Sounds Like Me

by Sara Bareilles

  When things are going well at the studio, life is euphoric. It’s like being on the world’s greatest drug. I remember hearing my own voice recorded professionally, singing my own songs for the first time in that little studio under the freeway in Culver City. It sent electricity through my body and filled me with a soaring sense of possibility. I loved the sound of it in those huge studio headphones that make everything sound wide and rich and thick. I would turn the volume way up and close my eyes and disappear into the sonic landscape that was being built around my voice. It was magical.

  There are also the crippling minutiae and meticulous detail of recording that account for my love-hate relationship with the process. There are infinite choices to make about how to capture and present a song, and there’s no right answer. For example, my song Come Round Soon has had many incarnations, each with a very distinct flavor. It began as a lo-fi demo with a hip-hop feel, then became a swingy, up-tempo pop song with loads of background vocals and cello. After that, it became a driving, Police-inspired rock tune with tons of electric guitar and a straight-ahead feel. These days, I play it solo on distorted electric guitar, pretending I’m Patti Smith. The same song becomes entirely new just by changing the instrumentation and feel. There is great freedom in producing a song, but at that age, I found those possibilities exhausting instead of exciting. I was paralyzed, lacking both the vocabulary and the knowledge of what I wanted.

  I have a vivid memory of recording Gravity, a song I always had played solo on piano, and having the band come in to play. We were piled in Gabe’s little studio, Josh Day on drums and Travis Carlton on bass, playing the song through for the first time. The most straightforward approach, with the backbeat on the two and the four, felt generic to me, but that was all I could decipher. I had no idea how to steer the ship in another direction, because I didn’t know any other directions. I sat on the arm of the couch while the band and Gabe waited for me to have an opinion. I started to panic. Not only was the overall direction of the song still muddy in my mind, I literally didn’t know what words to use to tell the musicians what I wanted. I don’t read music, and I don’t know music theory. All I could say at the time were opaque things like, “I want this part to feel dreamy,” or, “This should really change shape.” Helpful, right? I felt stupid and inarticulate next to all these talented people who spoke the language of music in a way I couldn’t.

  Everyone was extremely patient with me and did their best to intuit where I was yearning for the song to go. They eventually found their way toward the rolling, atmospheric arrangement of that song. The first time Josh tried the new groove, with brushes on the snare drum emphasizing the offbeat, I felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t my idea, but I knew when I heard it, it was exactly what I wanted.

  I have learned over the years that the “not knowing” is part of the beauty of making music, and that vocabulary is important, but not crucial in communication. Only patience is crucial in communication. Recording is exploration. You take a piece of music and excavate, searching for the shape the song wants to take in that moment. You use wonderful musicians, producers, and engineers who help you navigate those waters and hopefully also help you remember that it doesn’t have to feel precious or scary. You try things that don’t work as you hunt for what does. And sometimes you even find it.

  Now I had an album. In a hard plastic JEWEL CASE! It made me feel official. I sold Careful Confessions at my shows and on my brand-new website (!!!), and also registered it with CDBaby.com, an online music store for independent artists. By the time it came out, I had already played at least a hundred shows, and had completed one two-week tour of East Coast colleges opening for Maroon 5, friends of mine from college. I could sense that something was beginning to happen around me. Through my site and CDBaby.com I was eventually getting album orders from across the country—then all over the world. I couldn’t believe it. I spent countless hours at my little kitchen table handling the details of booking shows, e-mailing fans, returning MySpace messages, signing my albums, and labeling the packages to be sent out. I had to reorder the CD from the printer. I sold maybe a few thousand of those records with my own two hands. I started to consider the notion that I could maybe make a living doing this. It seemed strange and self-indulgent to even entertain that fantasy, but I was witnessing things unfold organically that made it almost seem possible. I had been so busy avoiding my own future I almost overlooked the fact that it was staring right back at me. I quit my waitressing job and started calling myself a musician. It was a proud day.

  None of this would have been possible without my roommate and best friend, Chad Joseph. Chad and I met in 2001, bonding over a conversation during which we commiserated over the fact that none of our friends at UCLA had noticed we had both been gone for the entire previous year studying abroad. (An excited “How was your summer?!” conversation inevitably transformed into a sheepish “Sorry I didn’t realize you weren’t here last year” conversation.) Chad is one of the funniest people I’ve ever known, a sweetheart from the Valley with perfect teeth and a huge heart. We lived together in a little two-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica when all of this was happening around me, and Chad took on the role of unofficial manager during that time. I don’t know how I would have moved forward without him. Chad did a little bit of everything. Before Careful Confessions was first printed, he would stay up all night burning CDs on his laptop and handwriting the labels so I could sleep. He organized the mailing list, answered a bazillion e-mails, helped me load up the car with my equipment. At the shows, he sold CDs and handled inquiries about bookings and whatever else came up. This is the tip of the iceberg of the kinds of things Chad did for me at that time, and he did all of it for no pay. We both thought we were headed toward a professional relationship as manager and artist.

  After eight months of working independently on Careful Confessions, in August 2004, my record landed on the desk of Jordan Feldstein. He was a young, hungry manager from Los Angeles, and after my first tour with his then baby band and my college buddies, Maroon 5, he had listened to the record and was interested in representing me. Jordan was connected, fearless, and driven, putting touring opportunities and a big-picture plan in front of me. He was not, however, interested in a co-management configuration. Chad and I had an awkward meeting with him and a long painful heart-to-heart in private. We decided that I needed to try and work with someone who had more experience. Chad was selfless through that entire transition. I struggled terribly with feeling disloyal, but Chad’s grace and generosity made me feel like he understood. I realize it was ultimately the right decision, and I’m happy to say that Chad was then by my side for years as my tour manager, and was a crucial part of my early years as an artist.

  Jordan’s tenacity would prove to be incredibly important, especially in the early stages of my career. Those days were fraught with a sort of “against the odds” kind of spirit. Although I was having some success with my audience, I didn’t fit in any particular mold, and that was challenging for outsiders in the industry to understand. Hell, it was challenging for me to understand. I played pop music, but I didn’t reflect the existing aesthetic of any of the successful female artists of the time. I wasn’t Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson. I wasn’t Tori Amos or Norah Jones. Nobody knew what to do with me. Journalists and reviewers were confused. Industry professionals were wary of taking a chance on me. I found it infuriating: I didn’t want to be like anyone else. I wore T-shirts and jeans, drank and swore on stage, and wrote songs about Cinderella getting drunk. To be fair, I’m not surprised that my onstage persona was mildly confusing, but I resented being made to feel wrong because of it.

  I thank God I had Jordan in my corner fighting for me. He never once suggested I do anything to change my aesthetic, musical or otherwise. He treated a lot of the “constructive” criticism as nonsense and encouraged me to continue to be myself. With his guidance we charged forward toward our first major goal—gaining the attention of a record label in hope
s of taking my music to the next level.

  This “looking for a record label” thing looks different for everyone and there are no rules. I can only speak to my own experience, which consisted of a handful of “showcases,” where record company folks (or lawyers or agents) were invited to a series of private performances in various rehearsal spaces to see me play four or five songs live with my band. There is nothing natural about knowing you’re being judged and evaluated for investment, and I was not especially cool under pressure. I remember one of these first showcases was set up for a young lawyer, and I pulled out all the stops. I rented a small rehearsal room in West LA and decorated it with twinkle lights, folding chairs, and a makeshift bar with bottles of beer on ice. I dressed up, made jokes, and had the most awkward twenty minutes of my life. I was so uncomfortable, fumbling through chitchat and not knowing where to look in the room while I was singing. I barely remember the performance. I think it’s impossible to wear that much desperation and still act like a human. When the first person passed on working with me, it stung, but I tried to chalk it up to just not being a good fit for each other. But the rejections kept coming until no became the answer I came to expect.

  Love Song music-video shoot

  These showcases were the first taste of really seeing myself as a product to be “sold,” and that bitter pill did not go down easy. Especially since no one was buying. It’s hard not to believe people when they’re just so incredibly specific about what they don’t like about you.

  I was told many things I started to believe:

  My songs weren’t good.

  I was “just a voice.”

  My tube tops didn’t fit.

  My personality onstage was distracting.

  My band wasn’t good.

  My songs were too jazzy.

  My style was bad.

  My sound wasn’t cool.

  On and on.

  My self-doubt was raging, but I continued to play shows and do my level best to shake it off and keep focused on all of those devout early fans who kept me going. They were so generous. They spent their time, love, and money on my shows, and made me feel like somebody wanted what I had to give. Somehow they saw past my tube tops and terrible songs and wanted to be in the room. They made me want to be in the room too. They guided me through the gauntlet of those first steps into the industry and steered me toward steady footing and something that felt whole and sane.

  Thank you forever, sweet ninjas.

  One night toward the end of 2004, Pete Giberga, an A&R representative from Epic Records, was invited by my manager to a show of mine at the Temple Bar in Santa Monica, a moody, bohemian little club near the beach that I had played at dozens of times. I had no idea he was in the room and I suppose my performance was liberated because of it. As far as I was concerned, the only people in the room were my friends and fans, and so I was afforded the luxury of being observed while I truly enjoyed myself. I was introduced to Pete after the show, and I was shocked to hear that he had enjoyed it. He wanted to have a follow-up meeting. I agreed, and internally steeled myself to hear that my sound needed work or I needed to write better songs or change my name or shave my head or lose weight or whatever else was wrong with me.

  I was woozy walking into the enormous Sony Building in Santa Monica for my meeting. This is was what Jordan and I had been working toward and what I had wanted for so long, but I was skeptical. Putting myself out there to be criticized so many times made me nervous about exposing myself to what had already proven to be extremely painful. The meeting went really well, and spending time with Pete over the next couple of months made the idea of taking the next step seem palatable. I liked his straight talk and the fact that he wore hoodies and sneakers. Pete loves music, and believes in people. He’s also a rare breed of industry professional who still believes in the virtue of spending time and energy developing an artist. He made very clear that this was going to be a long process and that there were no guarantees. I decided to believe him. To this day he is a dear and trusted friend who only wears dress shoes at funerals and weddings.

  I was flown to New York with Jordan to meet with the president of the label at the time, Steve Barnett, and talk about the prospect of being an Epic artist. I felt incredibly young and inexperienced on that trip. I sat next to Jordan at LAX waiting to board the plane and confessed to him that I didn’t know what to say in the meeting. He said, “Say whatever you want to say.” I wished I knew what that might be. His office was in the corner on what felt like the six hundredth floor, and I walked down the halls of Epic Records taking in the plaques on the wall. This was Michael Jackson’s label. Fiona Apple’s. Pearl Jam’s. Rage Against the Machine’s. George Michael’s. My palms were sweating.

  Steve was kind and forthright in our meeting, and I appreciated that. We talked about the music I had already written and the kind of artist I hoped to become. His interest in me seemed polite and measured, but he was gracious. I got the sense that it was a reluctant handshake in front of me, but he did leave me feeling that there was an opportunity to move forward here if I wanted to take it, as long as I was willing to try cowriting with professional songwriters. It stung more than a little bit to hear that my own body of work wasn’t enough for him to sign off on me, but I told him that I would try. No promises though, as I had had several poor attempts at writing with others under my belt already. My anxiety about sharing my newborn ideas was very strong, and my fear of getting bowled over and taken in directions I didn’t want to go was even stronger. During the meeting, I racked my brain for intelligent questions to ask, but ultimately stayed pretty quiet, too overwhelmed to say a whole lot, as I agreed to the parameters and the negotiations progressed. I could sense the rumblings of a seismic shift in my life. It made me really nervous.

  Several months later I signed my record deal in my lawyer’s office in Santa Monica. As much as I had wanted it and worked for it, it felt like things were moving so fast. My overactive imagination was playing out only worst-case scenarios. I would get pressured into being something I wasn’t. I would become famous and hate it. I would be bullied and disempowered and stuck there forever. A lot of those horrible things oddly enough would eventually happen, but my mistake that day was in underestimating my own ability to handle it. I wish I could go back, give myself a hug, and tell myself that even when bad things happened, I was going to be okay. That was April 15, 2005, and I spent the rest of that year forging ahead, hoping for the best, and going to writing sessions with professional songwriting teams.

  I have since realized that I would rather eat steak knives and a bag of hair.

  This is another process that has no rules; still, my cowriting sessions generally all resembled one another. I would go to the home studio or writing room of a rich and relatively pleasant person with expensive, alkaline-infused bottled water and beige furniture, who had plaques on the wall commemorating gold and platinum records that they had written for gold and platinum selling artists like Kelly Clarkson or Avril Lavigne. We would exchange pleasantries for a little while and then somebody would go and drag music into the room. My armpits would start sweating as a guitar would get picked up and a few chords would get strummed or a half-finished prerecorded track that “sounded like me” would get played, and I would be asked to share my thoughts or build on it somehow. I was like a deer in headlights. My stomach would tighten and my cheeks would flush as the people pleaser in me felt immense pressure to validate the idea but the artist in me wanted to run screaming. The truth is, I didn’t want to write music that way. The process didn’t make me feel connected or inspired, but I was too worried about disappointing this big machine that was now moving forward on my behalf to say anything. I was waiting for someone else to give me permission to make my own decisions, and that was my greatest mistake.

  Just for the record, I want to be clear that this is not a judgment on the talent or integrity of these types of writers, or even the particular writers I met. Incredible songs have come out
of cowriting for all kinds of artists, but in my opinion the most connected material comes out of organic human connection, and you just don’t know when or where that will sprout up. I had a long series of unsuccessful meetings and half songs and very awkward afternoons, but the final straw came in Santa Monica at a little cottage near the beach. I had a session with a very successful writer who shall remain nameless in this book. Let’s just call him Dick Douche. He sauntered into the room and indulged me with about six minutes of vapid chitchat and feigned interest in my life, then slid a typed-up list of song titles that I could choose from over to me on the coffee table. It was full of names like 2 Good 4 U and Better 2 B Without U, and no, he wasn’t Prince. I was panicked at the idea of getting through a session that had started this badly, but before I had even read to the bottom of the list, he had decided that since I was young I should write something about “fun,” so he excitedly suggested Just Have Fun! and before I knew it, he had delighted himself and skipped out of the room to go record his idea.

  It didn’t even matter that I was in the room. He hadn’t taken the time to listen to a single song I had written. He wasn’t concerned with who I was as a writer or what my goals were in moving forward. He made me feel invisible. All of those sessions had made me feel that way. I sat stunned on the couch, choking back tears and making small talk with his writing partner while I waited for the session to end. I think his partner had started to clue in on my extreme discomfort, and he eventually gingerly walked me out to my car and gave me a hug. I don’t remember the other guy coming back in to say goodbye. I drove away in tears, exhausted, embarrassed, and feeling two inches tall. It occurred to me how precious and private the act of writing music was to me. It was excruciating sharing that part of myself.