In the studio with John Abbey on Thursday, I played and recorded the last song on my album. It’s just the piano and me. Listening back, there were a few mistakes, but it felt real. Through the years of making albums together, John and I have learned to ask ourselves:
Do we want this to sound good, or do we want to believe it?
Because you can’t have both.
I don’t want my songs to sound just “nice” anymore. I want to believe the stories and the feelings in the tune. And because raw vocals have always hit me harder, we left the cracks and pops and flubs.
Art imitates life. And life isn’t nice. Life is flubs.
I think a lot about what fills me with emotion. And it’s often when imperfection is involved. I love when my kids misspell words on cards. I used to love hearing my grandma sing off-key in church. I love drinking from my chipped coffee mug, and I love all the “mistakes” my kitchen crew makes at the restaurant: that’s when they come up with their most genius ideas.
(Side note: my restaurant served something called “fish dogs” for brunch this week, and I love my chefs for that stroke of genius, born from a flub.)
Reader, my album is done, imperfections and all. It was an unclimactic ending. Now I just need to get it mastered, and then I’ll be ready to share it. I hope it moves you the way it moved me to make it, and I wish you a week of embracing the mistakes in your life that give it meaning, depth, interest, and hilarity. Let's not take ourselves too seriously out there. See you next Monday. -Em
