She was nervous, and it showed from her raised shoulders to her rigid posture. Getting her to loosen up would be essential if this collaboration was to go well. Christmas lights reflected against the black windows, and stars began to backlight the high ridge of hills outside the window. Laura had been a music student of mine when she was young—she’d gone on from our early piano lessons to study violin and become a virtuoso on the instrument in the classical world. That was her background, and as highly skilled as she was, asking her to play away from the notes and jump into the pool of her own creativity to collaborate was giving her intense anxiety. Her energy was becoming more rigid and contained by the minute.

I was unsure if she would jump in or not. It would be brilliant, no doubt of it, if only I could coax her to jump.

We were working on a song I’d been writing that quoted a line from a film I’d grown up loving—Mary Poppins. Mid-movie, the chimney sweep (Dick Van Dyke) pauses and leans against his broom handle, singing wistfully into the grey skies,

I’d always loved the mysticism of those lines and that idea of suddenly sensing that your life was about to be swept away by some impending fate. It was a song that had turned into a lament about the power of fantasy in love, but I needed a new voice and musician before it would be finished. After struggling for a minute at the acoustic piano, we went downstairs, where my recording equipment was set up.

Our headphones were on, levels were set, and finally, she could hear herself in the mic. I could feel her starting to loosen up. The room began to fill with that familiar spark of electricity that appears at the edges of creativity. It was going to be good…

“Can I just play through without recording first?” she asked, lifting a headphone off one ear.

“Actually, we are just going to let it run,” I smiled and hit record.

She frowned, “But I’m not ready.”

“Mkay. We won’t keep this, no worries. Just getting levels,” I lied reassuringly, knowing we’d probably end up keeping a take she thought would be burned.

She tensed, “Just let me hear it again.”

I shook my head. “Nope, let’s just run it. Play whatever you feel. It doesn’t matter what comes out. Don’t worry about hitting specific notes. Just let it flow.” I hit play and put on my headphones.

Her shoulders raised tensely. “But Willa—”

But then I pulled that “Bows up” power move that conductors do and raised both hands with palms down, holding my baton (Apple pencil) in my right hand. Her words stopped mid-protest, and automatically, like a little music soldier, she fit her violin to her shoulder, bow up, eyes trained on me.

And so, the music began.

We recorded for one brilliant hour, doing takes from end to end of the song. I tossed a few pieces but kept most of it because, just like I suspected, she had beautiful melodies within her that soared with the vocals in a way that was effortless and unrehearsed. She possessed the spark in full measure, and the spark possessed her. As the takes went on, she began to smile, and her energy began to flow uninhibited into what she was creating until she took my breath away. By the end, we were both laughing at how good she was at this, and she was marking on the lyrics, countering my ideas and interpretation enthusiastically, writing and rewriting, and taking greater risks with these beautiful, soaring solos.

We finished, and she begged me to send her the track when it was mixed, thanking me again for pushing her to see what she would do.

“So, this is what you do now?” she said, dark eyes glowing at me as she put away her instrument.

“What do you mean?” I asked, closing the track and turning to her.

The buckles clicked on the case, and her eyes met mine. “Songwriting. Collaborating. This is what you do with your DRIFTSONG. ”

I laughed. “‘My DRIFTSONG,’ haha. Yeah. This is what I get to do.”

“Well, it’s really special. I mean, didn’t know I could do all that,” She gestured in a broad arch and grinned. “You’re good, you know. Really good. This suits you.”

It did suit me. Truly.

Your turn
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