I have been an Austin musician and guitarist for many decades now. Along the way I’ve picked up several other instruments and virtually every style; from bluegrass to classical to Jazz back through rock, blues, and Americana. I’ve played hundreds of gigs—both no case and showcase. I’ve mainly been an instrumentalist, an accompanist, and a producer. I come from a family of talented singers and musicians (on my mother’s side). Early on I thought I’d have a career as a writer and leave music to the rest of the family, but the guitar claimed me just as I was coming of age. My professional career began with the score for my brother’s first indie feature film and that was quite a ride—but a long period of obscurity followed before I finally settled into a productive grove in my 40’s. I began to get ideas and from then on there has always been an evocative project going. I’ve created a fair number of scores for both feature films and documentaries—mostly spare guitar-based music but also scores built around guitar and orchestral elements. I’ve produced album projects with singer/songwriters—most notably Dark River and Solace in the Wild—and my own instrumental guitar albums, Strange Dreams being my favorite in that category.
And all through my long musical quest I had been paralyzingly afraid to do the one thing that perhaps, should’ve come most naturally, but didn’t.
Sing.
Who me? No way. I’d always been pathologically afraid of the microphone; of crowds staring at me, waiting for me to open my mouth, forget the lyrics, sing off key, and generally make a fool of myself. That’s exactly what happened a thousand years ago when I first stepped on stage. That disaster has stuck with me and being shy hasn’t help either. I much preferred to keep my mouth shut and let my fingers do the talking and singing. Much more limiting, but much safer.
I’ve been fortunate to work around and with some of the most talented singer/songwriters Austin has ever known. As sweet as most of them are, they can also be super intimidating—and man I was often very intimidated. I’d stay in my lane as a player and producer and not for an instant imagine anything else. That was the deal I made with myself. But somehow that slowly began to change. For I wasn’t just hanging out and working with them—I was learning from them, not in any direct master apprentice framework but by osmosis. With each song arranged, produced, performed and recorded I received a motherlode of inspiration and wisdom. Wisdom that went in all directions. Slowly but surely, I was beginning to catch the fever.
Late in my career, little by little in closed rooms—I began to sing. And I quickly found out how difficult it all is; to find the song that suits you, to find the key that works, the tuning, the arrangement, and finally, how hard to learn the damn lyrics. And all that difficulty is compounded if you’re writing the song as well. I also began to experience, in dribs and drabs, how rewarding and healing it all could be. I was certainly no great vocal talent, but there was something there, and I could at least count on my guitaring to provide an interesting subtext. So I kept trying my hand and voice at it, realizing, with a gulp, that I would also someday need to overcome my fear of microphones and start writing my own songs in earnest.
Well, you know what they say about how to eat an elephant.
The Kitchen Table Project came along a couple of years ago, just at the right time, quite organically—and I crossed over into some new place that finally felt safe, that felt like home. It came about in the way many transformative artistic breakthroughs happen. My life kind of depended on it. I was in the darkest place I’d ever been in all my long life and desperately needing solace and connection—I discovered that if I sat at the kitchen table and worked up a song and then sang and played it into my iPhone—my day had some kind of meaning, my heart felt a measure of relief. It became a necessary daily meditation. A daily battle with hard truths that told my story. It was my Hamburg period, my meeting at the crossroads, my time to climb the farthest mountain. It went on for months. Later I realized that the best songs I’d captured were good enough to make an album, an iPhone album (Stories from the Kitchen Table, coming soon). It was immediate and fresh and presented in the simple time-honored platform of guitar and voice. The Kitchen Table sessions gave me the main thing I needed—confidence.
As I worked through all those songs something amazing began to happen. My brain somehow magically split into two independent units; one to handle the intricate guitar work, the other to sing and tell a story. I knew that’s how it was done, but I had no first-hand knowledge…and believe me first-hand knowledge is a horse of a different color, and like Dorothy with the ruby slippers and no place like home—I think I could always have gone there.
Better late than never.
I added a new wrinkle over the past year—capturing a video performance for Instagram (chuckpinnell6) that is pleasing to the eye and the ear. A new medium, a new host of insecurities, and a new frontier to conquer. The songs I’ve included in this post are a sampling of those efforts; (two covers and three originals).
Dancing in the Dark.
I had begun by singing in a closed room, then brought it out to the kitchen table—now I was inviting the world to watch. The Instagram posts were getting a decent response, nothing huge but enough to give me some encouragement. And then along came my attempt at These Days, Jackson Brown’s great ode to lost love (that he wrote at 16)—out of nowhere it collected over 900 hearts in a 24-hour period (on Instagram’s Threads). Not earth shattering by any means—but for a guy who wondered if even one person would appreciate his singing and who still hasn’t sung onstage—it felt a little like the heavens were parting. Subsequent posts were up a bit but nothing close to These Days. Kind of a mystery but certain songs and certain performances just land. Like everything else in life—its a long process and you better enjoy the ride—and take the wins when they come.
The Morning is Yours. (Original)
So, what have I learned and what would I teach to others?
You must both sing and story from your core. Relax, trust yourself, and inhabit the song. Good diction leads to a clear vision. Pitch and volume are controlled by air. Make sure you always have a full sail at the beginning of a phrase but understand big emotions don’t always come from big notes, look for the quiet moments hiding underneath. When it comes to turning in a performance that catches an audience’s ear and heart—embrace the chaos of the moment—that is where you will find your best and truest originality.
And sing the truth, no matter how hard.
Ok, this is where I go all Hemingway.
When You Start Again. (Original)
I had thought the biggest hurtle would be my fear of the microphone. But low and behold, from the moment I first sang through an old worn Shure 58, I realized the microphone and the PA were my friends, not my enemies.
Well, just shows to go you, we rarely fear the right monster!
So, when will I be hitting the stage to display my awesomeness!? Haha, good question! Maybe never. I didn’t travel this road so I could sing at the Inn, or even the Palace. I mainly just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, and learning to sing and write is its own reward. Besides, there is one last beast to slay. I’ve gotten good at the one-off, but how on earth do you hold a whole night’s worth of songs in your head? All the lyrics and all the music!? And I am at the age where I could legitimately retire to the back deck and avoid any further Quixotic journeys.
But…
I suppose I have come this far for a reason; I might just solve the final issue and go the distance. Ok, that’s probably too Hollywood, too Rocky VI or VII, too 20 Feet From Stardom—but maybe there’s room for some little quirky indie film in there somewhere!
