to be guided to the past by dolphins; how long-hidden memories can surface during a deep-body massage; how difficult it is to remain true to oneself and one's dreams; what the first humans may have heard when they began their long march to the future.

     As a kid I imagined myself one day singing with an amazing voice that had endless power, wide range and breathtaking technical know-how that would allow me to express the most subtle emotions.

     It is probably the dream of many would-be opera singers, but with one important difference. I saw myself on-stage not with a symphony but with a rock band. And the songs I was singing were of my own creation.

     Looking back, I believe this lopsided kiddy dream has fueled some of my most sudden shifts on the way to building a life in music. For one thing, it indirectly pushed me as an adult to write my first song.

     I had been training to sing opera for a number of years, never feeling quite right about it. Still, my voice was growing. It was a big voice with lots of high notes and increasing technical ability. Due to wonderful training, I could sing many of the greatest opera arias. And there were important people in the classical music business who thought I would make a fine opera singer. But I was not happy with the specter of singing music written in the 1800s for the rest of my life (a life that, hopefully, would stretch far into the 2000s). I felt I had something of my own to say. The question was, how to express it.

     As a first step, I decided to sing music that was near to my heart-Celtic folk songs. My mother is Irish and my father had Welsh ancestry. I grew up with the sounds of folk music ricocheting through the house. It was a natural course for me.

     The response was certainly positive. Though this was some time before Celtic music became the rage, the audience came out and enjoyed what I had to offer, seeming to want more.

     Still, for me something didn't feel true.

     This was old music. The melodies were beautiful, the audience was engaged, but the words failed to say what I wanted to express. Putting aside my feelings, I pressed on and began to make an impact with my new style. People got used to me not being a singer of classical music. I had a new route.

     Then, one day, I decided to write a Celtic-flavored song of my own.

     I had a contract to perform my British Isles concert in Nova Scotia, Canada. For the occasion I decided to write a new song. It would be a haunted-castle tune that would allow me to explore my fascination with how events from the past and future can merge with those from the present. I titled the song "Ancient Spirits."

     It was received well. My husband was supportive. Even my singing teacher, who continued to encourage me develop my operatic singing, loved the song. She sent me an extravagant bouquet of flowers after hearing a performance.   

     But my success with "Ancient Spirits" spelled trouble.

     There was no turning back. Having written my own music with my own words-for my own voice-I wanted more. Gradually opera took a back seat to the many tasks involved in re-visioning a career.

     If you are interested in reading the words to "Ancient Spirits," here they are:

ANCIENT  SPIRITS
©Barbara Lewis 

On the western shore of Scotland
Looking out across the sea
In the mist there stood an island
With a castle on the lea.

And I felt an odd sensation as I gazed upon that place
Like a spirit of the ancients drawing me through time and space.

Down on shore, a boat stood waiting
I walked on without concern
Though with men and women working hard
It was quiet stem to stern.

In the air there was a feeling that a mystery was nigh
As the crew prepared for leaving without knowing where nor why.

Chorus:

Ancient Spirits rise and wander 
In a place where time stands still
Present tense and past are joined 
With some strange mission to fulfill.

Phantom boat serenely sailing
Cross the water, castle-bound
Birds on high in circles tailing
All was done without a sound.

Suddenly the mist ascended straight ahead the castle loomed
Like a ghost, its contours hazy, turrets lighted by the moon.

As the boat began to anchor
Tiny lights appeared on shore
Moving then as if to meet us
Hooded figures, four by four.

As they came, the boat sailed forward
Though there was no wind nor tide
Hidden forces held us spellbound, 
no desire to run nor hide.

Chorus:

Ancient Spirits rise and wander
In a place where time stands still
Present tense and past are joined
With some strange mission to fulfill.

Then the figures walked on water
No, they seemed to float on air
Closer still their faces hidden
Paralyzed we stood and stared.

As their bodies walked right through us suddenly the world changed
And it seemed that time expanded to include a wider frame.
Past and present then were blended and the meaning became clear
That our eyes observe a fraction of a larger world so near. 

Soon the wind was gently blowing,
The boat began to move
Though our sight returned to normal,
Deep inside our souls were soothed.

     When I was teaching university students to sing, one of the biggest challenges was to find the right songs for them. This is a special problem with young vocalists because their voices usually do not work very well and nothing they sing sounds the way they want to hear it. 

     Sometimes, it is better for them not to sing any songs until they have a good feeling for how their voices work. I have heard even an experienced singer struggle through music that should have been easily performed. Some singers seem to lack a connection to what a song has to say, and their voices betray it. 

     I began to ask those experiencing difficulties questions such as, "Do you believe in this music?" "How do you feel about these words?" "Is this what you want to say to the world?" 

     These are not typical questions from a voice teacher, I soon discovered. Often I was greeted by blank stares. "Feeling about the words? Believing in the music? Saying something to the world? Wait a minute! I just want to sing. This is just a song." 

     But it's not. 

     I have found that a singer's deep personal connection to the meaning of the lyrics is one of the key elements that makes him or her truly unique. 

     Think about some of the most powerful singer/songwriters today. Often their voices are not wonderful but their belief in what they are expressing usually is so profound and genuine that we as listeners do not mind how they sing. It is what they sing that matters. 

     Of course, not all singers are able, or even want, to write their own songs. But too often we hear vocalists performing songs that are chosen only for the supposed hit potential of the lyrics and music. Or, in the case of classical music, songs may be chosen from a long list of those that all young singers must learn, regardless of who the individual is an what she or he believes. 

     As a result, what is being sung today is usually old and tired. We've heard it all before, and you can usually tell that many of the singers have sung it all before. They simply go through the motions. They lack connection to the meaning of the words, and without such connection there is little unique expression. 

     By contrast, when a singer is emotionally committed to lyrics, the body has a mysterious way of becoming more coordinated. High notes are easier to "reach," volume seems to be more in command and feeling and intellect are working together. 

     These are times when a singer must sing songs just for the sake of vocal technique or other practical demands. But too often we forget how important it is to our whole being that what we give voice to is what we deeply believe in. 

     Occasionally, when I receive a blank stare from a student, I would ask: "If this was the last song you were ever going to sing, would you chose this one?"

Image

     Image is a tricky issue. For singers of classical music, image is often defined by the songs the singers' voices can handle. It's a wait-and-see-who-you-are-when- your-voice-is-fully-developed proposition.

     For today's young singers of pop, rock and alternative music, who you appear to be is usually more important than who you actually are.

     My voice students would often rebel when I asked them to come up with words, pictures, photos or sounds that would help define their image.

"But I'm not into having an image!" some would complain.

     And I would tell them that the music business was built around image as much as talent. If they did not understand how to define themselves, I would say, others would do it for them. And probably poorly.

     Looking back, I believe I took the wrong approach.

     This became clearer to me several days ago when I met with a young singer who was a voice student of mine when I was teaching at Concordia University, in Montreal.

     Annabelle was an ambitious woman with a unique singer/songwriter style and broad range of interests. She clearly wanted to get somewhere fast. One day she told me she was concerned that, at the age of 21, she still had no record deal in sight. "Joni Mitchell was a star when she was my age!" she said.

     Her comment came at a time when I was reconsidering how best to prepare people for a life in music. I'd just read an interview with Joni Mitchell in which she recalled how difficult it had been for her to continue to be creative when she was living a high-profile life in the celebrity fish bowl.

     She advised young singers to be content with not "making it" too early. She suggested they write their music in peace and grow gradually.

     I told Annabelle what Joni Mitchell had said, and I believe she took it to heart. Of course, it was not this one comment alone that guided her. She came into contact with a number of teachers who encouraged her to explore her varied interests.

     Now, several years later, Annabelle's path is one of slow growth and risk taking. She says she follows what interests her and experiments with different ways to pull it all together in a style that is her own. She is gradually becoming known as a unique voice on the contemporary singer/songwriter scene. Part of the problem with popular music today is that so much of it sounds and feels the same. Many young groups/singers have their images carved out for them by people who need and want to make money quickly. The financial movers are not concerned with the growth of an individual-with his or her evolving understanding of the world and how it can then be expressed through music.

     This type of image creation will continue unless more singers are encouraged to understand the importance to their creative freedom of saying, No!

     At the end of our meeting, I asked Annabelle about her PR package-how she was approaching her evolving "look." I used the word image. She said she thought of "essence" rather than image. Essence was a better way of maintaining a clear focus.

     Later I consulted a dictionary. Image, I learned, is defined as "an imitation of any person or thing, a statue, an idol, a counterpart." Essence is defined as "the concentrated preparation of any substance."

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