Inspiration
Larry Marks was not overly troubled when he realized he’d gone three days without anything resembling an inspiration. Nor did he fret when his once-in-a-blue-moon dry period stretched to a week, then to two. Only when the feeling of emptiness persisted after a full month did he grow concerned.
Though others thought of Larry in terms of the songs he’d written that reached the charts – especially those that became mainstays when covered over a period of time by multiple artists – what mattered for him was his relentless productivity.
Whereas many songwriters, past and present, had periods of peak productivity – limited by changes in the public’s taste, lack of ambition, or substance abuse – Larry prided himself on the ongoing joy of creation.
Unlike those who had to search for something to write about, ideas seemed to come to Larry without conscious effort. A remark he heard, a passage he read, something he saw while driving, or anything else could spark a lyric, a melody, or what in the music world is called a hook. There were even times when he’d wake up from a dream with the title of a new song, or an entire verse of a tune to work on.
Effort was still necessary: elaborating, honing, refining. But always the catalyst was a burst of inspiration, often seemingly from out of nowhere. Until one day that didn’t happen.
There had short periods of repose before. Those were generally times when Larry had pushed himself too hard, or found himself needing a little time to recharge by catching up on reading, watching movies, or indulging himself.
Though he’d heard tales of songwriters, novelists, and screenwriters who were burned out or blocked, Larry never thought – or believed – it could happen to him. Until the day it did.
Obsessed from a young age with music – especially Blues, early Rock & Roll, and what was called R&B in the days of Ray Charles, Aretha, and Solomon Burke – Larry in his youth never imagined that songwriting, or even the music business, could be a career path. His first hope was sports, but basketball that proved to be a dead end when his growth stopped short of 6 feet. That was true of his chances of pitching in the Major Leagues when his velocity never hit 90.
With his parents waging war to push, bribe, or coerce him to attend law school, Larry called on a favorite relative.
“What do you really like?” asked his Uncle Burt.
“Besides girls? Music.”
“Can you sing?”
“Only in the shower.”
“How’s your piano playing?”
“So-so.”
“So what’s left?” wondered Uncle Burt.
“Owning a record company, which isn’t happening –”
“Or?”
“Writing songs.”
“Have you been doing it?”
Larry nodded.
“Any good?”
“I think so.”
Uncle Burt pondered before speaking. “I’ll talk to your parents,” he then said. “But on one condition.”
“Okay –”
“You get a day job.”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re not opposed to the wholesale ice cream business,” Uncle Burt added, “you can work for me.”
From his first day as an aspiring songwriter, Larry found himself wishing he’d been around during the heyday of the Brill Building, when radios blasted songs penned by Leiber & Stoller (Yakety-Yak), Goffin & King (Will You Love Me Tomorrow), Mann & Weill (You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling), and Pomus & Shuman (Save The Last Dance For Me).
That, however, was ancient history. Larry had to face a different, more balkanized, and far commercialized world. He spent most of his non-working hours writing song after song, plus whatever time he could sneak in during breaks at work. Using aspiring singers he recruited, he recorded demos. Then he deluged music publishers, record companies, and, when he could find what seemed like real addresses, singers ranging from Dolly Parton to Rhiannon Giddens, and from Jon Batiste to Sharon Jones until her death.
All the while, he did an even deeper dive into the efforts of songwriters he revered. Some days it would be Otis Blackwell: Fever (Little Willie John, then Peggy Lee), Great Balls Of Fire (Jerry Lee Lewis), Don’t Be Cruel (Elvis). Others, Allen Toussaint’s New Orleans treasures: Mother-In-Law (Ernie K-Doe), It’s Raining (Irma Thomas), and Larry’s own personal favorite Lipstick Traces (Benny Spellman).
Occasionally, it was a deep dive into Willie Dixon’s Chicago Blues: Hoochie Coochie Man (Muddy Waters), Wang Dang Doodle (Koko Taylor), Spoonful (Howlin’ Wolf), My Babe (Little Walter).
And very often, the great Leiber & Stoller: Hound Dog (Big Mama Thornton, then Elvis), Poison Ivy (the Coasters), Kansas City (Wilbert Harrison), Saved (LaVern Baker).
Aware that he was living in a totally different world, Larry nevertheless hoped to understand not merely the mechanics of those songs – how they varied verse, chorus, and bridge… how they told a story… how they worked in internal rhymes – but also their breadth and range. Emotionally and musically they ran the gamut from joyful to despondent, from uptempo to painful, and from uplifting to gut-bucket.
The song that yielded a music publisher was one that came to Larry while jogging.
Love is making me crazy,
Bugging me every night and every day.
All I do is think about her.
All the time and every way.
Some might say that’s kind of outrageous,
That it makes me a special kind of fool.
But to me it’s really special,
My kind of wonderful, my kind of cool.
I’ll take love over nothing,
I’ll take love over nothing at all.
I’ll take love if only I can have you.
I’ll keep waiting and praying you’ll call.
Though success was not yet on the horizon, progress proved to be incremental, with each step marked by a move. First was from his parents’ place to a house shared with three other guys. Next, stepping away from the world of wholesale Fudgesicles, Creamsicles, Push-Ups, and Dixie Cups. Then finally, a move across country to Los Angeles.
Since the kind of singers he revered – people like Ray Charles, Nina Simone, and the Drifters – had been supplanted by wave after wave of new faces, Larry had two choices. He could try to follow in the footsteps of singer-songwriters like Dylan, Lou Reed, and Tom Waits. But that had never been his goal. Or he could to continue to work behind the scenes, hoping again and again that a singer or group would either bring something special to one of his songs, or at least not turn it into an embarrassment.
The first tune of his that was licensed for an episode of a TV series was a playful one that came to him one evening when he happened to turn on the Grand Ol’ Opry.
I lost my baby and my bankroll,
And my brand new pickup truck.
Now some joker’s trying to tell me
I ain’t got the world’s worst luck.
Can’t pay for lunch or dinner,
Or a single glass of beer.
The taste I’m tastin’
Is the taste of fear.
I keep lookin’ for an answer,
But the answer is plain and clear.
Gotta find some damn way,
To get the hell outta here!
That opened the door for more of his songs to be licensed for use on screen – in commercials or episodes of TV shows, plus once in a while in a theatrical film. That, fortuitously, led to commissions occasionally coming his way. Initially that owed to Larry’s being cheaper than people like Randy Newman. Then word got out that unlike songwriters who often took forever to deliver, Larry seemed to be blessed with boundless inspiration. Until one day that was no longer true.
All the while Larry picked up bits and pieces of songwriting lore, which he loved to share when asked to address groups of would-be songwriters. One of his favorites was Ray Charles improvising what came to be a big hit – What I Say – when a theater owner said that the audience would tear out the seats if Ray didn’t give them another song. Then there was the time when, during a break in a recording session, a producer heard Little Richard singing a scatological ditty that, once cleaned up so that Good bootie became Oh rootie, resulted in Tutti Frutti becoming a hit. But Larry’s favorite tale involved the Doors’ realization that if they were ever to become more a cover band, they’d have to start writing their own material. At the end of a rehearsal in Ray Manzarek’s garage, it was decided that each musician would arrive at their next session with something new. When it was asked what they should write about, Jim Morrison suggested the elements: Air, Water, Earth, Fire. Lo and behold, Robbie Krieger, who had never before tried his hand at songwriting, came up with what became their signature song: “Come On, Baby, Light My Fire!”
Like so many in show business, Larry’s heat – and his earnings – ebbed and flowed. There were periods where he was hot, not so hot, or nearly unable to get arrested. That depended on whether some new sensation scored with one of his love songs. Or if Pixar had commissioned a song like the one he wrote for a film about a dancing hippo.
During down periods, two things that kept Larry going. Financially, it was what he called “mailbox money,” mainly thanks to songs of his that were used in a series, or films re-run on TV. Equally important was having a reason to get up in the morning, thanks to the almost ever-present inspiration provided for something new.
Until the day that stopped.
If Larry had been a drinker, he might have tried to drown his sorrows. If a stoner, he might have hit a dispensary. If a lech, he might have hit a massage parlor.
None of those, he quickly realized was what he was, or wanted to be.
Nor was he someone with hobbies. He didn’t golf, take photos, collect stamps, or participate in fantasy football or baseball. Nor did care for boating, pickleball, or bird-watching.
What he did and who he was were one and the same. He was a songwriter.
Yet no notions, ideas, or epiphanies were forthcoming.
Valiantly, Larry tried to substitute perspiration for inspiration, But no matter how hard he tried, forcing the issue led to what he recognized as banal, cliched, or just plain shlock.
That yielded a painful question. Since songwriting was so clearly his identity, who was he without it?
Though not given to philosophical questions, this one he couldn’t duck.
Not by nature misanthropic, Larry wondered whether part of the problem stemmed from being so wrapped up with songwriting that perhaps he had inadvertently cut himself off from the world.
Hopeful, Larry made a conscious effort to rejoin society. He met with his basketball buddy Vinny, who had just finished a three-year stint on a sitcom, for lunch at a place serving Jersey-style pizza. He hooked up with an old flame named Joanie, who did hair and makeup for indie films, at his favorite Thai restaurant. He joined his pal Mike, who produced a kiddie show, for pastrami at a deli on Alvarado Street.
Yet he still felt empty and futile.
On top of everything else, there was fiscal reality. While there was no immediate threat of being broke, what if this condition lasted for months? Or forever? Even with mailbox money coming in, Larry feared he could at some point wind up on the street.
But trying to find a solution only drove him further into a funk.
Living on instant ramen, plus occasional deliveries from Uber Eats, Larry retreated into his shell.
Ducking emails, phone calls, and texts as one week, then another, then a third went by, Larry felt frozen, immobilized, inert.
Midway through the fourth week of inactivity, he was startled one morning when the doorbell started ringing relentlessly, followed by banging on his front door. Unhappily, he dragged himself off the living room sofa and trudged to the door.
“You auditioning for a horror movie?” his friend Mike said once the door was opened. “You look like shit.”
“Nice to see you, too,” mumbled Larry.
“Since you don’t respond to phone calls, emails, or texts – or, for all I know, even smoke signals – I hauled my ass over hear because I need a favor.”
“That’s me,” grumbled Larry. “Mister Favor.”
“When you’re not being Mr. Hermit or Mr. Pain-In-The-Ass. Ready?”
Larry nodded.
“That doofus who was writing songs and jingles for my kiddie show upped and quit. Can you think of somebody who can step in?”
Larry pondered for a moment, then for the first time in ages managed some semblance of a smile. “Me.”
“Very funny!” grumbled Mike. “You know I can’t afford you.”
“Says who?”
“You’re serious?”
“Yup.”
“Can I ask why?”
“First of all, we’re friends.”
“And?”
“What difference does it make? More important, when do I start?”
Still perplexed, Mike playfully sniffed the air. “Soon as you take a shower.”
What Larry didn’t say to Mike – what he couldn’t bring himself to say – was that he had no idea if he’d be able to deliver.
His hope was that as with commissions in the past, instead of cogitating, deliberating, or ruminating when he was shown the footage involved, he’d simply react instinctively. Maybe, just maybe, that might get him over the lethargy that engulfed him.
Fearing not just humiliation, but worse that he might be consigned to a live devoid of creativity, Larry once, twice, three times nearly made a U-turn while driving to Mike’s editing room.
Upon arriving, he girded himself before getting out of his car, taking a very deep breath. Only then did he unfasten his seat belt and trudge toward his destination.
“What we need, and I mean right up front, is a little something to introduce Melvin the Moose,” said Mike. “Ready?”
“Fire away,” replied Larry while trying not to let on how fearful he was.
Onto the screen came an animated moose, who immediately brought a smile to Larry’s face. Forgetting his woes, he surprised himself by starting to sing.
I’m a moose,
I’m on the loose,
And my favorite drink
Is apple juice.
Stopping, Larry turned to Mike. “Too silly?”
Mike beamed. “It’s supposed to be silly. Keep going.”
I’m not a frog,
I’m not a hog,
I’m the one and only
Melvin the Moose.
“Bingo!” shouted Mike. “Ready for Sidney the Squirrel?”
There was no certainty that Larry’s troubles creatively or financially were over, since he knew these were only baby steps. But for the first time in ages, instead of feeling numb, dumb, and finished, he felt alive.
It wasn’t the same as seeing one of his songs move up the charts. It certainly wasn’t the same as winning a Grammy. Nor was it the same as having Ray Charles, Nina Simone, or any other of his other long gone idols recording a tune he wrote.
But for Larry, at least it was a start. And it sure as hell felt good.
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions. His newest film is “When Houston Had The Blues.”
