Artist Manifesto
 

 

Samuel Nicholson, August 2022

 

 

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Introduction

No composer, nor artist for that matter, is created in a vacuum. Influences can be found anywhere, from the grand and polarising effects of politics to the introspective and personal effects of philosophy. The world and its events surround us on a daily basis, as fruit to be picked by the artist and nurtured into something greater than the sum of its parts. Nowhere in time or space, or any dimension between is safe from the scrutiny and interpretation of the artist’s hands; we take and use, as we must being artists, searching for sense and purpose in the world, and wider senses of purpose within ourselves.

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But this is not wrong. No composer, nor artist for that matter, is created in a vacuum. This is the natural process, the natural order of things. As artists we see it as our duty to channel these influences into an output we call our art, whatever form that may take (who would have thought Alice Cooper was influenced by such musicals as West Side Story or The Sound Of Music? (Inquirer.net, 2021; Cooper 1971). This essay aims to identify and discuss the different facets of inspiration that have led to my inception as a composer/artist as well as those which are continually guiding me in my practice and ascension as an artist who paints with sound.

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The Beatles, and their story of working-class boys turned voices of a generation, were the earliest musical inspiration to me. Through their influence I realised the impact that art can have on individuals and the aspects of art that we each relate to on a personal level. My further early explorations in art were limited to popular musicians, though this would begin to change as I developed as a musician and began writing original material, searching for my voice through the flurry of different media. Though I initially floundered for a while among artists such as the Eagles, Electric Light Orchestra, and the Doors, I eventually found direction as a musician with a desire to create music of depth and meaning, be that musical, lyrical or abstract.

 

 

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Part 1: Into The Music

 

 

"I’m always thinking about creating. My future
starts when I wake up every morning… Every
day I find something creative to do with my life"
 

Miles Davis  (1990)

 

 

Despite my wide-reaching curiosity as a listener, my venture into writing music began with a single impetus – Bob Dylan. Up until this point I had almost exclusively studied lead guitar and given little thought to composing music beyond simple riffs. Dylan showed me that a musician could do a lot with only a little, especially on such sparsely instrumented albums as ‘The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan’ (Dylan, 1963) and ‘Blood On The Tracks’ (Dylan, 1975). Here was an artist whose focus felt more accessible, at least from a musical standpoint. It is more than fair to say that most of Dylan’s songs are simple in structure and harmony (Østrem, 2020), and that if it weren’t for the dense lyrical content they would likely fall into the drab category of ‘campfire’ style songs. His style, rooted in the simple forms of folk and blues would inform my early writing in a way I had not previously considered – that a musician can back themself with only a single instrument and maintain a strong enough sound to become an influential artist. Where I had always seen myself as needing to be part of a band, I suddenly saw that if I was to begin my journey as a composer/writer, I would have to take the first step alone.

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When I compose, I delineate the difference between music and lyrics. Music can, of course, be lyrical, and lyrics musical, but I make this distinction as for all their similarities they are implicitly different. My musical influences, therefore, fall into a category of their own, as do my lyrical influences, though there are cases where the line between them is blurred. My early studies into harmony were inspired by the relatively simple forms of folk, blues and rock; it wasn’t until I began focusing on being a soloist that I started investigating it in more depth. With the impression of it as ‘the most difficult style of music’, I developed an interest in jazz, thinking that if I could master it, then I would be able to approach anything else with ease.

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For me, as many, this journey began with Miles Davis and John Coltrane, two of the most revered yet controversial artists of the genre (Tingen, 2003; Kahn, 2002). This interest is rooted in the early lyrical styles of both, and the extreme individual forms of expression that would come later in their respective careers. I am as moved by Davis’ simple yet effective playing on ‘Birth of The Cool’ (Davis, 1957) as I am the dense jungles of sound he directed on ‘Bitches Brew’ (Davis, 1970). The same can be said for the difference between Coltrane’s delicate lyricism on tunes like ‘I’m Old Fashioned’ (Coltrane, Kern and Mercer, 1958) and his visceral explosions of emotion on ‘Om’ (Coltrane, 1968). For these musicians it is their unfaltering individuality and voice that pervades my mind as a listener and practitioner; these are artists who do not bend to the trends of the time but who create them and are sometimes lightyears ahead of their peers. Such explorations in music as ‘In A Silent Way’ (Davis, 1969) and ‘Live At The Village Vanguard Again!’ (Coltrane, 1966) represent this as much as multitudes of other titles from these artists.

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No wonder, then, that I would place them in the upper echelon of my inspirations, as much for their philosophy as for their creative output. Both have been compared to spiritual figures and have been said to have approached music in ways that require a greater depth of knowledge and understanding of the self than would likely be present in most musicians. Their individual forms of expression - Davis’ introspective, melancholy lyricism and Coltrane’s brazen, avant-garde sound - are only part of what makes them so influential. Each possessed an uncontrollable desire to continually build on and change their styles, with only their imagination as the limit. This philosophy of not letting yourself or your work stagnate has been infinitely important to me as an artist and has informed my creative process so much so that I would even argue from experience that if not controlled, it can begin to have negative side effects (Arguments paraphrased from: Tingen, 2003; Kahn, 2002).

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Self-criticism has helped me greatly in creating what I would consider to be objectively better music, however it has just as often acted as an inhibitor, making me believe that a piece is not innovative or unique or otherwise ‘good’ enough. While I think a healthy amount of self-criticism is beneficial, I have also come to realise that there comes a point past which perfection cannot be attained, and that we will always find something negative about our own work. I think Davis and Coltrane understood this and understood too the fragility of their art. Being able to constantly move forward allows us to respect the past but embrace the future. Music is the way we paint time, and though it may exist forever somewhere in some space in time, there is so much more time to fill with the music of our futures; in other words, we must create for the now, and in doing so we create for all time.

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It is the world of jazz that has had the greatest influence on my interpretation and approach to music theory. Beyond the reach of Davis and Coltrane are other figures who have influenced my style and philosophy in immeasurable ways. Thelonious Monk is another artist whose style has been as lauded as it has criticised. His indelible approach to playing the piano and harmonic construction have impacted on me greatly. Here is another man whose entire philosophy is ‘different’, or to paraphrase his critics, ‘wrong’ (Allen, 2017). Monk’s adage that ‘wrong is right’ (Monk, 2017) impressed on me and helped me to understand that notes can never be wrong, only their context can be wrong. Another jazz musician who left me with this same impression is Herbie Hancock, who has been oft-quoted with an anecdote about a specific time that Miles Davis reacted in the moment musically to a wrong chord played by Hancock (SafaJah, 2014). He describes this as simply a reaction to the wider situation the musicians found themselves in and goes on to explain that Davis taught him to see music as a series of events to which any given musician can respond in their own way. Hearing this felt to me like a revelation of all the secrets of music – how could the answer be so simple yet so effective? This was especially important to me as I have always wanted to be able to improvise solos well – another aspect of my compositional practice.

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Improvisation can be seen as a form of live on the spot composition, and cultivating an interest in jazz helped me better understand and value the constituent elements of music, especially improvised music. This is why I place jazz and the musicians I have mentioned higher up in the canon of my inspiration than, say, many of the rock musicians who I was listening to long before. Wanting to explore and break down limits musically always felt more difficult in the less harmonically liberal genre of rock, and though I still respect and love it as a genre, I think learning a higher grade of theory from another source has been invaluable in allowing me to freely apply it to my own compositions across genres. I do also think that this cross interest between genres is responsible for my identifying strongly with the electric period of Miles Davis. Recently, albums such as ‘Bitches Brew’ (Davis, 1970), ‘Jack Johnson’ (Davis, 1971) and ‘Agharta’ (Davis, 1975) excite and inspire me most consistently and are closest to the kind of music I would want to experiment with in a band or live setting.

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These albums, as cacophonous as they can be, are to me quite beautiful. It was precisely this cacophony and limitless experimentation that led me to become more interested in free jazz. Of course, John Coltrane experimented much with this form of jazz towards the end of his life, and has influenced me greatly to that effect, however many agree that the father of the movement was Ornette Coleman (Crouch, 2020). Coleman’s experiments on albums such as ‘Free Jazz’ (Coleman, 1961) and ‘The Shape of Jazz To Come’ (Coleman, 1959) paved the way for the free jazz movement (Jazzblog, 2018) and influenced my playing personally in a way similar to Thelonious Monk. Again, here was a musician who eschewed the rules and conventions of music and who suddenly announced that it was okay to play ‘wrong’ notes. Investigating Coleman, I found that his personal philosophy went deeper than just random experimentation, and that to those who would listen, he had much to say about his music and compositional style. A key point for me was his mention of music as conversation (Crouch, 2020; Polyphonic, 2020) (a kindred take on the philosophy of Davis/Hancock discussed above). The idea essentially tells us that each of the musicians in a band is part of a greater ‘conversation’, and that much like spoken conversations, different voices interplay and overlap with each-other in real time (Polyphonic, 2020). There is no specific ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ in this scenario because, flowing conversationally, the music develops and builds thematically and consistently; the focus of the improviser shifts from a harmonic to a more melodic interest. Admittedly it makes sense that music in this form could continue indefinitely and therefore benefits from having some kind of structure imposed on it, even if just a signal of when to end. This influenced my playing as an improviser and composer and lead to my exploring modal practices and harmonic structures more conducive to this style of improvising. An example of this in my recent practice is ‘Convivir’ which is a piece for Alto Sax/Bass/Drums and employs a two-note ostinato bassline that acts as an open harmonic base for the soloist to build on.    

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My tendency towards experimentation with regards to chord progressions and structures stems from this same insatiable curiosity for new, individual ways of expressing emotion. Before wanting to become a ‘songwriter’ or ‘composer’ my focus and wish was to be able to play catchy riffs and blistering solos in the same vein as Jimmy Page or Rory Gallagher. As an initial foray into the constructive element of music practice much was to be desired in the way of learned theory or cohesive harmony, though I think these experiences were formative in my development with regards to melodies and line construction.

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I return to the pivotal incidence of myself and the music of Bob Dylan. Though very much inspired by rock acts such as Led Zeppelin, Peter Frampton, Jimi Hendrix and The Rolling Stones, I could never wholly relate to playing their songs on solo guitar; most didn’t translate unless played in a strictly reductive chordal ‘campfire’ manner. Dylan’s songs effectively combined simple forms (that, most importantly, sounded good on solo guitar) with advanced poetic, witty and catchy lyrics. Ironically, it was when exploring the arguably more advanced alternately tuned songs from ‘Blood On The Tracks’ that I began to properly compose for the first time. These early pieces were written in open E and D tunings on the guitar which, due to their differing chord shapes compared standard tuning, might be considered a bold place to start. By this point in my practice, I had begun learning songs in standard tuning that used regular triadic chords but was attracted to the open sound of alternate tunings and the different tonal possibilities they impose. As a still relatively inexperienced composer I was experimenting with these unconventional sounds with the hopes of producing more original sounding material.

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My compositions from this time are characteristically acoustic and rely on the physics of the acoustic guitar as much as they utilise them. My inspirations at this time were songs such as ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’ (Dylan, 1975), ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ (Mitchell, 1970) and ‘Penny For Your Thoughts’ (Frampton, 1975), the latter of which aided me in exploring solo acoustic instrumentals in a way I had not yet considered. The former two songs, as well as many of their contemporaries influenced my writing style both lyrically and musically. Working with alternate tunings helped me consider chord progressions in a more inquisitive way, searching for different kinds of voicings and resolutions that would challenge or at least offer an alternative to the stale overused progressions of much rock, pop and folk music. This also allowed me to expand my musical vocabulary in standard tuning, utilising open strings and more interesting and unconventional chord shapes.

 

When I write music in the singer-songwriter style my mantra is that it should always be written in a way that translates well when performed solo (a direct reaction to my feelings about the translations of some rock songs above). Developing a more ‘complete’ sound as a solo performer was vital and meant that my focus shifted towards aspects beyond just the harmonic. My finger picking style was developed by songs such as ‘Dust In The Wind’ (Livgren, 1977) and ‘Fire And Rain’ (Taylor, 1970), while my rhythmic skills were improved by songs like ‘Listen To The Music’ (Johnston, 1972) and ‘Foreplay/Long Time’ (Scholz, 1976). Though these skills are transferable between genres I tend to make a distinction between the two main facets of my practice. One is the strictly ‘musical’ delineation which focuses more on my jazz influences and soloing, as well as more complex chord progressions. The other is the ‘singer-songwriter’ delineation which tends more towards strummable/finger picked chord progressions that are designed to be easier to sing along with. Of course, there is much crossover but in my solo singer-songwriter practice I aim to create music that has more of an emphasis on lyrical content than complex harmonic/melodic ideas.

 

 

 

 

 

Part 2: In His Own Write

 

 

"As great as you are man, you’ll
never be greater than yourself"
 

Bob Dylan (2001)

 

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Music can speak to us in a multitude of ways; the most obvious, and generally the most direct of which, being through lyrics. I don’t believe in a hierarchy where music and lyrics are concerned, though it must be noted that the western world as a whole seems to respond more strongly to music with lyrics than to purely instrumental music. I started writing lyrics long before learning to play an instrument, though these were all naïve attempts at songs that would never come to fruition. I had largely forgotten this practice by the time I came to write lyrics for my first compositions and was able to look at the craft with a new pair of eyes. Once again spurred on by the architect of my composer’s fate, Bob Dylan, I began to write with a more poetic persuasion in mind. It was Dylan who first allowed me to view lyrics as more than just catchy words to go along with the music; lyrics could be poetry; lyrics could be the song on their own. It was clear to me that many of Dylan’s compositions were simply vehicles for his poetry. As a beginner composer with limited technical skills, this was obviously a very attractive idea.

  

Far and away, it has been Dylan’s lyrics that have impacted me most as a writer. It is no surprise to me that in 2016 he won the Nobel prize for literature (The Nobel Prize, 2022) and is widely considered the greatest living songwriter. Simply put, there is a Dylan song for anything. From the heart-breaking passages of ‘Boots of Spanish Leather’ (Dylan, 1964) to the politically motivated ‘The Death of Emmett Till’ (Dylan, 2010), the existential ‘Not Dark Yet’ (Dylan, 1997) to the abstract stream of consciousness of ‘Visions of Johanna’ (Dylan, 1966) Dylan seemingly writes with the experience of an omniscient being who has watched humanity rise and fall for thousands of years. Another aspect of his writing I have always valued is his penchant for humour. Songs like ‘Motorpsycho Nitemare’ (Dylan, 1964) and ‘Leopardskin Pillbox Hat’ (Dylan, 1966) express this side of him, and I believe he uses it deliberately as a device to assuage the idea that he is an overly serious introspective figure.

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The core takeaway from this, for me, is that you can manipulate your audience by varying the tone of your lyrics. This works on both an individual song level (using lyrics that match your instrumental theme) and on a wider level (being aware of how lyrics contribute to an entire album and using this to force a perspective). This is of course dictated by personal choice and the aim of each song. I think that, while ‘serious’ songs are fine, varying the tone, as well as being intelligent not just with rhyming structures but with the phrases you use, can help create a more mature body of work. In short, I think that taking yourself too seriously as a writer can be more of a negative than a positive in the long run.

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An artist who I think embodies this philosophy is Joni Mitchell. Clearly she is a serious songwriter, and though some of her early work comes across as serious in tone and with little room for humour, I think songs such as ‘Talk To Me’ (Mitchell, 1977) and ‘Furry Sings The Blues’ (Mitchell, 1976) employ her own, more cynical brand of humour, to good effect. Also widely regarded as one of the greatest living songwriters, she is an essential case study for her lyrics and her unwillingness to compromise her art. Coming to prominence in the late 1960s, Mitchell’s early songs reflect the poetic counterculture of the time but do so with seemingly more maturity and awareness than some of her contemporaries. Her position as a woman in a male dominated field also meant that she retained a definite cynicism that comes through in her lyrics – something that has influenced the way I write. I believe in using an honest voice in my writing, even if the song is not autobiographical. This often means taking from personal experience in some form and translating it on a case-by-case basis. This relates to the philosophy of ‘show, don’t tell’ that I try to employ. In some cases it can make more sense or be more effective for a song to tell rather than show, however where the objective is being poetic, it is more often the case that having lyrics show rather than tell makes the song feel more nuanced and opens it up to interpretation. The idea of forcing the listener to think about and interpret a song themselves is particularly attractive to me and I consider it an effective way of allowing them to almost participate in the creation of the song, insofar as it exists in their individual mind. This extends to the thin line drawn between lyrical abstraction and meaninglessness lyrics.

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There are plenty of artists who have influenced me for the way they blur the lines between poetry and song, many of whom have at some point or another also embraced lyrical abstraction. I think for many artists writing within predetermined parameters or styles can become stale and repetitive; this is certainly the case for me. Therefore, it does not surprise me that many songwriters have turned to abstraction or stream of consciousness writing in their poetry, though it is important to note that doing this effectively requires the writer to have a grasp of more generic lyrical structures on which they can base and build their abstractions. This juncture between conventional and unconventional writing styles is one I have crossed over with caution in the past, but one I now try to wholly embrace. Van Morrison’s album ‘Astral Weeks’ (Morrison, 1968) influenced me greatly to this effect thanks to its combination of flowing stream of consciousness lyrics paired with folk-jazz instrumentals. Jim Morrison’s writing is also a curiosity for the way it links directly to his work and studies as a poet and how it embodies the nature of the times he was writing so well. Leonard Cohen is a poet-turned-songwriter whose entire career has inspired me. Early songs such as ‘Stories of the Street’ (Cohen, 1967) employ a Dylanesque mixture of dreamlike sequences whereas later songs such as ‘You Want It Darker’ (Cohen, 2016) represent another side of Cohen’s abstraction, one which demonstrates his maturity as an artist in the way he deals with the heavy subjects of religion and death.

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These artists all possess the ability to look inside themselves and bring out what they can use in writing for the masses. Cohen especially comes across as an introspective and sagely character who uses his poetic skill to describe the worlds both inside and outside of him and relate them to us as an audience. This is a vital part of songwriting on which Cohen has a firm grasp. ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ (Cohen, 1971) is a song I have long thought of as containing more depth than some entire albums. Framed in the form of a letter, Cohen’s use of poetry, imagery, self-exposition and personal sensibilities are crafted together in a way that creates a zenith of songwriting that surpasses all of the mundanities and excess found in so many other songs. To paraphrase Joni Mitchell, Cohen wastes not a single word in his writing (Atlas, 2022). Cohen and Mitchell are also notable for their use of rhyming structures. This undoubtedly stems from their practice as poets and has changed the way I approach rhyming (or deliberately not rhyming) in my own writing. 

Though these artists have all been wildly successful, I think that overall their deep, introspective styles can tend to alienate some of their potential audience. This is the eternal plight of the artist; create something that will represent you wholly as an artist or create something that will do so to a lesser degree but allow you greater potential for success. I am, unfortunately, more inclined towards to former, though there are musicians whose work inspires me for its ability to be both gratifying on a lyrical level and greatly successful on a commercial level. Jackson Browne is a songwriter whose work represents this balance perfectly for me.

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Browne’s early style featured a less indulgent and more economic style of poetry. ‘Doctor My Eyes’ (Browne, 1972) is an example which economises poetic effect and lyrical depth in shorter verses that frequently repeat the refrain. Browne’s later developments of ‘poppier’ sounds in the 1980s could be misconstrued as ‘selling out’, though upon inspection their lyrical content proves that he simply developed his musical style to fit with the times but retains the lyrical skill that makes him noteworthy; ‘Call It A Loan’ (Browne, 1980) for example. The same can be said of Bruce Springsteen who demonstrates throughout his career an ability to write both conventional songs and songs that have garnered him the moniker “The next Bob Dylan” (The Awl, 2012). Songs with vast arrangements and wild, in-depth storytelling such as ‘Jungleland’ (Springsteen, 1975) and ‘New York City Serenade’ (Springsteen, 1973) show his more complex side while songs such as ‘Glory Days’ (Springsteen, 1984) and ‘Secret Garden’ (Springsteen, 1995) display a refined lyrical quality that better suits the shorter pop-rock format. When writing I try to keep these artists in mind as they represent an ability to change oneself within one’s own medium, adapting to the times yet never faltering in the aspects of the art that make it unique.

For me one of the most incomparable and defining voices in music is Patti Smith. Somehow Smith manages to blend romantic, beat and street poetry in a sonic tapestry with music which draws from both cutting-edge rock and classical music traditions. I liken her to Miles Davis in this way for her ability to include and transcend past musical forms to create a final product which is greater than the sum of its parts. Lyrically she is versatile, employing both spoken word and sung sections in her songs, as well as sections that feature her voice almost acting like an instrument. In this way she stretches the limits of songwriting, blurring the lines between the roles of lyrics and instruments in songs (‘Poppies’ (Smith, 1976), for example). Her embrace of an eclectic mixture art forms is something I have tried to emulate in an authentic way, taking inspiration not just from music but from external art forms I have a genuine interest in. It is important to me that this isn’t a forced process as I think that such a method is prone to fallibility when not approached in a personal and honest way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 3: Quite Literary

 

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a
commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars"
 

Jack Kerouac  (1957)

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I discovered at a certain point in my songwriting practice that much of my work was derived solely from musical inspirations. This made for music that felt like more of a response to existing music than to the way I as an individual perceive the world and my place within it. Looking again to Dylan for wisdom I found that his early style was inspired by the works of Beat poets such as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso (Attwood, 2019) and that he was able to develop it into a more personal style as a response to changes his own life and the world around him. Certainly all the greatly revered songwriters of history, some of whom I have already mentioned, have been similarly inspired by their own choice of literature. The obvious literary prowess of lyricists such as Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen is evidence enough of this, and is what inspired me to broaden my own horizons regarding literature.

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Owing much to Dylan’s direction, I investigated the writings of Jack Kerouac and found in them not only an artist of great vision and resolve, but an artistic spirit to which I could relate more than any other. Kerouac’s undisputed masterpiece, ‘On The Road’ (Kerouac, 1957), has served as a catalyst for many young creatives since its release (O’Hagan, 2007), myself included. After reading many of his works I have cultivated a familiarity with his style and philosophy, which consists of an insatiable lust for life and desire to travel, experience and explore all the things (good, bad and sometimes excessive) that the world has to offer. Kerouac’s own writing style is largely stream-of-consciousness based but draws on both a rich literary knowledge and, interestingly, a love of jazz. Kerouac’s link to music is indispensable and his relationship with it is very symbiotic; he frequently writes in a crazed, flowing style deliberately mirroring jazz improvisations (Shadwick, 2021), something which in turn would inspire generations of musicians and songwriters. Kerouac’s way of living inspires my art as much as his stylistic approach. Like Andy Warhol, Kerouac’s way of living is imperative to understanding his art. However unsustainable his lifestyle was, it demonstrates an uncompromising personality with a laser focus on creating immortal art of great innovation and beauty. In Kerouac’s own words, “When you've understood this scripture, throw it away. If you can't understand this scripture, throw it away. I insist on your freedom” (Kerouac, 1960). Like those of Miles Davis and Joni Mitchell, this attitude influences the way I choose to continually build on and push forward my practice.

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My obsession with wanting to translate the effect of the abstract into work which stands alone as powerful extends to other artists who have eschewed narrative norms. Federico García Lorca, the Spanish playwright and poet, is someone whose work I studied in school and returned to later with a fresh perspective. As a part of the post-WWI abstract expressionist group, García Lorca’s work deals a lot with folk themes relating to his native land. His use of language as a tool to be manipulated means that his works (poems especially) often seem disjointed line to line, but represent a greater meaning as a whole, like how a jazz musician may employ a chord which initially sounds out of key but is later contextualised. It is precisely the mood created by choosing to include such unexpected elements line to line which elicits a stronger response in a reader/listener. Studying works such as ‘The Six Strings’ (García Lorca, 2018) and ‘Blood Wedding’ (García Lorca, 1979) has provided me with fresh ideas on form and structure, as well as language in my own writing.  

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My undergraduate studies in graphic design have also informed the way I approach music and the stylistic choices I make. The structural theory behind graphic design reflects that of music in a semiotic way, for example relating colours/textures/shapes to certain feelings. Designers such as Reid Miles and Hipgnosis exploit the intrinsic links between design and music and show that just as music can inform their design, design can inform the way we interpret music. The effect here is generally aesthetic but represents how one can ‘design’ their music to achieve certain goals, for example creating a specific mood. Artists such as Vincent Van Gogh and Andy Warhol inspire me for similar reasons though their philosophies and lifestyles also pervade my creative process. Rene Magritte and Salvador Dalí are two contemporaries of García Lorca whose abstract works in the art medium have similarly inspired my practice with their thought-provoking approach to aesthetics. For me, art, no matter how abstract, should be interesting and thought provoking as to lead the interpreter to their own conclusion about its meaning, and it is these artists who have helped me to understand that process.

 

 

 

 

 

Closing Thoughts

 

Considering one’s influences as a whole can be overwhelming, and truthfully each of the artists mentioned has contributed to my life, philosophy and art in much greater ways than can be described here. Furthermore, there are hundreds of other artists who have played roles in my development who are also worth noting for their contributions to the bigger picture that is my personality and its translation into musical compositions. The writer and musician Paul Tingen, when referring to Miles Davis, says that great artists must “transcend and include” (Tingen, 2003) what has come before them. Consuming a vast array of art en-masse has given me great insight into the practices of artists of all disciplines and has moulded me into the artist that I am today. As an artist of conviction, I must continue aiming to embody Tingen’s theory and continue creating art that transcends and includes my influences, and ultimately, I must keep facing forward artistically, looking back only for inspiration but never allowing myself to be stuck in the past.

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I have reserved the final comments of this essay for myself; in writing this essay and undertaking what I can only consider as a journey of self-discovery (or rediscovery) I found myself pinpointing specific elements of inspiration that link directly to my work as a composer over the last few years. Listening to old recordings and reading old lyrics and chord charts opened a window into the past and showed me just how far I have come from my humble beginnings as a composer. Those beginnings are very much still a part of my work, as is evidenced by my continued exploration into solo acoustic songwriter music on my recent release ‘Virgo’ (Nicholson, 2022). But in that release can also be found the traces of my later influences, the jazz chord voicings, a personal vocal style, and a more developed writing style. Where I stand as an artist at the moment is a place of intention, driven forward by my various philosophies and the desire to push myself. For better or for worse I am never satisfied with my work, and it is the very fruits of my labour that drive me to strive to be better. I can say little of the artist I am that I cannot say of the artist I will be; every day brings further exploration into song forms and harmonic studies, as well as literary forms and studies. To speak of my current work would be to speak of the past, though I can say this: My works strives more and more to bridge the gaps between music, poetry, and the intangible. My work is exploration, and though my songs may seem polished products, to me they are living entities, vessels for emotion that like children will grow. A song that touches even a single person has done more than I could ever ask of it, and this is my intention.

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We tend to diminish our own work sometimes, yet I wholeheartedly reserve the accolade of ultimate inspiration for myself. No artist is created in a vacuum, this is true, and the impact of the artists mentioned is ever present in my work. They have inspired me to explore myriad genres, instruments and skills that have developed me as a musician, though it must be said that only I could be the one to produce the music I have produced. Such an undertaking is no easy task and to compartmentalise, experiment with and ultimately deliver a finished piece of art takes a dedicated craftsperson. For these reasons I look as much to the me of the past as I do to other artists for what might inspire the me of the future.

 

 

 

 

 

Bibliography

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Allen, C. (2017) The demons and obsessions of jazz genius Thelonious Monk. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2017/nov/06/get-inside-the-music-the-ineffable-genius-of-thelonious-monk (Accessed: 10 June 2022).

Atlas, J., (2022). The Female Point Of View. Available at: https://jonimitchell.com/library/view.cfm?id=5121 (Accessed: 10 June 2022).

Attwood, T., (2019). For you baby: Dylan and Ginsberg and the influence of the Beat generation. Available at: https://bob-dylan.org.uk/archives/10410 (Accessed: 10 June 2022).

The Awl, (2012). The Members Of 'The Next Bob Dylan' Club. Available at: https://www.theawl.com/2012/03/the-members-of-the-next-bob-dylan-club/ (Accessed: 10 June 2022).

Browne, J., (1972). ‘Doctor My Eyes’, Jackson Browne. [Vinyl] New York: Asylum Records.

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