http://www.regiehamm.com Commentary and thoughts from recording artist and songwriter, Regie Hamm Tue, 7 Sep 2010 09:52:19 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com My dad used to say, "Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to go tonight." We're hard wired to stay alive. Every living thing is. I personally admire and am in awe of the survival instinct. Humans can survive incredible things and come out on the other side relatively unscathed. Why? Why are we programmed to live? Why do we not just spontaneously cease to exist when there are suddenly too many of us or if we suddenly find ourselves with some disability? I believe the spark of life is divine and sacred. The older I get the more amazed I am at life and its absolute wonder. Even sex, which is so often scoffed at by some as "dirty" or something to be stringently controlled, is such a part of that wondrous journey. Though I am a proponent of monogamous relationships and keeping the act in its proper place, I believe the drive that propels life is beautiful. All life is beautiful. This week I toured a science research lab at Vanderbilt University. My newfound position of helping people with Angelman Syndrome has given me access to the intriguing to say the least. I walked through lab after lab and watched people from varying backgrounds, of various races and genders, looking through microscopes, manipulating cells and organisms and speaking in phrases so foreign to me and over my head, they might as well have been a different language all together. The building blocks of life were in small jars and canisters and those uber-smart folks were all on the same quest; find out what those building blocks do and how they do it. I was beyond fascinated. Under the right conditions, life will grow in a jar. The "hows" certainly interest me but the "whys" are my real passion. Why are we here? Are all of us supposed to be here? Do some of us deserve to NOT be here? Are any of us accidents? These are the questions that haunt all of humanity. I was just reading about a Christian Lebanese girl who was the victim of an Islamic terrorist attack and was trapped in the rubble of a building for 2 days, forced to drink her own blood to survive. Suddenly, the news broke about James Jay Lee, hostage taker, eco-terrorist and angry critic of the Discover Channel. I read through Mister Lee's list of demands for the channel, eleven in all. In a strange way, he isn't unlike the people who were trying to blow up that little girl. Just wrapped in different clothes. The overriding theme of Mr. Lee's angst was the fact that (in his view) there are simply too many parasitic humans (or as he calls them, "filthy human children") on the planet. He seemed to think it would be best for all concerned if we simply killed most of our population off to leave room for more worthy inhabitants - animals and such (after all, animals aren't filthy and they live in total harmony without any savagery or brutality). He then went on to rant about how The D Channel should stop promoting weapons of war and destruction and promote peace. Interesting contradiction. I don't know if anyone ever told Mr. Lee, but war is actually a good way to kill off lots of "filthy humans." He seems to have had conflicting agendas. You see, war is kind of like how we vote people off the island. If you want to conquer the world and oppress people with whom you disagree, a war will sometimes break out. Whoever wins that war wins the argument. Period. The global community tolerated Nazis until they started picking fights and committing genocide. That was our cue that they simply had to go. If they had won, we, the free and opinionated, would've faded into history, never to be heard from again. The same holds true of the American Civil war and many other conflicts. Still, anytime people start talking about thinning the human herd, I get nervous. There are so many eco-groups that call for less population, it's part of their whole platform. It all sounds good in theory until someone's hauling your father off in a train car to the gas chamber because he busted a hip. I know that sounds alarmist but that's how these things start. Read a little history and you'll know. Most people who think the herd should be thinned also have very specific ideas on WHO (in said herd) should be thinned. If you come to my house looking to thin anyone under MY roof, war will most certainly break out. I don't believe in human parasites. I don't believe we should stop reproducing and go back to mud huts. I believe in the soul and in the individual. I believe the only problem with humans is what goes on between their ears and what happens in their hearts. Our spirit is reaching for something and our great human story is rushing toward a spectacular conclusion. The wonders of the world are waiting to be dwarfed by new breath and new hope. That hope courses through the veins of our children. If you don't know that, I don't know how you get through the day. James Jay Lee allowed himself to be the victim of a lie and he, in turn, created more victims in its wake. In the end, he was ultimately thinned out of our human herd by a sharp shooter. I guess he got what he wanted - one less disturbed parasite on the planet. I find that ironic. R Tue, 7 Sep 2010 09:52:19 GMT Tue, 7 Sep 2010 09:52:19 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com I had lunch today with an old and dear friend of mine. He is quite possible the best guitarist you've ever heard and no doubt one of the 10 best in the country. This isn't hyperbole. He has played on literally hundreds of popular records you would know, and if I named the artists he has been behind on stage as well as recording, it would sound like a name-dropping fest. He's in the middle of his life and wrestling with what to do next in his journey. He makes great money and is at the top of his profession but now he wants to see a greater meaning and purpose to his existence than just nailing the perfect take or finding a monster tone. I know exactly how he feels and we talk about these things as fellow travelers who are at the same place in the road. Still, he is special. No matter where his life takes him, he carries with him a rare gift. If he decides to give up music as a profession and become a car salesman, he'll be the guy in the sales office who can pick up a flat top guitar and move his customers to tears. My parting admonishment to him was to always be responsible to his gift no matter what. God gave it to him and to whom much is given, much is required. I believe that. I love to watch people go for their dreams. It's one of the guiding principles and themes of my life - chase the dream. I've been fortunate to chase and catch a few of my own. I am surrounded daily by people who honed their skills, took a big swing at something and knocked it out of the park. I live and move in a world of top tier, high functioning talent and I won't lie - it's amazing. It's easy to become a bit snobbish about such things when you're used to a certain level of performance. When I was producing records round-the-clock we used to have a mantra in the studio. "We're going a hundred miles an hour in here. Even if you're going 98 miles an hour - you'll still get run over." In other words, zero tolerance for anything the least bit sub par. I can't say I always achieved that ...but my brilliant friends always did. As a student of history, I've always been intrigued by convergence. When a group of people find themselves in the same place and time in history, with the same goals and points of view and the same level of enlightenment, you have convergence. We see it in the Christian reformation, the founding of the United States, the American Civil War, the industrial revolution, WWII, the birth of rock-n-roll and on and on it goes. I think the music of Motown was a convergence. I was in a Detroit Motown memorabilia shop recently and was amazed at how many iconic artists and musicians went through that system. I've always wanted to be a part of a convergence, and in some ways, I think maybe I have been. The collective musical genius found in the city of Nashville is, in my view, unprecedented. The mild mannered nature of the city and its residents is so understated that there will probably never be much fan fare about it. Nashville isn't great news fodder even when it floods, but there is a collection of composers and musicians here that is akin to Vienna in the 1700's, New York's Tin Pan Alley in the early 1900's, Laurel Canyon in the '70's, or Seattle in the '90's. I'm not sure people fully realize what the inner circle of writers and musicians can accomplish in this town before 6 pm. I can literally throw darts into my black book and assemble a rhythm section that would be able to track a legit funk track at 10 am, a legit, stone country track at 10:45 am, a balls out rock track at 11:17, and nail a power ballad by 12:12. Go to lunch, check Blackberries and Iphones, go back to the studio and do it again until dinner. It's amazing to watch and hear and I'm thankful everyday I've been allowed to "grow up" with these guys in the music biz. I thought I'd simply take time to say thank you to the gifted people I've worked with over the years who have taught me so much and helped me become something better than I was. "God bless the boys who make the noise on 16th avenue!" R Wed, 1 Sep 2010 20:24:50 GMT Wed, 1 Sep 2010 20:24:50 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com I do a fair amount of interviews and media appearances but not enough to become a household name. I feel totally comfortable in my place on the planet. I kind of like being somewhere on the fringes of notoriety without the expectations, responsibilities or scrutiny of full-fledged celebrity. I have somehow found myself able to make a living doing something I love, retaining complete autonomy over my art and schedule, and still maintaining enough recognition to keep it going from year to year. I'm in a good place. Because of the space I occupy in the creative universe, I don't get all up in arms over being on TV or radio or the internet. I'm comfy in front of a camera and behind a microphone but I'm no media darling and I kind of like flying just far enough under the radar to be able to poke my head up from time to time and tell the world I'm still around with something new they might be interested in. Then I go back to my little observation perch and my almost serene existence. Every so often, however, something comes up that actually makes my blood race a little faster and gets me excited to actually leave the house and board a plane. Wednesday night (actually Thursday morning) is one of those nights. I'll be a first-time guest on the late night panel/discussion show Red Eye, on the Fox News channel. Because I'm often up at 2 in the morning and there usually isn't anything worth watching on the tube, I tend to look for anything a little off-beat. I stumbled on this show a couple of years ago and thought it was an interesting premise. A panel of predominantly young, hip pundents discussing the topics of the day and commenting on everything from politics to pop culture. The host (Greg Gutfeld) plows through blocks A to D with rapid-fire copy, peppered with quick wit and acerbic sarcasm, all the while feigning hostility for his two cohorts, Bill Shultz and "TV's Andy Levy" (which is the best monicker ever!). Each segment gets bookended with some strange viral video that routinely involves kittens or puppies or something with a latent homosexual overtone. What makes this little night cap more interesting than most is its positioning on the Fox News Channel, which is considered to be the "conservative" news channel. In that universe, you wouldn't expect such blatant flirtation with the edge of what's appropriate on commercial TV. You might not expect succinct, informed and diverse points of view (especially at that hour), and you certainly wouldn't expect first rate comic relief. You might not expect very put together and coifed blondes, brunettes and red-heads who hold your visual attention ...but then again it's Fox ...so yes, you probably would (and there's NOTHING wrong with that!). Red Eye offers all of those things. It's almost the perfectly designed show for someone with my sensibilities. Conservative leaning but not prudish - topical and informed but not elitist - biting but not mean spirited. When in doubt, the show always goes for the joke and not the jugular. That's a show I can get behind. I'm excited to be doing Red Eye and I only hope I can hold my own on the panel and not embarrass myself or my family and friends. When my publicist asked me what shows I really wanted to do in the promotion of the book and CD, I told her the show I thought would really be fun to do would be this little-known show, on the air when everyone's asleep, called Red Eye. Now my obscure, wee-hours-of-the morning induced fascination is a reality. If you're up for any reason at that hour, tune in. If not, DVR it and watch in the cool light of day. I think you'll find it fun and entertaining ...and if you don't, you're a racist homophobe who hates pancakes and baseball! R Wed, 25 Aug 2010 04:06:53 GMT Wed, 25 Aug 2010 04:06:53 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com I do a fair amount of interviews and media appearances but not enough to become a household name. I feel totally comfortable in my place on the planet. I kind of like being somewhere on the fringes of notoriety without the expectations, responsibilities or scrutiny of full-fledged celebrity. I have somehow found myself able to make a living doing something I love, retaining complete autonomy over my art and schedule, and still maintaining enough recognition to keep it going from year to year. I'm in a good place. Because of the space I occupy in the creative universe, I don't get all up in arms over being on TV or radio or the internet. I'm comfy in front of a camera and behind a microphone but I'm no media darling and I kind of like flying just far enough under the radar to be able to poke my head up from time to time and tell the world I'm still around with something new they might be interested in. Then I go back to my little observation perch and my almost serene existence. Every so often, however, something comes up that actually makes my blood race a little faster and gets me excited to actually leave the house and board a plane. Wednesday night (actually Thursday morning) is one of those nights. I'll be a first-time guest on the late night panel/discussion show Red Eye, on the Fox News channel. Because I'm often up at 2 in the morning and there usually isn't anything worth watching on the tube, I tend to look for anything a little off-beat. I stumbled on this show a couple of years ago and thought it was an interesting premise. A panel of predominantly young, hip pundents discussing the topics of the day and commenting on everything from politics to pop culture. The host (Greg Gutfeld) plows through blocks A to D with rapid-fire copy, peppered with quick wit and acerbic sarcasm, all the while feigning hostility for his two cohorts, Bill Shultz and "TV's Andy Levy" (which is the best monicker ever!). Each segment gets bookended with some strange viral video that routinely involves kittens or puppies or something with a latent homosexual overtone. What makes this little night cap more interesting than most is its positioning on the Fox News Channel, which is considered to be the "conservative" news channel. In that universe, you wouldn't expect such blatant flirtation with the edge of what's appropriate on commercial TV. You might not expect succinct, informed and diverse points of view (especially at that hour), and you certainly wouldn't expect first rate comic relief. You might not expect very put together and coifed blondes, brunettes and red-heads who hold your visual attention ...but then again it's Fox ...so yes, you probably would (and there's NOTHING wrong with that!). Red Eye offers all of those things. It's almost the perfectly designed show for someone with my sensibilities. Conservative leaning but not prudish - topical and informed but not elitist - biting but not mean spirited. When in doubt, the show always goes for the joke and not the jugular. That's a show I can get behind. I'm excited to be doing Red Eye and I only hope I can hold my own on the panel and not embarrass myself or my family and friends. When my publicist asked me what shows I really wanted to do in the promotion of the book and CD, I told her the show I thought would really be fun to do would be this little-known show, on the air when everyone's asleep, called Red Eye. Now my obscure, wee-hours-of-the morning induced fascination is a reality. If you're up for any reason at that hour, tune in. If not, DVR it and watch in the cool light of day. I think you'll find it fun and entertaining ...and if you don't, you're a racist homophobe who hates pancakes and baseball! R Wed, 25 Aug 2010 04:05:32 GMT Wed, 25 Aug 2010 04:05:32 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com In 2003, I returned from SARS riddled China, where my wife and I had defied both the World Health Organization and the CDC to travel there and adopt our little girl, and where I had endured my own SARS scare for three weeks. My record label and PR firm (at the time) thought our adventure would be a great human interest story for the press. Once SARS didn't actually kill anyone in the U.S, however, they promptly told me (and I quote) "SARS isn't hot anymore, we'll have to move to something else." That's kind of how the American press operates. They're chasing viewers and readers and so they look for the most controversial, the most salacious, the most sensational thing they can find. Once it strikes a nerve, that's all you're going to see or hear about for a while (OJ anyone?). Once it runs its course, good luck getting anymore information on it anywhere (bird flu still bothering anybody?). My publicist and I had a conversation last week about upcoming press events regarding my current book and CD. She casually mentioned that many of the news shows are only running "ground zero mosque" stories. Once again, it's a hot topic right now. So, I thought I'd break from my tradition of being oblique and looking for the shadow angle, and actually directly comment on something right on the front page ...right now. Ground Zero mosque ...where do I begin? Just after 9/11 I had a song out called "Infidels." It was a tongue-in-cheek laundry list of everyone in western culture who would be considered by Islam to be an infidel, worthy of death. The point was to show the good and bad of what people become when they're given freedom to be their own person and follow their own path. I juxtaposed baseball great Billy Martin and Billy Graham (a comparison that raised the eyebrows of more than a few fundamentalists). Musical genius Randy Newman and A-bomb dropper Harry Truman were placed in the same phrase as well as Ted Danson and "all them boys in Hanson. These were all attempts to show the beauty and texture of a diverse society and how I think that's really a good thing. I listed Muhammad Ali and many said that was faulty because he WAS a Muslim. Well trust me my friends, I'm a highly trained professional and I never do something like this without doing my research. I learned a long time ago not to shoot your mouth off until it's fully loaded ...that sounds kind of gross ...but I digress. In October of 2001, before writing "Infidels," I had a long conversation with a dear friend of mine who has been a missionary in Muslim countries for over 20 years. I was curious about this religion that so many of us in the west are still grappling with. My friend has actually risked his life to smuggle bibles into Turkey. He has actually lost contact with other missionaries who have been presumed beheaded because of their preaching the gospel (good news) of Jesus Christ. He knows more than anyone I've ever seen on TV or talked to about the nation of Islam and he told me some very interesting things. I had been reading the Quran to try and familiarize myself with this enigmatic religion. I told him what I had been doing and he just started laughing. He said, "don't bother Reg. The truth is true Muslims know that the Quran must only be read in Arabic for it to really be understood. Our western translations don't get to the heart of it. You can read all you want but it won't matter. Also, westernized Muslims are looked down upon as "low Muslims" in the true Islamic countries. Ali, Farrakhan, Malcolm X - all of them - are seen as useful idiots by those nations, and after the Jews and the western devils are all dead, they'll be killing all those sincere young, American black men in bow ties as well. Islam is about bloodlines and birthrights and politics and essentially global Sharia law on a globe populated only by Arabs who pray to Mecca five times a day. We'll never be nice enough or tolerant enough or good enough negotiators to break that belief. I'm sorry to say they draw the hard line in the sand. We can only win by hoping and praying as many people as possible are actually allowed to taste freedom and make their own choices. Then, that's where Jesus comes in. It's about the individual and the heart and it transcends politics." His words were brilliant, insightful and inspirational for me. The next week I wrote Infidels and have played it proudly all over this country. Some have told me that song is going to get me killed one day. I've thought about that once or twice and the same thing always pops in my mind, "how screwed up is it that we're ALL scared of this religion?" I'm an equal opportunity insultist. I have real problems with most organized religion as a general rule. I love and believe in Jesus only because of HIM and not the religion that sprang up in his name. My relationship with "the church" is fragile at best, but I think Jesus is the light of the world and the only hope for mankind. Having said that, if I poke fun at Christianity or criticize it in any way, my only fear is that a church might not book me as a guest or I'll get reprimanded by some well-meaning Baptist. If I make fun of the Jews, my only fear is that some key components will be "overlooked" in my next contract negotiation (only kidding - of course I don't think all Jews are lawyers - although a couple of mine have been and I love you guys). But the only religious people on earth that make me fear for my life ...are Muslims. So, how do I feel about the ground zero mosque? Well, ultimately I would have to say that as strange and eerie as it might be for them to be there, they have every right to be. But I'll pretty much guarantee that that mosque, on sacred American soil, won't drive any Americans to climb into 747s and fly them into buildings in Saudi Arabia. The last few years have brought us face to face with our deepest fears and most core beliefs. In the years following 9/11, I realized that I was a full-fledged westerner who loves freedom and believes all faith should have to win out in the sometimes diabolical arena of ideas and transform the human condition in more ways than outward legalism. For me, that's what Jesus did. He told us to render to Caesar what was Caesar's - in other words, "I'm not here to bring you a political message. I'm bringing a spiritual message." He told us to cast the first stone if we were without sin. In other words, "I'm leaving you the choice. If you think you're worthy and have no sin, kill the woman. But deep down you know you're as much a sinner as she is." The genius of Jesus has confounded generations, built nations and religious power structures, but ultimately always leaves us wrestling with ourselves and needing his redemption. The fact that Jesus was about love and not just some kind of nebulous "peace" nor was he simply the animating character for those who want political social justice is the fact that keeps him relevant and squarely in the middle of the ongoing conversation. He constantly called us all out individually and forced us to examine ourselves in the light of love. As much of a punch line as it has become, I actually like the notion of asking what would Jesus do. The truth is, most of us (myself included) don't really know, nor could we achieve it if we tried. Jesus, faced with the prospect of being beheaded in the name of Allah, would probably lay his head down willingly and tell the executioner he loved him while having his neck sawed in two. In his last breath, he would pray for God to forgive the murderers, for they know not what they do. I'm sure I wouldn't do that but that's why I love Jesus. The most brilliant thing I've seen regarding the mosque and its controversy so far, is Greg Gutfeld's (Fox News's Red Eye host) idea to open a gay bar next door to the mosque in an attempt at diversity and dialogue. I actually think this is a great idea. If you're gay, why not confront the religion that wants you exterminated instead of just constantly protesting the one that doesn't want you to get married. If that bar was next door to a Christian church, the patrons might get dirty looks and slurs shouted at them. They probably wouldn't be allowed to hold their wedding in that church and might even get in a scuffle or two with some of the parishioners. Depending on the attitude of the congregation, any number of things could happen, from violence to, even possibly, acceptance. God knows there are all kinds of Christians out there. I really want to believe the same can be said of Muslims. I saw a Muslim couple in the mall today and they looked like very nice people. It just seems like an awful lot of them are hell bent on killing people like me. So, until I see a Muslim tolerance revival sweeping the country and ANY Imam publicly apologizing to Israel and all the western countries who are periodically terrorized by "extremists, I'll remain a bit skeptical. I know that's probably not how Jesus would feel. He'd love them and embrace them with no fear. Me? I'm trying to love everybody, but sometimes I still get a little scared of getting killed for being a smart-ass infidel R Mon, 16 Aug 2010 08:48:21 GMT Mon, 16 Aug 2010 08:48:21 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com Dear Mr Smith ... It's no secret that I'm a fan of the NFL. Every fall I talk about it on this blog site and It's the only thing I follow in the world of sports. I've been vocal and public in my opinions on pro baseball. My three-year-old son already exhibits uncanny baseball skills (almost hitting one over our backyard fence this past Friday!) and I will happily watch him stare down major league pitchers in 20 years or so. But until then, it's a third rate snore-fest for me. I don't follow college football either, mainly because I simply don't have the time to sit around a card table with ex-frat guys, smoking cigars six days a week, and extrapolate all of the billions of scenarios that could occur in the BCS ranking system. I have a life and a career and no time for this. I want to watch one team play another team and lose or win. That is all. Please don't talk to me about the nuance of the rankings, different conferences, strength of schedule, recruiting style, school history, and (for the love of all that's holy) please don't go into money and unfair advantages based on it, blah blah blah. If 11 guys line up against 11 other guys and get beat, the other 11 guys are a better team. I don't care how it happened, who coached them, what their grade point averages were, how everybody got there or if some guys were smaller or disadvantaged or whatever. I'm pretty Darwinian when it comes to athletics. You either win or lose ...period. Black, white, red, yellow, green ...whatever. Sports is the great equalizer. You can either hit the 30-foot jumper or you can't. You can either throw a 50-yard pass through a tire ...or you can't. So, when college football moves to where college basketball is and there's November or December madness and a straight, sudden death playoff ...I'll be glued to the screen. Until then, they can play the Nabisco Oreo Cookie Bowl without me. I have no interest. We humans are driven by a mysterious force called inspiration. I can't tell you what it is or why it's important but it's the thing that brings tears to our eyes and gives us chill bumps when we don't know why. Inspiration makes us change direction, re-think the status quo and go another mile we might not have normally gone. Inspiration empties our adrenal glands on an average Sunday and makes us pace around the house like a tiger or jump up and down and pump our fists in the air. It strikes that mysterious chord in our soul that lets us know we're alive and connects us to every other human on the planet on some primal, ancient level. Almost no other human endeavor inspires us like sports. There are pictures of me wearing a football uniform at the age of 2. I've always loved the game. People have told me I was a warrior in another life because I'm drawn to strategic violence. I love the precision and grace juxtaposed against the sheer brutality of a football game. My childhood dream was to one day play professional football for the Dallas Cowboys. I studied and practiced and ran mile after mile through the summer leading up to my first junior high tryout. In the sweltering months of August (nineteen-seventy-something), I made the Bradley Junior High School football team ...and promptly got fluid buildup on both knees, putting me on the sidelines in knee braces. My father, citing that my gifted, musical hands were far too important to be ground up like hamburger meat on a football field, insisted that I would only be allowed to play one year of the sport. So, I quit the team that season and trained a full year to make another run the following fall. I lifted weights, stretched, ran and worked to get better and stronger. Sure enough, I was ready the next year and made the team as a full back. My knees, however, kept me watching from the sidelines yet again. Knowing this was my last chance to ever play organized football, I walked away from the game at fourteen, realizing I simply didn't have the body for it. I could either work harder to become an average and perpetually impaired football player, and still only get one season on the gridiron (maybe), or I could focus on my gifts and excel in music. I believe I ultimately made the right choice but to this day, watching football still brings up strange emotions in me and watching the Cowboys of the nineties always made me a bit melancholy. The Cowboys were my favorite team in my youth and the team I dreamed of playing for. When Troy, Michael and Emmitt arrived, they were the class I would've been in had I achieved my boyhood dream. I followed that team religiously and lived and died by their wins and losses. I felt a part of them in some strange way. Those guys were winning Super bowls and becoming household names. I once sat in a bar, IN DALLAS, with the co-owner of my publishing company, and bet a full year on my songwriting contract that they would win the NFC championship game ...and I wasn't EVEN kidding. He wouldn't take the bet because he knew they were going to win it too. I loved those guys. The game I'll never forget was the one in '94 against the Giants. Dallas had to win to get home field advantage for the playoffs. They had played more games than any other team in a two-year stretch and they were tired. They were feeling the weight of the microscopic scrutiny and constant pressure to be the best and you could see it taking it's toll. Emmitt Smith was carrying the team on his back and it seemed that with his supernatural strength, they would cruise to to the playoffs unscathed. Suddenly, he was driven to the ground, landing on his right shoulder, and began writhing in pain. He was taken to the locker room for x-rays and without him in the game, it suddenly became a dogfight. After halftime, the report from the announcer was that Emmitt had separated his shoulder and his return was improbable. I was crestfallen. But Emmitt's return was anything but questionable. He came back in the second half and played like a man possessed while defenders abused his right shoulder with impunity. I watched that man sacrifice himself for an entire half of football and tears welled up in my eyes. I knew he was in unspeakable pain and was actually putting his long-term health and career in jeopardy to help his team when they needed him most. Suddenly Emmitt Smith wasn't just playing a football game ...he was becoming an inspiration. Every time he would walk to the sidelines with that grimace of agony, I knew what he was doing. Anybody who's ever played the game on any level knew what he was doing. He was playing like it was the last game of his life ...like it was his last act on planet earth. On that day, Emmitt Smith became a personal hero of mine. When I've been at my lowest and almost unable to put one foot in front of the other, I've thought back on that game. There have been nights I've done gigs while feeling a kidney stone move down my side into my bladder. I've smiled and sung through it, all the while thinking of the time Emmitt Smith played a whole half of football with a separated shoulder. There were times I was up for days with my daughter and her condition and still pressed on to what needed to be done, thinking back on that game. It sounds about as corny it gets, but inspiration comes from the most unlikely places sometimes. For me, watching Emmitt Smith fight through his pain and become a legend has been a touchstone in many ways. I've had this recurring fantasy of running into him in an airport somewhere or winding up at some fundraiser, next to him at the table and getting the chance to tell him what that day and his actions have meant to me. It was about so much more than football. It was about heart, soul and character - a lesson in grit, determination and being responsible to the privileges one has been given. It was about being who you're supposed to be no matter what and doing what you were born to do even when you're in blinding pain. So far, my fantasy hasn't come true but I hope one day it will. This week, Mr Smith was inducted into the Pro Football Hall Of Fame, and deservedly so. I laughed and cried along with him while watching his speech. He carries the dashed hopes and broken dreams of all of us hopeful ten-year-old boys with him into that hall. But he also carries the undefinable spirit that all of us grown men hope we can attain. We all hope we can lay it all on the line when called upon and fight through ourselves for the ones we love and the ones who are counting on us. We all strive to live up to our full potential even when everything is raging against us and conventional wisdom tells us to be smart and quit for a while. We hope we won't quit - we hope we will press on. I thought it appropriate that I watched Emmitt's speech while at the gym, on a treadmill, running on a foot riddled with gout. While he was thanking people and accepting his place in football history, I was limping through pain, telling myself I could do it, trying to forget about the knives and the burning, refusing to quit and remembering a day in 1994 when one courageous young man on a football field inspired me. Thank you Emmitt ... R Mon, 9 Aug 2010 07:51:58 GMT Mon, 9 Aug 2010 07:51:58 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p>To be completely honest, I've had so many thoughts racing through my head for the past few weeks, and there has been so much in the world to comment on, I haven't been able to focus on one thing. I've been going out of my mind. I could write a blog every day - maybe two or three. I have responsibilities and schedules to keep and kids to play with, so I usually just try and pack one good punch in a week. But over the last 3, I simply haven't been able to narrow it down to one topic that doesn't unravel everything from race and white house firings (based on the possibility of being on Glenn Beck), to the economy that's supposed to be roaring back, to property rights issues. From the annoying transformation of gift-wrapped boxes with bows to the new practice of gift-bags stuffed with colored tissue paper to the disturbing ascendence of the ukelele on rock records. From the BP executive "getting his life back" and being sent to Russia (something I thought only happened on Hogan's Heroes), to the speaker of the house saying unemployment is a job creator (I actually got light-headed with giddiness with that one and almost passed out - just wait - it's too blog worthy to leave alone for long). Unable to narrow down the field, I've decided instead of taking a wrecking ball to current events and the state of the culture, I would simply do a semi-annual report (of sorts), on the state of things in my own little corner of the world.</o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>I've never really understood the Christmas card/newsletter phenomenon. Letting the world know what you've been up to seems kind of silly to me. I always wonder who really cares about such things. But it does seem to be a pretty common thread in the human experience. We all have a story to tell and a point of view to reflect and some of us will stop at nothing to make sure everybody knows it. So, in the spirit of passing along relatively useless information to those who are mildly interested (and maybe not even mildly), I thought the end of July would be a good time to do an update on the year that has been around here (so far), and the remainder that is to come. 2010 has definitely been eventful ...</o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>You know, January of any year is a bit like a hangover. You're still foggy from the endless partying and somehow you've mysteriously gained 20 pounds. Then you check your bank account and realize you have no money. You look around the house and say to yourself, "who made this mess? Where did all these toys come from? What's that tree doing in the living room? ....Oh look! The playoffs!" So you cut yourself another slice of the thing that packed on the 20 pounds, crack open another product that was also complicit in this action and zap more brain cells in front of the big screen - all the while learning about bigger trucks with more "payload" (I don't even know what payload is), and the ever advancing closer shave. No body gets anything done in January ...and neither do I.</o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>February is my least favorite of all months. Too cold - football season done - no holidays to look forward to except the dreaded Valentines Day - bain of all men's existence. If you've been a reader of this blog for the past few years, you know I despise these kinds of holidays and I think Valentine's Day is the most manipulative of all of them. Except for my grandmother and dad's birthdays, as well as one of my friend's, I can live without February. So, I spent January and February editing my book (Angels and Idols) and sequencing and mastering my CD (Set It On Fire). I thought all was moving nicely ...then came March ...</o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>As the weather warmed, I got this weird pain in my right foot. Suddenly, everytime I put my foot on the floor it was if a million Lilliputions were stabbing their tiny swords of death and fury into my right big toe and then pouring thimble's full of battery acid over the bones followed by torches doused in skin eating ants that rip the very flesh from the skeletal tissue ...and it began to swell. All of this was happening while my family was working through the great vomitation of 2010. Every person in my house got this stomach virus that brought on projectile regurgitation for three days. Mine came with a full case of gout, so walking to the bathroom every five minutes was a new experience in pain. After a week, all had subsided and the coast was clear - then on a Sunday night came the blinding pain I know all too well. I drove myself to the hospital in time to learn of my brand new 7mm kidney stone! 3 Surgeries and six days later I drove to Memphis and played 5 Easter services, where I can only hope the narcotics didn't impair my performances too much ...but I make no promises. </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>After returning to Nashville on Sunday night, I awoke on the first Monday in April and decided to go for my first good run (in over a month) on my newly healed feet. The first Tuesday in April I awoke unable to walk on the left foot ...gout. This back and forth tennis match of gout in both feet has been going on all summer. I take the meds and get well enough to fly and do press for the book/CD and then another flare will happen. I have received dozens of remedies from experts and armchair doctors alike, and have been initiated into the secret brotherhood of famous and/or semi-famous guys who don't want to publicly talk about their gout. Apparently it's prevalent in my profession. Maybe it's all the fried ego we consume - who knows? I just know that I haven't been able to run all summer and that has taken a toll on me physically and mentally. Running was always my refuge and the thing that cleared my cluttered head. Now, as well as some gradual and frustrating weight gain, my head is brimming with crazy and I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to contain it. We do take our feet for granted and mine have kept my head on semi-straight for many years. This year has been the exception. </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>Still, despite the year of pain (as I'm dubbing 2010), some wonderful things are happening. The book and CD are both being received in amazing ways. The reviews on both have all been wonderful and people seem to be responding on a heart level to the words and the music. I've done many TV shows and countless radio interviews promoting both pieces and have been given a platform to raise awareness for Angelman Syndrome and to help give so many a voice who've been in the shadows for so long. This has been a wonderful and unexpected by product of the book and CD and I'm truly thrilled by it. Even through all this physical suffering (and it has been extreme), God is working in ways beyond me. That is a recurrent theme in my life. </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>We're now looking to the fall and winter. I use the "royal we" because my team and family are as much a part of this as I am. There are some live dates on the books, some production projects in the works and many writing opportunities in the coming months. But the big date on the calendar is October 22nd (Friday night). The 3rd annual "Bella Bash" is being put together now. Me and my management team (Rutledge Nash) have actually been working on it since the day after last year's amazing event. This year proves to be something truly special. At the event I'll be rolling out our new project in the works that specifically helps kids with Angelman Syndrome as well as Autism and many other disorders. I'm chomping at the bit to talk about it, but I learned a long time ago it's better to underpromise and overdeliver. So, all will be revealed on the 22nd of October (location is almost secure - we'll be letting you know). </o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>As for now, the gout is gone, the last kidney stone got passed a few weeks ago on our first family vacation in 7 years (at a beach somewhere), and life is pretty darn amazing. I've started working on the next CD (more country than ever) and I've also started writing the next book. Fiction this time ...I'm getting ambitious. 2010 has definitely been a mysterious and strange little year so far - I guess they all can't be like 1985 or 1997. But my family is happy and my bills are paid and I'm doing what I love and making people feel something through it. I might just be the luckiest guy in the world.</o:p> <o:p> </o:p> <o:p>R </o:p> Tue, 3 Aug 2010 09:13:35 GMT Tue, 3 Aug 2010 09:13:35 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com Two hundred and thirty four years ago, 54 white guys sat in a hot, sweaty room without air conditioning, indoor plumbing or catering, dressed in wool, wearing wigs and three-pointed hats and signed, quite possibly, the most brilliant and complete document enumerating the inherent rights and privileges of human beings on planet earth. The house in which I sit, purchased with currency I earned by forging my own path and interjecting my own voice of creativity into the public conversation, is a testament to that document and the blood, sweat and tears that ultimately consecrated it. So is yours. The freedoms born from it's womb have allowed me to travel at will and speak and sing freely, without the fear of being silenced or arrested, and have, in turn, given me the opportunity to buy goods and services created by others who have been allowed to grow and expand beyond their own limitations, placing me here in my kitchen, adorned with appliances and light, temperature controlled and comfortable, and type these words from a personal, laptop computer. All of this is because of words penned by a 33-year-old lawyer, farmer, statesman, visionary ...all those years ago. When I was 8-years-old, my family toured in Virginia and Maryland, giving my father the opportunity to introduce my brother and me to Colonial Williamsburg, Yorktown and Jamestown. My young imagination took in redoubt number ten (the last stronghold taken by the colonials and the very ground on which the American Revolution was won), and conjured the blood and screams and sacrifice. I caught my father wiping tears at one point and although I didn't know exactly why, I knew this place was important and this land was sacred. From that day to this, I have been a student of the men and women of the American Revolution and the Founding Fathers. As one learns about this time in history, you necessarily go through the gyrations of analysis and deconstruction. What starts as wild-eyed idealism, turns to contempt once you place slavery, sexism, racism and hypocrisy under the microscope of the present and judge other human beings out of context. The pendulum swings and you can begin to hate these guys with the same fervor with which you loved them at first introduction. The truth is they had the chance but didn't end slavery. The truth is many of them were slave owners. The truth is some of them were womanizers. The truth is some of them were racists and sexists. The truth is the "check" Martin Luther King Jr. talked about in his famous "I Have A Dream" speech wasn't cashed for many years in this country. I can easily see why some people of color may not be so excited about the 4th of July and might turn up their nose at all the red, white and blue and goofy white people eating cotton candy and mindlessly waving flags. I kind of get it. What many of us take for granted, often has a more complicated back story. The check, however, WAS written and it's still the hope of mankind in every corner of the planet. It's a promissory note from which generation after generation continues to draw. "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," being guaranteed in writing, is still nothing short of a miraculous thing in the course of human events and I invite everyone to participate. In 2010, it sometimes feels like we have drifted from the lofty ideal of that original, splendid declaration into the pragmatism of mediocrity. This nation often looks like a lumbering, over-served, over-medicated, over-weight, under-achieving, monolith, cowering in the middle. The sacred hopes and dreams of ancient men and women, fighting over tiny pieces of earth and breathing their last, desperate prayers for future generations, have melted into the mist and are now buried beneath the newest Wal-Mart/Applebees/Bed-Bath-and-Beyond strip mall plaza. Is this the America Ben Franklin placed his life on the line for? Are these the equally created men for which Thomas Jefferson wielded his considerable pen? Sometimes I wonder. As I type this, a fevered debate is raging in this new world. A rediscovery of these men and their documents is taking root in the land built upon them. I think that's a good thing. Unbelievably and maddeningly, the fight over capitalism and communism is again in the fore. I thought we settled that 25 yeas ago. But alas, as the founders themselves knew, freedom must continually be cultivated and earned. I feel our nation in the process of that even now. Last week, a United States congresswoman, in the middle of a Supreme Court confirmation hearing, asked the nominee questions about slumber parties and the latest Twilight movie. My stomach aches when I think of this. In this hollowed room, built on the backs of slaves yet to be freed by its own deliberations, where wars against tyranny had been declared and won and the rights of women had been ratified, a duly elected public servant of the greatest nation on earth, casually discussed frivolous pop culture with a potential supreme court justice ...on the tax-payers' dime. My goodness. What have we become? Though mountains of complication have grown and rivers of blood have run through this land since the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I, for one, still believe in its core values and in its genius as a liberating key for the prisons of all mankind. In my mind, the truths are still self-evident; That all men (and women) are indeed created equal; that governments can only derive their power from the consent of the governed; that to ensure these rights we must all continually pledge our lives, fortunes and sacred honor. On this fourth day of a new July, I for one, will be basking in my own unalienable rights and pursuing happiness. I hope to see you there. R Mon, 5 Jul 2010 13:55:22 GMT Mon, 5 Jul 2010 13:55:22 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com 've heard the story since as long as I can remember. I can still see it being told in hushed and reverent tones around the leftover-laden tables of Christmas or Thanksgiving†the choking  smoke of burning diesel and exploding artillery shells conjuring itself through the waft of pumpkin pie and cornbread dressing, the echoes of screams and ancient, urgent orders barked through the faint sound of a football game in the next room, the story of a young marine in the volcanic ash of Iwo Jima during World War II, having dug an uncommonly deep foxhole. According to the family legend, he just happened (through random events) to arrive at his forward position before the rest of his platoon. The others were possibly on some detail that held them back. He possibly got an earlier start. He might have been sent ahead of the platoon for some reason. We never really knew. Thefog of war and haze of history have shrouded the intricacies of the moments in question. Those details have long since been buried in the graves of the fallen, but the heart of the story still beats inside of me. I believe my life was forever altered in 1945. My grandfather, a man of average height, had dug a very deep foxhole in preparation for an upcoming battle. When the rest of the platoon arrived, one of his tall compatriots only had time to dig a shallow foxhole before all hell broke loose and the platoon began getting barraged with enemy mortar fire. The tall soldier yelled over to my grandfather, Tice, switch holes with me! I'm too tall for this one, but you'll be fine in here. Please, Tice! I need a deeper hole; you don't need one that deep! Watching the lanky marine trying to curl his oversized limbs and torso into undersized shelter, my grandfather agreed, and they rolled through intolerable waves of explosions and gunfire, past each other into the other's foxhole. As the man was crouching into his new position and throwing my benevolent, young grandfather a casual thank-you salute, the deep, well-dug foxhole was instantly incinerated with a direct hit by a mortar round. There was nothing left but scorched earth and fragmented body parts. Pawpaw Tice (as we called him) told my father in later years that he stared at the carnage for minutes, realizing that if he'd shown up ten minutes later and not dug so deep, the man would've never asked to switch. If that hadn't happened, it would've been my grandfather's remains smoldering on the sands of Iwo Jima and not the taller marine's. He said it always bothered him how random it all was. Random. He just happened to get there first. There just happened to be an uncommonly tall man in the next hole. That man just happened to ask him to switch holes. They just happened to switch in the nick of time. Random. Thomas Tice, my grandfather, somehow survived two years on Japanese island battlefields†with untold random events that kept him alive, no doubt†came home to the United States, and produced the last of his four children: my mother. I can trace my entire existence back to one bloody, terror-filled night on an obscure island ten thousand miles away from my warm bed. I can see a hand of providence directing the path of a scared, tired, haggard marine through the muck and minutiae of war. Every day I've enjoyed on planet earth was born in a single, sweaty, adrenaline-fueled roll from one foxhole to another in some place I've never seen by someone I never knew in a time which I didn't live. God only knows the moments that changed everything to lead to that moment on Iwo Jima: the attack on Pearl Harbor, the American response, the global conflict that emerged with billions of moving parts that triggered billions of decisions, one ofthose decisions being a young Mississippi barber enlisting in the Marine Corps, his training and deployments, the convergence of events that led to the taking of Iwo Jima as a strategic military target and the bloody battle for that tiny piece of earth, the decisions that led to sending that young marine to that particular place in that battle and his decision to switch places at the last minute with another young marine, the ironic event that became an off-handed war story to a son-in-law, which became a holiday staple in my life, the legend that became the story you've just read and that will now alter something about you forever. God only knows the moments that change everything. Random events. Life, to some, is a series of disconnected, random events†one giant pinball game where we are all tiny and pointless, careening into bumpers and dodging one another, hoping to score enough points to continue the kinetic roll. We tell ourselves that this moment doesn't have that much importance. It's just a Thursday. It's just lunch. It's just a date with the girl from English Lit. It's just a different foxhole. Will we remember it? Probably not. Will it have any lasting impact on our life? Who knows? We're always hoping to arrive at some magical moment of truth, a life changer, one of those moments that gives us clarity and epiphany. We think we'll know it when we see it or feel it. We are oriented through movies, TV, and dramatic novels to watch for the heavens to open and to listen for the angels to sing. Then we'll suddenly know something we didn't know before. We'll have new wisdom and new light and new purpose. Surely that moment isn't happening right now. This is just a regular day full of regular moments. Yes, our random lives can seem mundane and purposeless. The moments that course through the veins of our existence can feel uneventful and redundant. Random events seem to be happening to us all the time. One such event showed up in my date book somewhere in the fall of 1992. A random series of events and a lifetime of coincidence had led me into the role of staff songwriter for a company called McSpadden Smith Music. Primarily a Christian-music based publishing company, they were incredibly young and wildly successful. I was a newly married, twenty-something songwriter who was finding favor in the world of Christian music. I'd had a couple of minor hits on the radio and was starting to turn some heads. The future was bright and wide open. In those days, I was a bit of a workaholic. I would write songs all day, have dinner, and then write through the night into the wee hours. I would then go to the Vanderbilt University track, run a few miles, and then head home for a shower and bed only to start the whole routine over again the next day around eleven. Because I wasn't making much money as a writer, I would also take occasional odd jobs to bolster my income. I was going full speed. All out. I was certain that success was completely within my grasp and, more importantly, within my control. Shawn McSpadden, the owner of the publishing company, and I were constantly scheming and planning and working toward the goal. The goal? Success. Achievement. More songs written. More songs recorded. More songs on the charts. More songs topping those charts. Gold records. Platinum records. More money. More success. More, more, more. Get it done. Take care of business. Focus. Do what the other guy won't. Start earlier. Stay later. Never be satisfied. Dig deeper. Do it better. Work as hard as you think you can and then work harder. That was the mind-set. I truly believed that with that work ethic, I had control over the destiny of my music and life. I was certain that with enough sweat and opportunity, I could make it happen. I kept my datebook full at all times. My wife and I lived in a Spartan, 350-square-foot apartment above a small house in downtown Nashville. We paid three hundred bucks a month for it and lived in four rooms: front room,kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. You could fit all our worldly possessions in the back of a pickup truck. We were built for speed. Three minutes to West End Avenue, five more to Music Row. Life was quick and spontaneous. We didn't do much of anything except sleep, work out, and work. We were determined to make it somewhere. We weren't sure where, but it was going to be great when we got there; we just knew it. So we worked. Days were a blur of meetings, writing appointments, business lunches, and being holed up in recording studios for hours on end. Nights were filled with industry parties and hanging out with the right people and being holed up in recording studios for hours on end. I won't lie; it was a good time. The feeling of being young and taking the world by the horns is a powerful one. You feel invincible. You believe you're immortal. Though I was married to my dream girl and best friend, we didn't hang out with other married couples. All our friends were single. There wasn't much talk of children or school systems or health insurance or life insurance or home values or anything of that sort. Make the rent. Work hard. Play hard. That was the life we were living. Amidst the swirling energy of that life, I befriended a young song plugger at McSpadden Smith Music. His job was to comb through the songs I was turning in, make copies of the ones he felt would work for certain artists, and pitch them to those artists. He was a thoughtful, soft-spoken soul named David Moffitt. David was quiet and deliberate. His perfectly groomed and parted red hair, button-down shirt, khaki pants, and glasses made him seem academic and astute. I would never have guessed he was a songwriter too. He didn't seem crazy enough. He was always on time. He appeared to be together and in control. He chose his words carefully and wasn't angry for no reason. In short, he was almost the exact opposite of me. I could never have known that he was protecting three ominous words that would change my life forever and haunt me in strange and frightening ways. Of all the publishing companies on Music Row, I had walked in to that one. I'd signed a contract with that one. I had been attracted to the pace and the action. I had hitched my wagon to what I believed was a shooting star. I'd signed with one of the youngest, hippest companies in Nashville in an attempt to become something, anything other than what I was. The thing I wanted the most was staring me in the face, yet an unlikely, mild-mannered employee of that young, hip company would hold the touchstone to my true purpose. Let's write a song sometime, he said casually one afternoon. I have an idea I think you could really help bring to life. I wasn't sure what to make of writing a song with an employee of the company for which I was contracted to be golden. It seemed a little weird and unorthodox. Still, I was booking anyone and everyone, and I felt something interesting might come of it. So somewhere in the fall of 1992, a random encounter with the song plugger of a small publishing company in Nashville became a penciled-in appointment in my date book. Another writing session. Another song in a catalog full of them. Another melody. Another lyric. Another possibility of success. Another random attempt at making something special happen. Certainly David couldn't have known that my favorite book was Dickens's Great Expectations. He wouldn't have known the reasons for my being drawn to that story at age nine (the same year I started writing songs) and my deep connection to Pip, the main character. He couldn't have realized that I saw myself in Pip and his desire to reach beyond his embarrassing beginnings to something grandiose and important. He couldn't have known I had that same desire. He couldn't have seen the same undulating fear in my heart that pounded in Pip's†the fear that I would never truly rise above what I was, no matter how hard I tried. He couldn't have looked into my past and seen a five-year-old, self-taught prodigy playing gospel music in country churches and all-night singings. He wouldn't have seen my formative years and my family band singing in high school gyms and in mall parking lots, being laughed at by kids my own age, mocking the message of Christ and the down-home way in which my family delivered it. He couldn't have known I had spent my entire life running from church picnics and Sunday morning services into some place cooler and hipper. He couldn't have seen the raw ambition to get out of a world I considered to be a wasteland and reach the heights of some blinding success somewhere else. David Moffitt could never have known any of that, but the keys he held in the idea vaults of his mind would unlock the doors of my childhood and release the demons. The three words he was harboring for me would foreshadow the rise and fall of a would-be pop star, the destiny of a child not yet conceived in rural China, the meaning of an enigmatic genetic disorder that would devastate a family, and the redemption that would come from the rarest of places. My chance encounter with David Moffitt was as random as two marines switching foxholes in the heat of a battle. But it was about to set the stage for the time of my life.   Tue, 15 Jun 2010 05:06:21 GMT Tue, 15 Jun 2010 05:06:21 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com I am an almost teary eyed First Amendment freak. I love freedom of speech and I wield it daily. I will do so until the speech Nazis come take me to speech prison and even there, I'll probably be put in solitary confinement for screaming obscenities at the guards. As long as the stars and stripes fly somewhere, no one is EVER going to tell me what I can or can't say. I would take up arms to make sure everybody gets that same privilege. I think free speech is essential to those of us who are seekers and truth tellers ...but I've always hated protest songs. My hatred of them has nothing to do with the protest itself. I'm all for letting the Dixie Chicks spout off or giving the 18-year-old rock star of the moment a pulpit from which to spew unintelligible ramblings. I say speak your mind even if you don't have a good one. My problem with protest music is the masturbatory nature of using art to air the grievances of the moment. That turns it into something not universal and divisive, thus diminishing something sacred. Speech may be free but it shouldn't be cheap. True art is timeless and deeply entangled in the human condition. Great artists know how to protest the moment without painting it in a corner. Dylan was the classic example of that. Everyone applied his poetry to Vietnam and Lyndon Johnson and the establishment, but these words are still relevant and ominous today: "Come mothers and fathers throughout the land and don't criticize what you cant understand. Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command." He was writing about something beyond the moment - it just happened to be relevant in the moment. On the other hand John Mayer's, "me and all my friends are all misunderstood. They say we stand for nothing and there's no way we ever could," kind of sounds like a 14-year-old whining. My point? If you're going to get into protest writing, be a freaking prophet or leave it alone. The very minute the guy you campaigned for gets elected and the world has essentially "changed", your song is then obsolete, like a bumper sticker. We won't need to hear or sing it anymore. Your problem has been solved. On the other hand, if you're writing about broken pieces of the human condition that get repeated time and time again throughout history, then your song will never be obsolete. John certainly achieved that with "Daughters". It's a subtle yet profound distinction. My take on all those who like to march and scream and pound their fists about political stuff is that a genuine, truthful observation and legitimate thought often spawns hacks on the subject in the world of entertainment. I love stand-up comedy but when I see a stand-up special listed on TV, I always check the year it was taped. If it's anywhere between 2002 and 2008, I know I'm going to have to endure at least a 10-minute rant on George W Bush. That's fine, if it's really funny. Most of the good material on Bush, however, was burned up by 2006 and then the "Bush joke" just became this thing everybody knew they could do with impunity, so they piled on whether the material was funny or not. That's bad art and a poor use of freedom of speech. I'm not offended by jokes, I'm offended by bad, cheap jokes - especially if the one delivering them is supposed to be an artist, or at the very least, a professional. This past week one of my musical heroes let me down. Sir Paul McCartney, the man who has written several of my favorite songs, the man whose show I saw in Memphis in 1995 and still ranks as the best I've ever seen, the man who wrote the piano piece that was my pre-show warmup for years (Martha My Dear), laid the egg of all eggs ...he angled for a cheap Bush joke. Once he knew "Library Of Congress" was on the menu, he went for the easy swipe. Ouch! Now, let me tread softly here. Sir Paul has earned fair treatment from this often venom-tongued songwriter/blogger. Still, my guaranteed-in-writing speech freedom demands a comment. Sir Paul knows a lot about nailing a musical and lyrical hook to the wall. He is the master of his art. What he should also know is that if you throw a comic punch in front of Jerry Seinfeld ...you'd better, by God, land it. Unfortunately, he did not. "W" has joined Brittany Spears, Monica Lewinski and OJ Simpson in the pantheon of subjects that have been over-mined, targets that are too easy, and punch lines that are simply no longer funny. It's like saying "where's the beef?" or "whazuuuuup?" We get it. We got it 6 years ago and it was actually starting to get a little old then. If you're going to be a social commentator, you have to understand who's in power and who's not and have a firm grip on the absurdity of the now. If you're going to turn it into humor, you have to be funny. I always loved John Lennon's intro to "Twist and Shout" when the Fab Four were playing for the royals in '63. Paul should remember - "This one goes out to the cheap seats ...everyone else ...just rattle your jewelry." That was courageous because he said it to their faces, it had impact because it spoke to the larger history of classism in England ...it was also funny. Billy Joel turned down an invitation to jam with Bill Clinton in '92. His response? "It has nothing to do with politics ...it just doesn't sound like a good jam session to me." That was a subtle, yet non-partisan comment on the absurdity of politicians using artists as props to make them cooler than they are. It was also funny. In the spirit of help, I offer these humble suggestions, off the top of my head, to Sir Paul as possibilities of more current alternatives to his stale and outdated Bush joke: 1) "It's great to see Mr Obama here. Because of my home country of Britain and it's petroleum business, he actually will be able to walk on water now. At least in the gulf ...you're welcome Mr President." 2) "The American Revolution. The war of 1812. WWl. WWll. Me and the boys invading in '63. Now BP. We Brits must feel like that annoying little sister who won't leave America alone." 3) "It took a lot of British petroleum to fly me here from England. Fortunately, you can just swoop down and get it right out of the ocean now." 4) "I don't blame you Mr Obama. I'd rather be here listening to me than in the gulf too. You really ARE the smartest president ever!" 5) "I was going to sing 'Blackbird' tonight, but I didn't want to offend the pelicans in Louisiana." These are just a few of the more topical (and even self-deprecating) offerings I might have tried to play around with were it me accepting the Gershwin award (something that will almost certainly never happen) and flaunting the first amendment. I know I'm just a simple, obscure paper back writer, but I would suggest that Sir Paul not live in yesterday. Whenever you do that, you end up coming off like a bit of a nowhere man. Because of America, Sir Paul's songs have been heard across the universe and will be for a long time to come. Maybe the next time he feels like making a quasi-political statement in someone else's country, if he can't find something really funny or biting or topical or profound or timeless to say, he should probably just smile, bow ...and let it be. R Mon, 7 Jun 2010 15:25:52 GMT Mon, 7 Jun 2010 15:25:52 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com Maybe I'm just getting old, but it seems like people talk differently than they did when I was a kid. I actually remember when the term "awesome" was first being used in that casual, "that dude's car is awesome" sort of way. Before that, "awesome" had a more grandiose and majestic meaning i.e.; "the awesome power of almighty God" as opposed to "the almighty power of God is totally awesome dude". A subtle yet profound difference I think. I also remember the advent of the word "like" being jammed in front of every, like, sentence and like, point of view someone was like, trying to convey. It all sprang from a movie and song called "Valley Girl" in the '80's. Talking like a valley girl was once a novelty that my friends and I thought was cute and endearing in teenage girls. It signified a slight lack of intelligence coupled with a strong desire to fit in. Add the willingness to do whatever it takes to be liked and you have my high school dream girl. So I know how this type of speech became popular in women. What I totally (I actually mean "in total") missed was the moment every person in North America - male and female alike - started talking like a 17-year old "valley girl." For those of you under 30, you won't understand what I'm talking about. For those of you older than that, you'll probably get it on some level. There's a specific inflection that has become generational I think. It's always that way I guess. My generation certainly doesn't talk like my father's or grandfather's. I love watching black and white movies and hearing some guy tell another guy "sit down or you're getting it right in the kisser see. You been givin' these boys the business but them shenanigans don't fly around here brother". Nobody talks like that anymore. By the time my son is a teenager, he could very possibly watch a movie from the 1930's and not understand a single word being said. I find that kind of amazing. Our language and culture changes so rapidly that it's not out of the realm of possibility that we could be using a completely different vernacular in one generation. Incredible. Language and the ability to fully communicate is the cornerstone of any civilization. I'm reminded of the story of the tower of Babel. The people of Babel had decided they were equal with God. They built a tower to reach him but instead of killing them all or "smiting" them with some disease or visiting a pestilence or famine on their land, he taught them a valuable lesson by doing something simple. He confused their language. They couldn't communicate with each other anymore. Thus the term "babbling."Once they couldn't understand each other, they couldn't work or live together. That's sociology 101. Common language is essential to any successful society. I often hear politicians moving to make English the official language of the U.S. I'll then hear fierce opposition on the other side. Somehow, recognizing an official language represents racism and bigotry to them. I have no comment on it one way or another except to say ...shuiwjwabc uijalk lelelelelh adhioibe! (that's my own personal language and I'd like it recognized please) My new pet peeve with the ever evolving culture of language is the texting craze. I see 20-somethings around me all day long, drinking designer coffee, wearing those permanently-attached ear pieces and frantically banging their thumbs on some four-inch by six-inch piece of plastic with raised numbers and letters on it, trying to communicate without having to actually engage someone vocally or emotionally. I understand the convenience aspects of emails and texts - it does make sense and I'm caught right up in the middle of it. But I think you can go overboard with anything. The Amtrak disaster of last year appears to have been a direct result of the engineer texting while driving the train. Really!!!? How important could that text have been for someone in their right mind to say to themselves, "I'm driving a thousand tons of steel filled with human beings a hundred miles an hour over two narrow rails ...I'm bored. I know! I'll send a text to someone ...that'll be a great way to pass the time!" The de-railing was horrible and I'm certainly not trying to make light of anyone's tragedy, but folks can we put the phones down for a few minutes? Especially when we're driving ............a TRAIN???!!! Finally, I'd also like to register my disappointment with the de-construction of proper grammar, spelling and punctuation as a whole in emails and texts. Somehow, we've decided as a culture that if you are just emailing someone, grammar, spelling and punctuation doesn't count anymore. How did we all decide to give ourselves a straight pass for that? I get the whole "k - c u 2 nite" text efficiency thing I guess. No wasted letters - I get that. But I don't do it. I spell the words. I also capitalize proper nouns and punctuate as correctly as possible ...all the time ... sort of ...even in emails and texts. I had to learn all that stuff in school and by God, I'm using it! The most frightening thing of all about language and communication is how fragile it all is. One missing or misplaced letter can change an entire sentence and could actually change your life. If you were writing a newfound love and were texting her "meet me at the car" but accidentally hit a "b" instead of a "c" - she might never find you and meet someone else at the "bar" and then live happily ever after with them ...all because of the difference between B and C. Words are important and powerful. Communication is an art and must be cultivated. All good songwriters know that the difference between "but" "and" and "so" can turn your song from one of redemption into one of confusion - from something funny into something sick - from a classic love statement into an inappropriate question. It's always in the details. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" means one thing sung by the Beatles. "I Want To Mold Your Hand" means something completely different and is actually kind of creepy. One letter would've turned the Fab Four into an obscure, niche band who wrote songs about human body wax replication. It's such a fine line. So, always remember - God and the devil are found in the details of everything. It's no different with language and communication. But these days, with all the new forms of it, I'm surprised when we see either one of them. R Wed, 26 May 2010 08:55:57 GMT Wed, 26 May 2010 08:55:57 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com This past weekend was the Angelman Syndrome walk-a-thon. Angelman Syndrome is the disorder my precious Isabella has. She is missing a small piece of her 15th maternal chromosome. The symptoms of Angelman Syndrome range from lack of speech and gross motor skill delays to seizures and acute insomnia. Kids with this disorder are called "Angels" and it's such a perfectly appropriate moniker. The delays and disabilities brought on by this disorder are balanced by angelic dispositions and unconditional affection for everyone. My Bella is living, breathing love. In a few weeks I'll be releasing a book called "Angels and Idols." It talks about our struggles with Angelman Syndrome, its effect on the lives of those surrounding it and the questions all parents with special needs children ask in their darkest hours. It was painful to write but my prayer is that it will help other families wrestling with raising a child considered by the world to be "special", and bring a ray of hope and possibly even a fresh perspective to them. In our current culture, we've substituted nice words for the old words. We use "special needs" instead of "retarded. We say "challenged" instead of "handicapped. I think those are sensitive distinctions and I'm thankful for them. On the other hand, the word "retarded", from a purely linguistic standpoint, is correct and should have no negative connotation whatsoever. The reason it does is because it has become such a slang pejorative. The word and concept "retarded" is such a punch line no one seems to think twice about it. Our own president made an off-the-cuff joke about being able to bowl only at the Special Olympics on the Jay Leno show, and the audience laughed heartily. I winced and furrowed my brows. Even so, I myself have made insensitive comments in the past, using words like "idiot", not thinking about my own daughter's condition and the implications of my speech. It's easy to do because the people at the heart of the joke are defenseless. We feel a certain license to use the "special" people of the world as punch lines because deep down in a secret place we don't talk about at nice cocktail parties, we all know there's something mysterious and unsettling about them. They don't feel natural to be around. They are not a part of the "normal" human flow and no matter how much we try to act like they are "just like us - just a little challenged in some areas," we have to train ourselves to think that way. Our natural first reaction to someone 25-years-old, drooling or talking to the air, or laughing too loud in a public place is not total inclusion and acceptance. Our first response is probably something like, "what's wrong with them? I don't want that to touch me." As my daughter ages, I see the turned up noses and confused stares when she's in public with us. Everyone with a special needs child knows exactly what I'm talking about. As parents, our first reaction is obviously to protect our child and lash out at the person who lacks the understanding. But deep down, we know why they have those disapproving looks on their faces and why they turn the other way instead of engaging our children. I've been sidelined with some foot problems lately. The doctor's orders to stay off my feet have planted me in front of the History and Discovery channels more than I care to admit. I am a songwriter by trade and part of being good at that trade requires me to study the human condition from all angles. I am constantly intrigued by what people do and why they do it, so the brain candy offered on networks like these is hard for a guy like me to pass up. Eventually, at the heart of every program designed to unravel certain mysteries or examine this or that about human behavior or study the reasons behind this or that revolution or migration or coup, are the implied questions we all ask ..."why are we here? What is the meaning of life? What are we racing toward?" Seeking the answers to those questions takes humans in a million different directions. According to the prevailing, current science, evolution and nature selected us all to be the best and brightest and strongest and smartest and it discarded everything else. Let me first say I'm an open minded Christian regarding these matters and continually hold to what the Apostle Paul said, "now we see through the glass darkly." To me that has always meant we don't know the whole story and are learning as we go. I also believe God is big enough to be questioned over and over and over again and I do not have a quarrel with those who do the questioning. I don't freak out about words like "evolution" or "natural selection. The last part of Paul's quote is ..."but then face to face." In other words, one day we'll see everything as it actually is. I believe that firmly, so I enjoy the ride of knowledge and it never shakes my faith. But when science asserts that evolution and natural selection are weeding out the slow, weak and unprepared, I get a little nervous. What does this say about my daughter and her condition? How many steps is it from "she's an evolutionary mistake" to "it would probably be best if we dispose of her for the good of society"? I know that sounds overreaching and paranoid but it has happened before and not all that long ago. Hitler's final solution started with executing the mentally ill. If reaching the pentacle of human endeavor is your goal and weeding out "evolutionary mistakes" becomes part of that goal, all you really have to do is remove the sacred, the spiritual and the moral from your society and it's not a far leap to doing away with those who can't contribute or move us further down the evolutionary highway. Hitler was a monster to be sure, but his ideas on these things originated in the United States as something called Eugenics. Smart people can (and do) debate Eugenics until the air is out of the room, but the gist of it was ...we can solve everything on the planet by ridding ourselves of those with "defective" genes. It started with sterilizing the "mentally retarded" so they couldn't reproduce, but it evolved fairly quickly from there (just as the Jews). Though Hitler bares the brunt of the world's indignation, there were plenty of famous and very accepted thinkers that weren't that far removed from supporting at least the theory of his ghastly actions. George Bernard Shaw and Charles Darwin both have some pretty frightening quotes on the subject of how to deal with the mentally challenged. They obviously didn't kill anyone and Hitler did, still, the very entertaining of those thoughts makes my skin crawl and causes me to hold Isabella a little more tightly at night. I've often said that I'm interested in science but I'm ultimately a man of art. To me, if you only see the world in scientific terms and never see it as an art piece, you can easily find yourself in dangerous and disturbing waters. Science is supposed to ask "why" but occasionally veers into words like "mistake" or "anomaly. As benign as those words are, they are essentially words of judgment on someone or something, and can send us careening into moral ambiguity. Ironically, some Christians find themselves on similar paths. I've head believers say that all of these problems wouldn't have occurred were it not for all the sin in the world and that, essentially, people like my daughter are a result of someone else's moral corruption. Once again, I go back to the words of Jesus when he was asked why a certain man had been born blind. Who had sinned? The man's mother or father? Jesus' response? Neither one. Jesus said the man was as he was so the glory of God could be revealed. To my mind that means, "so a little more of this beautiful art piece can be shown." I don't know why my daughter is the way she is. I don't know if she's an evolutionary mistake or if she lives in her prison because of some past, horrible sin committed by someone I never met. What I do know is that she is a beautiful instrument of love and joy that continues to change and shape my life and the lives of all those around her. I know she's made me a better man and has opened my eyes to worlds I would've never known about before. I know that she has caused me to meet people I would've never met and write songs I would've never written. If she is a scientific mistake, then she's more than an artistic necessity. The beauty she brings into the world is impossible to define or quantify. The "special people" of the world are more meaningful than we know. Their innocence and acceptance of our pettiness and pride is remarkable. The way they forgive us of our shortcomings is hard to fathom. Their unconditional love, even when we don't deserve it, is nothing short of a miracle. Some may think my daughter is a mistake but in many ways I would rather be more like her than have her be more like me. So, the next time you're face to face with someone whose mental or physical condition makes you uncomfortable, the discomfort you feel may not be because they're not enough like you. It may be because you're not enough like them. Such is often the case when mortals are in the company of angels. Tue, 18 May 2010 08:50:23 GMT Tue, 18 May 2010 08:50:23 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com My dad used to say, "It's a poor frog that won't croak for his own pond." Well, my pond has recently overflowed. In fact, my pond, Nashville Tennessee, was almost completely washed away a week ago. The worst flood in the recorded history of this region, and the worst non-hurricane related flood disaster in U.S history, coursed through the hollows and dells and rushed over the hills and ridge tops of my hometown, while I could do nothing but watch from my kitchen window. As I write this, I am watching the local news and feeling a certain pride in the people of this genteel, southern city. The cleanup operation is neighborly, generous, warm and downright inspiring. There are no reports of widespread looting or panic or hysterical vitriol being volleyed at the government. In fact, on a national level, there are almost no reports of anything at all. I suppose in the swirling drama of yet another attempted terrorist attack in New York, an out-of-control oil slick in the Gulf and a raging immigration debate in Arizona, the flooding and destruction of one of America's great cities is an afterthought. I guess on some level I understand the disaster pecking order. Still, I can't help thinking if this were Chicago or Detroit or someplace just a little sexier, how many more cameras would be lined up to get the devastation footage while there was still enough human suffering to make it worthy of leading the evening news. Many more I think. I ask myself why? But in a way I think I kind of know why. I don't believe in the inherent goodness of geography but I do believe cities take on a certain soul and exhibit certain personalities. Vegas is what happens when you build something completely on vices. LA is what happens when you build something completely on image. New York is built on the dreams of the immigrants and I feel their ghosts on the subway. Memphis is built on the blues and I shuffle a little further behind the beat when I'm there. Nashville was built on the heart. All hearts that are broken, soaring, thankful or heavy are all written about and sung about here. Doctor Vivien Thomas performed one of the first open heart surgeries in the U.S and was THE first African American ever to perform open heart surgery on a white person. His attention to detail and his seamless work was once referred to as looking like "something the Lord made." He definitely knew his way around the heart ...and he was from Nashville. That's more than a little ironic. I am the rarest of breeds, a fourth generation native Nashvillian. In fact, I'm not even sure how far back I have to go to find people in my genealogy who weren't from middle Tennessee. My grandmother used to sing at gospel night at thy Ryman auditorium in the '50's. She's gone on stage after Patsy Cline before. My dad was a session guitarist in the '60's and was working at RCA studio B with a couple of legends the week I was born. My connection to this town is deep and I think I know what makes it a special place. The music of Nashville has always been about the heart. On one side of the street are the country songs of heartbreak and love lost. On the other side of the street are the gospel songs of redemption and rejoicing. I was raised at that crossroads and the music of this town runs through my veins. Nashville's music and its people are all heart ...this is my town. Some see Nashville as a layover on the way to someplace further east or further west. Many of my dear friends have moved to the Big Apple or the City of Angels over the years. When I myself was climbing the pop charts as an artist, several music insiders asked me at parties when I was "making the move" to LA. My response was always the same ..."never." Why someone would stay in Nashville while trying to have a career in any musical style other than country was unthinkable to them. In fact, there are factions in this town that hate the very fact that I have pop songs on my resume and any sort of pop sound in my music. I haven't always been embraced by the music business in Nashville, but I've always believed that it is mecca for songwriters - not just rhinestone-clad country stars. I wanted to stay in the place I considered to be the pentacle of the art of the song, without having to sift through the trappings of fame and spectacle to get there. In short, I need to live in a place with heart. Nashville was built on the heart ...and it's my town. Through the years, I've endured the good natured ribbing, at east and west coast events, about not wearing shoes or not having indoor plumbing or marrying my cousin or any number of the obligatory "red-neck" or "Beverly Hillbilly" jokes that circulate. I've lost gigs and cuts and opportunities because someone thought they heard a "fiddle or something" on some track of mine or assumed I was a right-wing racist or a "red-state" hate monger. These days you get a lot of "tea-bagger" jokes. The truth is there are some tea parties here (I don't think that's a bad thing). The truth is when a tornado blows through a trailer park here, there will inevitably be that four-toothed stereotype guy with no shirt and a "Skynard" tattoo on his chest, who can't find his pickup truck being interviewed on the local news - I love that guy! I get it - hillbillies, south of the Mason/Dixon, simple, down-home, blah, blah, blah. I laugh along with the joke. You can't stop the ignorant from showing their prejudices and preconceptions of the south, its music and its people. I know at its core, this is a good place with good people who want everybody to do well, cheer on their neighbors and pitch in when they're needed. They don't complain or wait for somebody else to show up. They get to it and get past it. This place has heart ...and it's my town. Shepard Smith hasn't shown up and cried like a 9-year-old girl here. Geraldo hasn't shown up and declared it the end of the world. George Clooney hasn't chastised anyone publicly while simultaneously rounding up the cast of Ocean's Eleven to hold a telethon on our behalf. Julia Roberts hasn't looked into the camera, cocked her head slightly to the side and said, "please give," while choking back those big, patented actress tears. President Obama hasn't shown up and stood at the steps of the Ryman or the Parthenon (the only exact replica in the world of the one in Athens by the way - I've seen them both - ours is cleaner), or any Nashville historical landmark and said anything about anything. To my knowledge, we haven't even gotten a fly-over and a wave yet. I suppose if it's not something as important as an Olympic bid or a peace prize or a climate change summit or a date night with his wife or a guest spot on Jay Leno, it's not all that important. Still, you'll never hear Alan Jackson or Kenny Chesney stand in front of a camera and say, "Barrack Obama hates white people." Who knows? Maybe he just hates country music ...but I digress. Without fanfare and without the need to be seen or heard, Nashvillians are cleaning up the damage and getting on with life. The community spirit in this town is amazing and should be a beacon to the world ...if the world could only get a look. This time next year, Nashvillians will be laughing about this around the table, eating pie and drinking sweet tea. Disasters don't define Nashvillians, they only challenge us temporarily. We won't live in this moment, we'll move on from it to more pressing matters of the heart. The music that does define this town will continue on and help the world through its heartbreak - cheer it on when it's down - buy it a drink when its had a hard day - help it dance when it's bored - make it cry when it least expects it and make it laugh when things look the worst. The people of this town will work till the debris is cleared, rebuild what was lost and show up at the Titans game after church every Sunday this coming fall. That's what we do here in Nashville. Nashville was built on the heart ...and it's my town. R Mon, 10 May 2010 11:01:31 GMT Mon, 10 May 2010 11:01:31 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com As I sit in my warm, cozy kitchen, watching the rain and listening to a Disney production in the next room, my son makes up an entire world with spider-man and a hot-wheels car in his bedroom and my daughter sits on the couch and fumbles with a book, glancing occasionally over at me with a lovely, contented smile, and I am struck with just how lucky a man I am. It is my birthday and I am glad to be alive. To my right are the cards I opened this morning. The one from my wife is deep and poetic and comes from a place only known after many years together. The one from my children is a big green monster with illegible scribbling all over it. I cherish them both. As I've aged I've grown to fall in love with little things. I remember my grandfather's appreciation for what I used to consider to be the mundane. He would occasionally look up and say, "Reg, look how blue that sky is son. Ain't that beautiful?" I couldn't understand back then what was such a big deal about a sky. It's supposed to be blue, right? With every year that passes in my life, however, I understand more and more what it means to appreciate a sapphire sky. The first thing I do when I leave my house is look up and admire the sky, whatever shade it might be. It's a miracle and I'm humbled by it. A few months ago a dear friend of mine passed away on a park bench while waiting on his wife to return from a walk. He was far too young to die and he is deeply missed. In his last breaths I hope he looked up at the sky. Last night I heard the news that another acquaintance of mine and fellow musician, took his own life in his studio. Though I didn't know him well, we did get dropped from our record labels the same year and commiserated with each other for about 30 minutes at a party one night. He was a monstrously talented individual with more than enough to live for in this world. I am saddened and angered by his exit. Suicide is a particularly dark end and it's a wound that never heals for those left behind. Still, I reluctantly admit that I understand it to some degree. I've been a brooding, moody artist for most of my life. Several years ago I found out that I could attribute my dark side to more than my melancholy temperament. My lithium levels were almost non-existent. The doctor who discovered this asked me why I hadn't attempted suicide. He went on to tell me that he'd never seen anyone with lithium levels like mine that hadn't attempted it at least once. What he didn't know was that I had contemplated it many times in my younger years. One night in particular still haunts me ... On a certain night in my teens, while my hormones were swirling in tumult and my future was uncertain (and in my opinion bleak), I had a horrible battle with myself. My parents were out of town on church business and I was was almost ready to leave the nest and strike out on my own. I was contemplating my future and where I would end up in life. This night my mind was in full meltdown. Anyone who's ever battled clinical depression knows how the spiral works and where it can end. It can start with something as simple as "the way that girl laughed at me today is just a microcosm of my entire existence. I'm worthless and life is futile. I can't find hope in anything anymore - why should I even keep going? All these people trying to encourage me are phony and hiding behind a mask of their own feelings of worthlessness. I should end this right here and now and teach them all a lesson. They will have to deal with their hypocrisy and hollow belief systems once I scatter the truth all over these walls. This is really the best and only choice for someone who really understands how broken the whole thing is. It's all worthless. I am worthless. I am nothing. I can't take this pain anymore and no one understands it. I just want it to end. I want that girl to feel this pain. I want my parents to feel this pain. I want everyone who knows me to finally feel this pain." I took the pistol we kept in the house for protection into my room and placed in on my bed. I stared at it for at least two hours. The adrenalin and dread was coursing through my young veins and I began to feel like a man with only one option. "You're a coward because you can't really do it," the voice kept saying. "You don't have to do this - this is crazy! Sleep on it and figure it out in the morning," said the other voice. The emotional tug of war went on until the wee hours. My heart was close to bursting with all the stress of these tortured hours. I can't really say why I chose to put the gun away and press on until morning. Maybe it was one extra hug from my mother or a minute's more conversation with my father. It might have been a commitment to a dear, best friend or my not wanting my brother, who I loved, to have to live with having discovered my body. I went through every permutation and scenario that could've happened to me and all those around me that night and decided, somehow, on life. To this day I'm not always completely sure why. In the past two months, I've had gout in both feet, a 7 mm kidney stone removed with 3 surgeries, plantar facsitis and tendonitis in my left foot as well as two stomach viruses. I also witnessed the biggest flood in Nashville, TN history happen right outside my front door just this weekend. Over the course of these days in the house, I've played with my children and tossed them around in delight, sometimes followed by some scolding and discipline, followed by more playing, followed by kisses and hugs ...often followed by yet more scolding and discipline ...ultimately ending in more kisses and hugs. Such is the ebb and flow of life itself. One moment you're talking to your wife, the next you're getting a morphine drip and being prepped for surgery. One minute you're roughhousing with dad, the next he's chastising you for slugging your sister. One second your headed to the grocery store, the next your car is up to its windows in flood water. Life is a wild ride at any age or in any place. There are no real guarantees and often no sense to be made of it. I did hear Oprah say something one time that actually made a lot of sense to me and was the inspiration for one of my favorite songs I've written. She said, "press on and see what the end will be." As much as I've often rolled my eyes at Oprah and her oh-so-important life lessons, I think this one really rings true. We can choose to believe this is all a cosmic accident or we can become participants in the great human march toward wherever we're going. I lived to see the first black president in American history. I lived to see Tom Brady throw 50 touchdowns in one season. I lived to achieve some of my own dreams I didn't think I would ever have a shot at achieving. I met my little brother's 3rd child last week on his 4th day of life. I got to meet my own daughter and son and referee their ultimate fighting matches. I got to marry my dream girl. I got to go to Beijing in 2003. 5 years later I got to hear one of my songs close the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games. I got to watch my daughter, who specialists said might never walk, take her first steps at age 3. I now get to race her through the mall. I saw 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina ...and now the great Nashville flood of 2010. I witnessed all this; the beautiful, the ironic, the sweet, the bitter, the horrible, the unthinkable, the sublime, all because I chose life ...and I'm glad I did. Life is ultimately a good thing and it's worth living to the absolute fullest. My dad says we've gotten the cliche' backwards. They say "where there's life there's hope." He says it's actually "where there's hope there's life." He might be right about that. It sounds good to me. Still, I know what it means to feel hopeless. I empathize with those who feel that their dreams have sailed beyond them and there is just no point in going on any longer. I have a book coming out in June that talks about these issues in depth. I know the territory and although there are horrors some have been through that would make anyone give up, I still believe in hope and life. Ultimately, we have to connect with others and risk love. I can guarantee beyond all doubt that nothing will work out like we plan. But the great mystery of it all is epic and exciting and to be embraced. So, to be or not to be? I say be ...always and without question ...BE! R Mon, 3 May 2010 10:21:36 GMT Mon, 3 May 2010 10:21:36 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com As I was about to turn 30, I began getting barraged with CDs and letters explaining how and why it was finally time for the person sending said CD to "take the next step" and "go to the next level" with their music. Many of these same people had laughed at me for diving head long into the music industry right out of high school and scoffed at my jettisoning college to walk the road less travelled. I distinctly remember laughing and tossing their CDs and letters into the garbage. I knew they were just reaching a milestone of age in their life and freaking out about the career path on which they had most likely inadvertently found themselves. My reaction to their panic probably seems cold and calloused. The truth is by the time I was 30 I had already belonged to a tight-knit fraternity for well over a decade and I was long past having time for frivolous dabblers. I admire the person chasing a dream and will lock arms with them in solidarity toward that end. I refuse, however, to be a short cut for those who want to minimize all risk while pursuing that dream. It isn't fair to the dreamer. For dreams to really come true they must be firmly planted in extreme risk. In short, if you aren't willing to lose everything; be broken down to nothing; be lost at sea forever; you have no business in the music business and I can't really help you. More importantly ...I WON'T help you. It sounds mellow-dramatic I know, but the truth is entertainment is a blood sport and we gladiators swear an unspoken oath to win or die. There are only two ways out of the music business - enough success to retire or enough failure to destroy your life. There's almost nothing in between. I think back on my earliest days of struggle to become a successful songwriter. I was in my late teens and living in a completely bare apartment, in the bad section of town, with nothing but a twin mattress on the floor. My car would get broken into about once a week when it was working. I would take 10 bucks to the grocery store and buy boxes and boxes of Ramen noodles for 39 cents apiece. My sheer poverty and perceived lack of promise was almost laughable ...but I was on a mission and would not be swayed from it. I remember the day my good friend Joel Lindsey quit his high paying corporate job at a well-known insurance and investment firm to launch into full time songwriting. He had just been offered a promotion and raise. He promptly turned in his resignation and removed his necktie for the last time ...never to be donned again. He and I became roommates and fellow sufferers for our art. While our friends were landing jobs and starting families, we were getting our electricity, phones and water shut off on a regular basis. We were working odd jobs and waiting tables and doing just enough to survive while writing 5 to 10 songs a week, studying every writer of note in the history of the art form, and hustling our way onto records. We would start every day with one of us throwing out a word we had to rhyme with in every sentence until the next day. Our entire lives were immersed in the art and craft of songwriting. Joel has gone on to become an iconic songwriter in the world of Gospel music. His song "Orphans Of God" brings me to tears every time and the sheer volume of his work is staggering. But his genius aside, Joel and I will always share a special bond that transcends the music we've both created. The bond we share is the fact that we both put everything on the line and not just for a year or three years or ten years. We committed our entire lives to the art of music, poetry and songwriting. It's a bit like climbing into a small sailboat and deciding to circumnavigate the globe ...forever. The stereotype of young men suffering for their art seems quaint and slightly comical. Movies and TV lead us to believe in the inevitability of success for those struggling artists. From the outside in it's easy enough to say "just keep at it guys - you'll make it". When you're the one doing the sacrificing, however, it's not that simple. There are no guarantees and no inevitability. The farther you get from land, the more you realize you actually have to survive on that violent ocean or be lost. After a few years, you are faced with the stark reality of having to write on whatever job application you fill out for the rest of your life, "took 4 years off to become professional musician/songwriter" in one of the boxes. The longer you struggle, the bigger that number gets. Somewhere, you pass the point of no return and face the stark realization that this is now your life ...like it or not ...for better or worse. Artists of all stripes - actors, poets, writers, painters, musicians, singers, filmmakers - anyone whose living depends on the whim of public opinion eventually lands at the crossroads ..."do I keep doing this or do I cut my losses and quit while I can still do something else?" Legends keep going at all cost ...so do the homeless people living under bridges without families, who have plunged into mental illness and delusion. It's a fine line and there are no good answers at that point. As I've aged, I've gotten more cruel and stern in my advice for young talent seeking wisdom on "how to succeed in the music business". I love to watch youngsters develop and grow into their own, but the life of a professional musician/songwriter is not easy and it would be a disservice to the youngsters to say otherwise. All the people in my life who have been truly instructive are not the ones who cheered me blindly on or dismissed me out of hand, but the ones who gave me real world advice and unflinching critique. Cindy Wilt was the first person who told me to "perfect my craft" and that my songs weren't really ready to be recorded. Cindy changed my life and I love her to this day. She's the sole reason I am what I am. Now, I could've taken that criticism and let it destroy me. It's been my experience that most people who say they want you to be brutally honest actually want no such thing at all and leave in tears. I wasn't asking Cindy for an honest critique - I've never asked for critique of any kind. I want you to record my songs. Period. But after hearing Cindy's sobering words, I could've just as easily gone the other direction and quit. Ultimately, that's what separates those who should do this from those who shouldn't. In that spirit, my first piece of advice to newcomers is to not do it under any circumstances. It's a life full of heartbreak and rejection peppered with brief moments of inexplicable success that make no sense and have no rhyme or reason whatsoever. I heard Barbara Striesand say once that she tells all young singers that they cannot do it and they don't have what it takes. They should go home and forget their dreams. If they listen to that advice, they have no business trying to do it professionally. If they tell her where to go and defy her advice, then they are cut from the right cloth and will probably make it. As much as I hate agreeing with Babs on anything, I believe she's right on this one. If my stamp of approval is what you're waiting for, you will fail miserably and be eaten alive. Only the most defiant and stubborn will make it in this business. It's not for the faint of heart or the reasonable. So I tell you you're great - then what? So I tell you you suck - then what? I'm not going to "take you under my wing" and help you along. I'm not in the business of training proteges. I ultimately couldn't care less if you make a mark in the world of music or not. If you're seeking approval, play songs for your mom and dad. I'm feeding my kids and paying my mortgage. Many people my age are running for office - some are in seats of power and changing the country and the world. Many people younger than me have developed internet companies and become billionaires. Some of my contemporaries have gone on to big and important things. I'm still just trying to make people sing, dance, laugh and cry along with my 3-minute ditties. That's my cross to bear and that's the life I chose - I will not take responsibility for making it yours. Only you can do that. So, what IS my advice? I am weekly inundated with people on social networking sites asking me to listen to their music or their son or daughter or niece or kid at church or blah, blah, blah. I am terse and truculent in my response always. I simply don't do that for anyone. If I did, I would be doing it 8 hours a day every week. Look, I can teach you tricks of the trade of songwriting. I can offer insight that will help you write better songs and get deeper into your craft. I can help you sidestep trouble and heartache in the business. If you're looking for that short cut, however, you don't deserve it. I earned my education. Joel Lindsey and all our friends in the brotherhood and sisterhood of artists earned our stripes in the process of doing it and that's the way it should always be. My standard advice is simply this: move to a music center (NY/LA/Nashville), get a job and start doing whatever it is you want to do. Don't sign anything without having a lawyer look it over. Find out who's doing what you want to do at the highest level and emulate their process. Finally, make everyone in the world tell you that you suck before giving up. The dark nights of wondering if you're any good and if you have a future are rites of passage. If you cannot get through them unscathed, maybe this isn't the place for you. For those who choose to set sail on the wild sea of dreams, I salute you and will wave as we ride the trade winds of fortune and misfortune together. I now have a wife and children in my boat and my face is even more hardened to the storm. I'm thankful for every island of respite I've encountered along the way that has allowed me to raise toasts, secure and repair my vessel and sleep under the palm trees for brief and precious moments. Soon enough, though, I will be battening down the hatches, trimming the sails and racing for the open water once again - salt in my nostrils and wet wind in my greying hair. The calls from shore are not heard by my focussed ear any more. I'm too far into the black billows to hear the land dwellers. I've fallen in love with the danger and uncertainty and I know that I will never return to the beach again. For those still on land contemplating the adventure, I say commit to the adventure totally or stay on land and occasionally swim in the shallow end of your local lake or river. You will be happier in the long run and there is no shame in living safely. But if you are a hearty soul, wrestling with your own sanity and willing to submit your entire life to whims of the surf, step into your sailboat and grip the rigging. Just know that you may die in the middle of the howling wind and rain. Know that the very dreams that breathe life into your sails can drag you to the bottom of the brine, never to be seen again. If you can die there with a strange little smile on your face believing that you did the right thing ...then set sail and join us. For those at sea, there is simply no other choice. Mon, 26 Apr 2010 11:41:32 GMT Mon, 26 Apr 2010 11:41:32 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com If you spend any time at all on social networking sites (and I do) you know that people like to sound off and tell their story. I like the fact that we now live in a world where everyone can stand up and say what they want on their own little soap box. I like little soap boxes. Maybe it's the preacher's kid in me, but I'm just fine with the idea of anyone from anywhere shouting their particular beef or truth or revelation from the rooftop. Many of these "truths" and/or "beefs" are completely wrong-headed and misguided and some are down right crazy (in my opinion). Still, while some might want to silence opposition and discredit desent, I say shout on. The truth will ultimately win in the end and we won't get to it unless we weed out all the lies. Say your piece and let God sort it out ...trust me ...he most certainly will. One thing I have noticed in my social communications is how harsh, unrefined and brutal humans can be when they think they are acting anonymously. I often bristle at comments directed at me and others about certain subjects. Sometimes, I absolutely agree with a particular point of view being shared but it is done in such a way that I cannot abide. I love healthy, robust debate. I believe it makes us better, smarter, more critical thinkers. I do not however, enjoy blunt and raspy attacks on one's person. The coarse nature of our current societal dialogue has certainly left me disappointed in our current general disposition as humans, and more than a little concerned about the state of grammar and spelling. The art of communication must be cultivated for it to beautifully bloom. Surfing social networking sites is often like trudging through a garden of sand and stone in this regard. Still, I love the fact that we can all connect and discuss. I believe it's ultimately a good thing. In my life's work I've striven to become a better communicator. All art is communication. The painter, sculptor, composer, poet, songwriter, novelist, conductor, director, actor, comic, musician, dancer ...all phases and faces of artistry, are trying to communicate something to humanity and shout something into the universe. I believe Walt Whitman referred to it as "my barbaric yawp!" We artists are screaming something everyone wants to scream. We just do it in realm of "artifice" ...hence the term "art". I am fortunate to be an artist in today's world and have so many vehicles at my disposal for sounding my "barbaric yawp". The internet, and all it's spin-off products, has afforded me new and interesting ways to connect with the like-minded who might enjoy my songs or books or thoughts or ...impish mischief. About six months ago I stopped blogging in order to finish a book and CD and re-vamp my website. All of it is taking shape beautifully and becoming so much more than I ever imagined. The launching of the new website is the first step in releasing the new projects that have been in the works in RH world for over a year now. The inspirational story of the song "Time Of My Life" became a blog that was read the world over by thousands (and some even speculate millions) of people in 2008. The story came to the attention of a book publisher who asked me to expand the story into a book. Along with that, the same publisher happened to be launching a record label. They asked me to record a CD for that label as well. The culmination of both those things is about to be released to the general public and I'm very excited about it. It will be my first solo CD release in 7 years and my first book release ever. The book is called "Angels And Idols" and the CD is called "Set It On Fire". The first single off the CD is making its way on to Christian radio right now. It's the title cut - "Set It On Fire". Hopefully, you'll be hearing it so much in the coming months that you develop hatred for the very sound of my name and voice. That would be great! Tate Publishing and Tate Music Group are the book publisher and record label respectively, and I'm excited to be working with them. I pray daily that the projects find an audience and touch people's lives in a positive way. As always, I'm flanked by my amazing, boutique management firm of Rutledge Nash and Associates. Over the past few years they have helped me navigate the rushing waters of my strange little career with creativity and boundless energy. I'm truly blessed to be in the company I'm in on all sides ...and it's no accident. I believe that if you continue on the path laid before you and follow the still small voice directing you (some might call it the voice of God), amazing and wondrous things will come your way. That doesn't mean they'll all be comfortable and happy things. It doesn't even mean they'll always be positive things. I said "amazing and wondrous." That can encompass many twists and turns that, on the surface, may seem brutal, unfair and confusing. Still, I believe in the end, it is all working toward the greater purpose - the greater good - the ultimate healing. I'm not sure I've always believed that, but having gone through the last 7 years has made my faith in this notion unshakable and certain ...and it's all in the book. So friends, I fully intend on re-starting the acerbic, controversial blogs and keeping you all informed about upcoming events, projects and shows. You can tune in here every Monday morning, and get your dose of ...well ...whatever it is I do in those blogs. I love connecting with all of you - even the ones who are wrong about everything or on the verge of insanity (you're actually my favorite). Hopefully we'll be seeing each other at a show or book signing event soon. Come up and say hi. Also, come back to this slick, snazzy new site from time to time and get your update. I'll be here sounding off about something I'm sure. I love you all - even the mean ones ... R Tue, 6 Apr 2010 06:06:33 GMT Tue, 6 Apr 2010 06:06:33 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com Newton's third law of physics asserts, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction . Who am I to argue with Newton? If you jump off a building, the laws of gravity won't kill you, but they will continue to pull your body down until the laws of matter density (such as are found in concrete) will kill you. All around us are natural laws and universal principals. One certainly doesn't have to believe in these laws and anyone can say, I choose not to abide by the laws of gravity -" I'm getting in a plane and flying. What of your precious gravity now Sir Isaac? I've defied you!!! Actually you haven't. You simply slipped into the laws of aerodynamics. Those laws have parameters too and if you jump out of that plane, Mr Newton magically re-appears to escort you to an abrupt meeting with Mr matter density (concrete again). There is no defying a universal principal or a natural law. I was horrified to watch the woman mauled by her pet chimpanzee last year. Hmmm, let me say that again PET chimpanzee???!!! I wish no one the horror she went through and my heart absolutely goes out to the woman's family who was killed. Still, I think living with a chimpanzee, who has the strength of ten grown men and an unpredictable temperament, is not just a risk, it's a guaranteed disaster somewhere along the way. Do we know of anyone who has successfully slept with a chimpanzee for any significant length of time? (not counting Michael Jackson). Don't we all know in our heart of hearts that if we keep a wild animal in our house, eventually we are going to lead the evening news? Don't we? Do you ever hear, you know that monkey and aunt Alice lived happily together for 20 years without incident. He was toilet trained and brought tea and cookies to all the guests that came by. He was almost human and even played Amazing Grace on the harp at her funeral ? NO! Somewhere along the way, that story is going to have a ghastly twist -" The monkey was fine for about 6 years and then one day it didn't like something Oprah said and just went APE!!! Yeah -" that's why they call it going APE because it's AN APE! Every now and then, we hear some horrible story about the serial killer looking guy who's pet boa constrictor Butch gets out of his glass cage and wraps himself around some poor, unsuspecting poodle. By the time the authorities arrive, the only thing left is a pink ribbon,16 tiny, red-painted fingernails and a sequined tag that reads Henrietta . You can't really blame Butch -" he's just being a boa. That's why Butch lives in the freaking jungle and Henrietta is a domesticated lap doggie. When the two of them meet without supervision, certain natural laws will overtake whatever grand, social design you would love to engineer. No matter how much we want all God's little creatures to get along, big snake eats little poodle every time. It's a mathematical certainty. Don't try to change it, just keep Butch and Henrietta away from each other and they'll both be fine unless a monkey shows up whatever anyway, the point is, don't hate the natural law just obey it. It works. I believe in natural laws and universal principles. There is a long list of things I don't eat anymore because of this belief. Some things are just not designed to be ingested by the human body -" they CAN be -" they're just not designed to be. Twinkies, sodas, candy, etc. are all unnatural foods that taste pretty good going down but have a unique set of consequences attached. Eaten once or twice every so often, are barely noticeable to the body. Eaten in massive quantities by a majority of the population, and you have thirty percent of the childhood population obese and at risk for type two diabetes. Now, as Americans are prone to do, we'll probably blame the epidemic on some new found thyroid condition that has been triggered by an obscure virus we can't really pin point and aren't sure really exists, but is probably the cause of all this obesity in children. Therefore, we'll develop more drugs that counter this vague virus so that these phantom thyroid conditions heal and get our children back to a normal lifestyle. Guess what America? The childhood obesity problem we're facing might be a simple violation of natural law. Eat too much refined sugar and your pancreas, liver, nervous system, brain and everything else, starts going haywire. Stop drinking soda and eating sugar, start drinking water and walking a few miles a day and something magical will happen -" you'll lose weight and probably lose your one way ticket to diabetes as well (*I am not a trained physician -" these are merely opinions and not medical advice*). Point is, universal principles will work every time if we work with them and not against them. There are other universal principles continually in play. Some our own beloved, elected leaders might consider in their budgetary plans. You cannot borrow your way out of debt and you cannot spend your way to prosperity. I know these sound like the rantings of a madman, but I've actually seen this work in my own life. Many years ago, my wife and I stopped financing meals and gasoline at 18% interest, cut up those credit cards, sold our house (with the mortgage we couldn't afford) and moved into a teeny, tiny upstairs apartment for two years. The rent was three hundred dollars a month and we vowed to not leave that place until we could actually afford to. After two years, we moved back into a house we could completely afford. You'd be amazed how much money can be used for other things when you're not paying the lion's share of it out to a company who fronted your chicken sandwich and iced tea last Saturday night. Universal principal -" better to only pay for the chicken sandwich once. At 18% interest, you would end up paying for a ten dollar meal (eaten in January) twice by June, if you don't pay the entire balance off every month. The math is pretty simple and the principle is in stone. Now, defying universal principles sometimes results in the immediate. The effects of jumping out of an airplane will not take a long time to feel. Eating the wrong foods or drinking the wrong beverages might take years to feel. Paying 18% interest, over and over again for chicken sandwiches, will take some time as well, but eventually, all will produce a result. My father used to preach a sermon called There's a Payday Coming . It was an exposition on cause and effect -" reaping what you sow -" your decisions catching up to you, etc. It was all true. We all know in our hearts that sooner or later those potato chips are going to send us to a specialist for some ailment. Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not for years, but eventually the cumulative effect will be felt. When you're buried in revolving debt (as I once was) you know one day the calls will start coming and the payment plans won't be far behind them. At the very least you know you will never build wealth that way. In our hearts we know in everything we do there's a payday coming. I've recently seen news reports of new, record numbers of broken marriages. An interesting common denominator in a high percentage of these has been one person or another re-connecting with past love interests through social networking sites. Some husband or wife will find an old boyfriend or girlfriend on one of these sites and re-kindle the once extinguished flame. Before long, someone's filing for divorce and racing to re-live something they never really lived the first time and exists only in fantasy and not reality. I've seen it happen in my own circles. It's a universal principal that people are curious. That's a great thing. It has taken the human race to the moon and back. But sometimes, it can take you into the arms of your high-school sweetheart the one you DIDN'T marry. It's also a universal principal that those found in the arms of said high-school sweethearts are not looked upon kindly by actual, current spouses. That will lead to the universal principal of divorce and a broken family. That can lead to the universal principal of old guy at the club syndrome, complete with middle-aged, grey hiding highlights (thought to make one look younger) and awkward pickup conversation moment of sorry dear -" I'd really love to hear more about Lady Gaga, but I'm having a ‘procedure' done in the morning and I need to be in bed by ten alone. Apparently, I've eaten too many potato chips in my life. Here -" I'll put the drinks on my Visa I only pay 18%. Nobody wins -" least of all Lady Gaga but I digress. Have we all violated universal principles? I know I have. Will we continue to in the future? God knows, I try not to but I certainly make no promises knowing me. I'm just hoping we can all at least recognize the principles before we violate them. My hope is that this year, we read less and less about childhood obesity, bankruptcy and predatory lending, broken marriages at the hands of social networking sites and at the very least in-home, wild animal accidents. My hope is that we all eat better, spend within our means, avoid the old flame on the social networking trap and, for the love of Pete people don't buy a monkey! R Mon, 22 Feb 2010 21:00:52 GMT Mon, 22 Feb 2010 21:00:52 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com So, I'm a Peyton Manning fan. I know he was born into a privileged life and had every advantage known to man (none of which is his fault), but he's chosen to take those God given assets and work his butt off instead of coasting on his abilities and family name. He's parlayed his advantages into heights possibly never seen in professional sports, and he's done it with grace and class. I would love to see him break all the records and get more rings. I root for people like that. Some blindly cheer for the underdog (no matter who the underdog is) because they think it's poetic or fair or whatever. I tend to root for the guy (or girl) who is laying it all on the line and then some, all the time underdog or not. Last weekend I witnessed a travesty. The undefeated Colts were removed from the field in the back half of the 3rd quarter and made to watch, from the sidelines, as their green, unproven replacements handed the game (literally) to the opposing team. I personally like Peyton's response. He didn't publicly criticize his coach, general manager or owner. He didn't start a press frenzy with his sideline body language. He did something very subtle yet profound. He simply stood for the remainder of the game with his helmet on. He said afterwards that he was simply listening to the plays I think not. His regular season is essentially over. He could've changed into street clothes and no one would've cared. What he said to the world by keeping his helmet on was simply, I'm still ready to play. I will be ready to play till the time runs out. I'm not going anywhere. I want to win this game, even though I know some think it means nothing. I'm still ready to play. I felt bad for the Colts' starting lineup. They deserve to go undefeated. Jim Caldwell (the coach) and Bill Pollian (general manager), however, don't deserve to win another football game for the rest of their careers. It sounds harsh, but it's true. If you're not willing to lay it all on the line for something inspirational -" for a moment in time -" to breathe rarified air when you've been given the chance, then you don't deserve the opportunity to be in that position period. Reg now, come on! What if someone got hurt and it cost them the Superbowl? They're playing football my friends. It's a contact sport. If you're afraid of injury, you shouldn't be on the field in the first place, and guess what? Letting the air out of that team in that game is probably going to cost them the Superbowl anyway. I predict they don't get out of the divisional round, and (the players notwithstanding) their organization doesn't deserve to now. In my opinion, when you purposely shut down momentum in the name of safety, you're done. Of course, after last week's loss, I would certainly rest the starters. There really is nothing to play for now, but it doesn't matter anyway. The fatal blow has been struck. Now, before all the armchair coaches and quarterbacks pummel me, just know that this is not about football When I got close to turning 30, friends I never knew I had started coming out of the woodwork, sending me songs and CDs and everything you can imagine. I'd already spent over a decade slugging it out in clubs and writer's rooms and on the road and in studios. I had been initiated into a fraternity of creatives who were willing to get their heat turned off in February, air turned off in July, drive crappy cars, live in crappy apartments, get evicted, get divorced, work regular jobs all day and write all night, just to be in the action of professional songwriting and put it all on the line for the sake of their art everyday. I developed a bond with those people that still holds to this day. The pretenders clamoring for my help were not in that fraternity. They were motivated by the simple fear of approaching a certain milestone of age and seeing their dream finally slip away for real. They were obviously acting on a last effort to throw a hail Mary pass and get lucky with a song or connection that might change the direction of their life. As cold as it sounds, it made me chuckle and toss their material in the trash. Why was I so cold in my response? They hadn't earned anything. They weren't willing to move somewhere and lay it all on the line. They weren't willing to risk face to face rejection. They had made no irreversible commitment to the art and craft of writing. They were perfectly happy for me to have done all those things and were hoping to cash in on my sacrifices they just didn't have the stones to do it themselves. Some of these were the same people who'd snickered at my drive to become a writer. Some were the ones who'd gotten college degrees and good paying jobs while I was lost in the construction of a long shot life. I realize that everyone has a different set of circumstances, and I'm sensitive to that. I always have time for talent and I render no judgement on the way someone lives their life. But if you want to be a true artist, you can't just look for a shortcut. It's disrespectful to the art and it has no spark of inspiration. People don't watch sports or movies or listen to music or look at art or read books to only find the status quo. No one wants to just see Xs and Os executed on a football field. They don't want to listen to music written with only a paycheck in mind. They don't want to watch actors on the screen who are just saying their lines and not believing the words. We long to be moved. We need to be inspired. We watched Rocky not because it was the story of a great boxer, but because it was the story of a guy who gave everything he had. We go to Springteen concerts because we believe he might just blow his voice out on every note and pass out before the night is over. He moves us. Football is just a game, but I will always be an Emmitt Smith fan after watching him play an entire half with a separated shoulder. He could've very easily sat it out and no one would've thought less of him. But his team needed him and he refused to quit, even when he probably should've. As corny as it sounds, sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I think about that game and say to myself, this isn't a football game with a separated shoulder -" press on. He forever inspired me. We need these glimpses of what can be and what can rise out of the mediocrity of our condition. We need inspiration. This year, all things RH are going to another level. New music, new blogs, a book, more touring and lots and lots of surprises. I don't do all of this to build wealth or sell you trinkets or feel good about myself. I do it because it's why we're all here. Press our limits -" fly as high as we can soar -" break bonds -" do all that we think we can then do more. In 2010, may we not just resolve to achieve. May we commit to inspire. If you want to lose weight this year, start right now not some random Monday. Don't cheat a little here and a little there. Go ALL out and take yourself to a new place. If you want to be in a relationship this year, start looking for that person today, don't just wait for them to find you. Whatever it is you resolve to do this year, begin right now and don't look back. Say yes more than you say no. Take more chances than you're comfortable taking. Do something that scares you every day. If you've always had a dream you've wanted to chase, stop thinking about it and give chase (unless it involves moving to my town and bugging me to write songs with you and help you get a record deal in which case, I can already tell you your dream is doomed to failure but I digress). My grandmother used to tell me if you have been entrusted with a vision, you have a responsibility to follow it. God gave it to you, and you alone, for a reason. Now, it certainly won't become exactly what you think it will -" mine sure didn't. But you'll truly never know what it's supposed to be until you get off the sidelines and get in the game. Could you break your ankle on the first play? Yep play anyway. Could you go undefeated, then lose the Superbowl? Yep play anyway. Could you get out there and discover you're overmatched and end up looking like a fool? Yep play anyway. Wherever you are in life, take this year to the next level at whatever you do. We can be better parents and children and spouses. We can be better citizens professionals friends. There's a universal joke circulating about the world ending in 2012. What if it does? What if it just does for you? We have no promises of the future. I, for one, want to leave a legacy of having gone down with all my guns blazing. Whenever the world ends for me I want to know, in those final moments, that I left it all there and emptied the tank completely. I want my children to know that I never lived my life half hearted but gave my full measure all the time. I want to know that if I were a football team with an opportunity to do something never before done -" even at the risk of great peril -" I would do it without thinking. That's the only way you live to the fullest. It's the only way to inspire. May we all live all in and without fear in 2010. God bless you all! R Mon, 22 Feb 2010 21:00:04 GMT Mon, 22 Feb 2010 21:00:04 GMT http://www.regiehamm.com Every holiday season, for as long as I can remember, George Bailey has smiled down at the freshly recovered Zuzu and the glowing, teary-eyed Mary from my TV screen. That joyous wink has been given to Clarence the angel, lurking somewhere in the ether of hereafter, never was, might have been, could be and is. As Hark The Herald Angels Sing is sung and cups of cheer are raised, To my big brother George the richest man in town, is a quote that always brings me to tears, no matter how many times I see it or how prepared I am for it's emotional gut punch. George Bailey's odyssey, in the Frank Capra classic, takes us to the depths of our search for purpose and reason and puts us face to face with the human condition, it's action and reaction, and the implicit goodness of life we all hope is there. Why do I cry every time I watch it? I don't know really, but I think it has something to do with God. I think it has something to do with truth. I think it has something to do with love all of which (I contend) are one in the same. Couched in the trappings of a Christmas Eve at the crossroads, the story of It's A Wonderful Life has all the genteel warm fuzzies we want on the screen as fires blaze and pie and hot chocolate waft through the festive air. The arc is satisfying and the ending is happy. The faces (Mr Gower notwithstanding) are all pleasant and we root for the hero. The questions asked in the story, however, are so deeply ingrained in our human experience, they dominate the core of our existence -" Why am I here? Why are ANY of us here? I've spent the better part of this year grappling with such questions in intimate detail and from almost every angle. For the Hamm family, the year of our Lord 2009, has been an odyssey all it's own. Professionally, I recorded the remainder of a new CD that has been whittled down from 23 tracks to 12, co-wrote and produced the Mica Roberts single, Days You Live For and also co-wrote the Christmas single Night Before Christmas for Brandon Heath. I played live shows in Jacksonville, Orlando, Denver, Vegas, Kansas City, New York City and several right here in Nashville, as well as hosted the 2nd annual Bella Bash (here in Nashville) and performed at the 2nd annual FAST Gala in Chicago. In the middle of all that I also wrote a book, which will be released in the spring of 2010. On the personal front, the unfinished house (that has been under renovation for 5 years) was finally completed in early October of this year. The health insurance nightmare that my family has been grappling with since we brought Isabella home 7 years ago, was finally resolved (thanks to an extraordinary public servant named Bob Duncan), and Isabella was accepted on to Cover Kids (the Tennessee state insurance plan for children) on December 1st the last day of it's operation. In this, Isabella's 7th year of existence, she has finally started sleeping eight to twelve hours a night and Yolanda and I are finally beginning to re-set physically from the unbearable sleep deprivation of the past three quarters of a decade. My amazing, three-year-old son finally ate one piece of broccoli (under duress), can count to ten (not necessarily in the correct order), started blowing the harmonica, and wrote the songs Bobba (his word for Bella) On The Bus and Snacktime Blues . He now works in the studio with me an hour a night, and I'm quite certain will surpass my musical acuity in short order. It's been an amazing year. But why all the year-end newsletter fodder? Well, strangely, I think the sum of it's parts is related to the whole. I'll bet if you dig a little, you'll find the same phenomenon in your own life. Over the past few years, my life has become some strange amalgam of entertainment, art, music, literature, science, politics, faith, culture, commerce and family. I suppose all our lives operate in these entanglements, to one degree or another, but mine has become so poignantly locked into all these phases of existence, I'm forced into day to day seeking and learning. Writing a book about one's past, present and future and seeing it speak back from the page, creates the kind of self-examination and world-view analysis often avoided for lifetimes. I have had no such luxury, but the examination has been such a revelation, I would never trade it back for the ignorant bliss it replaced. A man recently told me that my family and I have lived an extraordinary story (hence, the book). I told him that I believe EVERYONE has lived an extraordinary story -" they may just not be able to see it. In fact, I believe the human story as a whole is extraordinary. A few days ago, I watched a documentary about some scientists who developed the theory of Intelligent Design and their opponents, the staunch Darwinists. I found it so fascinating, I watched it two more times. If I understand the debate correctly, the essence of it comes down to either believing our planet is a cosmic accident, with one single cell spontaneously forming, then spawning trillions upon trillions of other cells that have careened into one another in directionless multiplicity, over billions of years, bringing about this very moment, which is probably ultimately pointless and moving us toward nothing and nowhere OR believing the cells are part of some larger design and are traveling in directed multiplicity, from somewhere, moving us toward something. Many scoff at Intelligent Design as an attempt to backdoor God and creationism into schools again. A lot of really smart people call it bad science -" heresy -" laughable -" etc. Since I am not a man of science, I make no claims either way. I find the debate fascinating but would never presume to make scientific assertions not being a man of science. In recent years, however, I have found myself sitting at the table with research scientists, listening to them discuss the in-depth minutia of chromosomes and genes and enzymes and proteins and a myriad of things I cannot fathom. The truth is, they often can't truly fathom these things either and are swimming in oceans they themselves don't always fully comprehend. I don't believe I'm speaking out of turn here -" most of them would agree with me that research scientists are essentially adventurers with microscopes, hence the name research . I am continually intrigued by the work of science and the discoveries it makes. Even as a man of faith, nothing about scientific discovery challenges my belief or shakes my foundation. I welcome it all and am truly excited by it. That is because I am also a man of art Behind all art is science. Classic musical pieces are mathematic in nature. If you analyze a Bach fugue, you'll discover perfect mathematical symmetry behind it. Scales, time signatures, clefts, modes, harmonics, counterpoint, figured bass -" all the components that make up music -" are mathematical. Truly great music will have true math behind it but that's not enough. The fact is all art is science, but just being scientifically sound doesn't make it resonate with all humanity. There are plenty of compositions in this world that are completely theoretically sound but fall flat to the listener why? Why do some songs rock and some songs suck? Science and math certainly play a part, but the special sauce in any art of consequence is spirit. Being tapped into the mysterious is part of the job description for any true artist. The math and science have to be correct -" that is without question -" but the spirit must be present as well. What is the spirit? Who knows? Some call it the muse, the fine madness, the mojo, the edge, the essence, soul. It's been called by many names through the years but for me, the spirit is God. I've always loved the passage of scripture that says, God is a spirit. They that worship him must do it in spirit and in truth. Profound. As an artist, I believe that any art that moves you to tears, laughter, reconciliation, dance, hope, or any other strongly felt emotion, is truth love God. Truth is God. God is love. Love is truth. Truth again is God. I've read a couple of books by Malcolm Gladwell ( Blink and The Tipping Point ). His current book is called Outliers and attempts to explain why someone on the planet might be good at something and someone else on the planet might not. He makes fine cases for the ten-thousand-hour rule, racial and cultural pre-dispositions and generally how the whole world works. It's very tidy. I tend to be skeptical of these kinds of assertions, however. Once again, as a man of art, I believe in the individual and the spirit, in truth and in everyone's unique contribution to the epic human story. I could've been born in Austria, in the seventeenth century, spent ten-thousand-hours in classical composition study, been raised by an accomplished musician and still not have composed anything close to Mozart. Some things just can't be accounted for by simply looking through a microscope, studying anthropology or applying historical context. Some things fall into the realm of the spirit. So, how do I explain the meaning of all life in a Christmas blog? Well, obviously I don't. What I do say is that I believe this planet, this galaxy, this universe to be an amazing art piece. Science might get close to explaining the hows . Cultural scholars might have accurate theories on the whos , wheres and whens . Still, the why is often the singular domain of the artist. From Dickens' A Christmas Carol to Capra's It's A Wonderful Life to the Beatles' All You Need Is Love , artists have been grappling with the whys for centuries and coming back, in the end, to love. Love is truth. God is love. I know (as do you) that God is not some large white man with a long beard, dressed in robes, sitting on a cloud, reading some gargantuan, medieval book, written in the King's english, surrounded by androgynous cherubs in togas and halos, fluttering about the haze-like dwelling called paradise. That God lives in a mythical fraternity house with Santa and the Tooth Fairy. What I do believe in is a pulse of life that can be defined yet not fully explained. I believe in the mystery that remains unsolved -" the inexplicable spark that drives us -" the meaning that's illuminated in that moment between asleep and awake -" the music we hear in our dreams -" the angels that appear to us in unlikely places. I believe in the delicious and the bitter and that the fountainhead from which they both flow is an unseen yet divine eternity. Science without art is cold evolution leading to nowhere. Without the spirit, myopic humanity can spin into a Nazi final solution, proclaiming the why to simply be supremacy of race -" discarding of the weak and undesirable -" and attempt to evolve into the purest utopian flesh. Without spirit, well-meaning humanity careens into Marxism and Communism, proclaiming the why to simply be equality of task for all -" to exist impartially and in collective mid-range. None higher -" none lower. All in monotonous concert and monochromatic hue. Without spirit, it's easy to find oneself standing on a bridge, on Christmas Eve, contemplating the futility of one's own life and the lack of it's importance in need of an angel. The spirit, however, drives a scientist in Florida to discover the hidden chambers of my daughter's mind. Rather than resigning her to the refuse heap of the evolutionary highway, he dons his Indiana Jones hat and treads fearlessly into the uncharted recesses of human genetics. What will he find there? I believe he'll ultimately find truth. Spirit drives thousands of couples to adopt children every year -" in and out of the United States. Spirit allows a little girl from China (who under communist rule, would've been discarded and placed in confinement) to touch other children with her disorder and even thousands more without it. Spirit allowed my son to escape a cold, mechanical fetus extractor, find his way to my home, sleep peacefully in his room every night and dream of the baseball glove Santa Claus will most definitely leave him under the tree on Christmas day. Spirit is in my wife's laughter and her strength. Spirit has led my family on it's amazing journey of hope, adoption, heartbreak, Angelman Syndrome, loss, surrender, redemption and ultimately back to love, and to become the book that will come out next year and hopefully touch even more lives with these stories that all intertwine in a beautiful, artful web. I'll bet it's leading you on your journey too no matter where you are in that journey right now. Are we just a colony of Whos on a speck, being held by an elephant? Maybe. Are we merely a collection of cells, without direction or meaning, racing toward nothing? Maybe. Still, the art of it all tends to give me pause before I write it off as a big mistake. For me, the art points to the spirit. The spirit to truth. Truth to God. God to love. Every December 25th, despite the commercial convolution, the pagan accessories and the western refinement, we celebrate the birth of the incarnation of that love. In the two thousand years since that birth, a great cinematic epic has played out, full of hope, horror, blood, beauty, tyranny and redemption. Has it all been for nothing? I truly hope not. A simple, cosmic mishap on the third speck from the sun would certainly be a letdown for anyone who appreciates the nuance of art. So, I choose to believe there's a purpose, a meaning, a direction. I choose to believe in hope and the possible. I choose to believe in truth love God. This Christmas, 2009, with all its trouble and pain, with all its questions and uncertainty, with all its mystery and fragility, I still believe it's a wonderful life! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!R Mon, 22 Feb 2010 20:56:27 GMT Mon, 22 Feb 2010 20:56:27 GMT