If I had to reduce life to two sides of a ledger, it would be a separation between words and deeds.
For the divide between the talkers and the doers — this chasm between those who devalue the currency of language with hyperbole and hysterics, and those who speak with a sincere conscience on behalf of a solemn cause — is as stark as the sunrise I see from my window, in Nashville, and the nighttime air that invades the atmosphere outside my door, in Los Angeles.
Do not succumb to the seductive sound of speech alone because, in an industry where dreamers die from encouragement and careers end because of the restrictive power of very specific words that withhold royalties from an artist or prevent a performer from playing his own work, the doer is the one who guards his creation from the talker with a smile and a contract.
The singer-songwriter must always have an advocate — a fellow doer who uses words for right against the forces of might — so the poetry of music has the protection of our courts of law.
The doer should also cast aside the blather of the wannabe, a phony eager to absorb another’s earnings through criminal negligence and negligent morals.
The doer must labor over every lyric and toil over every melody.
The doer knows few things are easy, while the talker speaks all too easily.
I talk when the work is done.