The ride to releasing this record was not a smooth one. A bumpy jaunt across the desert on a narcoleptic donkey would be more accurate.
Nonetheless, we made it.
I recorded the album with Kevin Salem, a wonderful guitarist and producer, and now, a good friend.
The truth is, Kevin wasn’t my first choice. He wasn’t even my second.
It all started two years ago, when I applied for an Artist-in-Residence at an artist enclave in Hollywood. The house was called The Castle, a six bedroom mansion overlooking downtown Los Angeles, run by a non-profit artist collective called The Alchemy. I was coming up on two years since releasing my last album, which is when artists usually go back into the studio.
Except I wasn’t writing.
Antsy to release new material, I decided I’d back myself into a corner. I’d heard that the best writers out of Nashville wrote with other artists - so I figured I would cowrite, too. My goal was to spend a month in LA and find fifteen songwriters to collaborate with. At the end of the residency, I’d perform all 15 songs for my friends and fans at The Castle. It was EXTREME SONGWRITING. Then I’d reach out to my dream record producer, he’d fall in love with my music, and together, we’d make a career-changing record.
We’ll call this producer Dave. Dave worked with one of my favorite songwriters, and had made the kinds of albums I put on in the car on first dates to seem indie and hip. Dave lived in Williamsburg before it was cool and had a sort-of-famous wife. I really, really wanted to work with Dave.
The day after I won the residency, I emailed Dave to set up a meeting to discuss recording the songs I hadn’t written yet, and then got to work. The only problem was, I knew no one in LA. I spent weeks setting up writing dates for the residency; sending awkward emails to friends of friends and getting brushed off by music publishers who’d never heard of me.
When it was all said and done, I’d cobbled together 13 songwriters to collaborate with.
I got to LA, and every day from 9AM-6PM (and often late into the night), I waited for a songwriter to show up, so we could write a song. Sometimes, they didn’t, and I’d struggle to finish a song on my own. By the end of the two weeks I’d somehow finished 10 songs.
I invited a big group of friends to the house where I’d done the residency, and at the end we did a big showcase where I performed all the songs. It was incredible. I was sure I’d written my first batch of hits.
A day or two later, I stood in front of Dave’s two-story home in Santa Monica, acoustic guitar in hand. I wore my favorite first-date black dress and my mother’s Egyptian necklace. I rang the doorbell and wondered if I’d put on too much perfume.
When he answered the door I looked at his long, tousled grey hair and dirty skinny jeans and realized I’d overdressed.
I walked into his living room, where his kid’s toys were strewn about the floor.
“Do you want me to play some of the songs?” I asked, nonchalantly.
“No. I don’t like to do that, it’s awkward. You can email them,” he replied.
I felt like an amateur. Like one of those teeny-boppers who shows up to an American Idol audition hoping to get signed by a big fancy record label.
Instead, we talked about living in Brooklyn, his production style and bass players.
“What’s your budget for the record?” he asked.
“$30,000” I said. That was a lie.
“That’s a decent budget. How soon?” he asked.
“Meh, a few months” I said, coolly. Also a lie.
I tried to seem casual, but on the inside, my chest was pounding. I’d never even made a record for half that.
I had no idea how I’d come up with that amount of money, but I figured a high number would keep him from kicking me out of his living room. I went home that night and emailed him demos of every half-decent song I’d written.
Two years worth of material, plus what I’d written during the residency. Then, I waited.
A few weeks later, he called. “If you want to record now, I could work with four of them.”
My songwriting needed work, he told me. My metaphors were off.
I sat on my bed in Brooklyn, listening to him break down the weaknesses in each song, mortified.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he told me, “when I was a musician back in New York I got criticism that burned me so bad I didn’t touch my instrument for nine months. Please don’t do that."
I assured him I wouldn’t. I would go right back to writing. I would come back a better and stronger writer, and surely send him new batches of songs as they appeared.
We would make this record.
Then I dusted off my shoulders, and didn’t touch my guitar for six months.
Looking back, there’s no way I could’ve anticipated what was to come...
With so much love,
Aly
P. S. To celebrate Hungry Ghost’s official release (FRIDAY!!), I’m sharing a series of short stories about the album. This is the first. If you want to help get the album on the charts, Pre-order it here. More to come....
"
Nonetheless, we made it.
I recorded the album with Kevin Salem, a wonderful guitarist and producer, and now, a good friend.
The truth is, Kevin wasn’t my first choice. He wasn’t even my second.
It all started two years ago, when I applied for an Artist-in-Residence at an artist enclave in Hollywood. The house was called The Castle, a six bedroom mansion overlooking downtown Los Angeles, run by a non-profit artist collective called The Alchemy. I was coming up on two years since releasing my last album, which is when artists usually go back into the studio.
Except I wasn’t writing.
Antsy to release new material, I decided I’d back myself into a corner. I’d heard that the best writers out of Nashville wrote with other artists - so I figured I would cowrite, too. My goal was to spend a month in LA and find fifteen songwriters to collaborate with. At the end of the residency, I’d perform all 15 songs for my friends and fans at The Castle. It was EXTREME SONGWRITING. Then I’d reach out to my dream record producer, he’d fall in love with my music, and together, we’d make a career-changing record.
We’ll call this producer Dave. Dave worked with one of my favorite songwriters, and had made the kinds of albums I put on in the car on first dates to seem indie and hip. Dave lived in Williamsburg before it was cool and had a sort-of-famous wife. I really, really wanted to work with Dave.
The day after I won the residency, I emailed Dave to set up a meeting to discuss recording the songs I hadn’t written yet, and then got to work. The only problem was, I knew no one in LA. I spent weeks setting up writing dates for the residency; sending awkward emails to friends of friends and getting brushed off by music publishers who’d never heard of me.
When it was all said and done, I’d cobbled together 13 songwriters to collaborate with.
I got to LA, and every day from 9AM-6PM (and often late into the night), I waited for a songwriter to show up, so we could write a song. Sometimes, they didn’t, and I’d struggle to finish a song on my own. By the end of the two weeks I’d somehow finished 10 songs.
I invited a big group of friends to the house where I’d done the residency, and at the end we did a big showcase where I performed all the songs. It was incredible. I was sure I’d written my first batch of hits.
A day or two later, I stood in front of Dave’s two-story home in Santa Monica, acoustic guitar in hand. I wore my favorite first-date black dress and my mother’s Egyptian necklace. I rang the doorbell and wondered if I’d put on too much perfume.
When he answered the door I looked at his long, tousled grey hair and dirty skinny jeans and realized I’d overdressed.
I walked into his living room, where his kid’s toys were strewn about the floor.
“Do you want me to play some of the songs?” I asked, nonchalantly.
“No. I don’t like to do that, it’s awkward. You can email them,” he replied.
I felt like an amateur. Like one of those teeny-boppers who shows up to an American Idol audition hoping to get signed by a big fancy record label.
Instead, we talked about living in Brooklyn, his production style and bass players.
“What’s your budget for the record?” he asked.
“$30,000” I said. That was a lie.
“That’s a decent budget. How soon?” he asked.
“Meh, a few months” I said, coolly. Also a lie.
I tried to seem casual, but on the inside, my chest was pounding. I’d never even made a record for half that.
I had no idea how I’d come up with that amount of money, but I figured a high number would keep him from kicking me out of his living room. I went home that night and emailed him demos of every half-decent song I’d written.
Two years worth of material, plus what I’d written during the residency. Then, I waited.
A few weeks later, he called. “If you want to record now, I could work with four of them.”
My songwriting needed work, he told me. My metaphors were off.
I sat on my bed in Brooklyn, listening to him break down the weaknesses in each song, mortified.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he told me, “when I was a musician back in New York I got criticism that burned me so bad I didn’t touch my instrument for nine months. Please don’t do that."
I assured him I wouldn’t. I would go right back to writing. I would come back a better and stronger writer, and surely send him new batches of songs as they appeared.
We would make this record.
Then I dusted off my shoulders, and didn’t touch my guitar for six months.
Looking back, there’s no way I could’ve anticipated what was to come...
With so much love,
Aly
P. S. To celebrate Hungry Ghost’s official release (FRIDAY!!), I’m sharing a series of short stories about the album. This is the first. If you want to help get the album on the charts, Pre-order it here. More to come....
"