When we recently Zoomed—I, inside my Evanston, IL home; the artist, just outside “Robin's nest,” if you will, in Shelburne Falls, MA—there emerged against the backdrop of the continuing pandemic a pan-topical conversation: her music and career; Despicable Donald; those who've influenced Robin, and those who've been influenced by her; the current but, thank God, outgoing U.S. “President” (“elected” via Russo-publican collusion); what is was like to work—and live—with Neil Young; demonic Fred Trump's satanic son; the new album reviewed here, and the one next-to-come; the single worst American alive today; trauma, post-traumatic stress and music's capacity to heal them; the COVID-Enabler-in-Chief; magic squirrels … oh, and: Trump. Perhaps inevitably, the 250-pound orangutan in the room kept grabbing us with his tiny hands and pulling us back in…
PM: Hey, Robin! What a beautiful blue sky behind you. I should be Zoom-ing outdoors too.
RL: Well, somebody's cleaning our house. But sometimes my network connection doesn't work that well outside, so…
PM: I can see and hear you just fine. [The connection subsequently did come and go.]
RL: You're kind of dark.
PM: Well, that's the age in which we're living, right?
RL: God, yes.
PM: I'll turn on another light. How are you today?
RL: Everything's good. I'm glad our Trump song finally came out, and before the election…
[The Shepherd Express' Blaine Schultz recently reviewed “Chip Off the Block” (Lane / McComas), which we released as a free digital single on October 25, 2020.
…Turns out, there was no point in holding it back while he was in the hospital, was there? 'Cause he's out and, yup, he's still being an asshole.
PM: Strictly from a marketing point of view, it might not have done as well then. I wasn't concerned that it would've been inappropriate. Hell, even if he'd died, we still could have released it, just with some kind of a preamble card: “We wrote and recorded this before he got sick. This isn't being released out of disrespect for the dead; it's being released out of respect for the however-many-hundred-thousand who've died so far because of him.”
RL: Right.
PM: But what you and I ran into while writing was, in the song's words, “Every damn day, something more outrageous.” It felt like it was never quite done. Even now, “every damn day,” he plagues us. And I do mean “plague.” Hard to release something about him that's truly current.
RL: Right, and then when he got sick, we almost felt sorry for him. (laughs) Well, not really.
PM: No, not really.
RL: I kind of wanted … No, I'm not gonna say it.
PM: I did, too. 'Cause when we was admitted, I told you and other friends, “If he gets better, he's gonna come out and say, 'It's no big deal. It's like a cold or a flu.'”
RL: And that's exactly what he did.
PM: Yeah, to show how “strong” he is. And that businesses should re-open. So, his illness ended up making things worse—because he survived it. Jesus! In fact [quoting from Lane's song “I Don't Wanna Know”], “Jesus, you better come back quick / Because you know I've had enough!”
RL: Jesus, come save us from Mussolini.
PM: Yeah. Hey, tell me about your town, Shelburne Falls, which I'm looking at now.
RL: It's beautiful, especially now. All of the leaves blaze with color.
PM: Your area—like my native Milwaukee, and Evanston, Ill., where I live now—probably looks best this time of year.
RL: Yeah, but I don't like fall any more. I used to be a fall person, but now I like spring, 'cause it's hopeful, uplifting. fall is about falling.
PM: Fall's still my favorite. Yes, it's about the end of things—but some things need to end.
RL: (laughs) Oh, yeah! Yeah.
PM: Maybe this will give you some fall uplift. OK, do you know that you've been one of my favorite artists for 40 years; since I was a teen, you've been somewhere on my Top 10 List and still are. Well, my college girlfriend and I, uh, we “crossed a big boundary” together—the kind you can only cross together—to the accompaniment of your debut album. I don't recall, but I hope the moment-of-truth song was “Be Mine Tonight.” I truly hope it wasn't “When Things Go Wrong”— especially since that's Track #1! Or, jeez, “It'll Only Hurt A Little While.”
RL: (giggles) Ask her. Well, I'm … honored?
PM: Anyway, I enjoy all your albums and EPs, but the Chartbusters' sophomore effort Imitation Life is basically perfect. It's a song cycle that takes us on a trip. Even the transitions are so well thought-out and executed, especially on Side 1. “Meet” that album when you're 19, and it actually can change your life. What are some albums or artists that have changed yours?
RL: I'll tell you in a second. But you've got me remembering: I was hanging out [in Boston] with a friend in Macy's or Jordan Marsh [department store] right after that second album came out. We were watching a new Martha Davis and the Motels video on a TV screen there, and I said, “I think I liked her first album better.” And this girl walks by and says, “Well, I liked your first album better. Your second album sucked!”
PM: And that girl was Martha Davis. Right?
RL: (laughs) No. But can you imagine saying that to someone?
PM: Right, 'cause that's your baby. Besides which, the two records aren't that different; it's not as if Imitation Life went in some completely new direction. It's a little grittier, a little punkier, a little more in-your-face, a little more political—all positive changes, as far as I was concerned. Anyway, back to my question: who were some of the artists and what were some of the albums that, for you, were like Robin Lane and Imitation Life were for me?
RL: You mean, when I started recording, or—?
PM: Whenever. In your “younger and more vulnerable years,” as Fitzgerald says.
RL: There were about eight million. All the Motown artists; I'm not sure how much they influenced me musically, but I loved them. Laura Nyro was a big influence when I was young. So were the Everly Brothers. The Beatles, of course—even though I don't write like that. And I loved Steely Dan.
PM: For sure. I was just telling my bandmates we should cover “The Fez.”
RL: Every time I hear Steely Dan, I'm like: “Oh, my God, this is so good!” Then, let's see … When The Harder They Come came out [in 1973] …
PM: Jimmy Cliff, yeah. Great reggae; great lyrics.
RL: Loved him. I loved John Martyn. Oh, and Bert Jansch was a huge influence. When I first met Andy [Summers: guitarist for The Police; Lane's ex-husband], I was trying to write and play guitar like Bert. I was actually pretty good back then; I don't think I could play that well now. Then I met Bert through Andy, when we went to a party at John Mayall's—who looked just like a wolf! Anyway, there Bert was, my idol, with all these people around him, and I went right up to him. We became friends—after he got over trying to come on to me.
PM: (laughs) That's a familiar pattern in the rock-chick world, isn't it?
RL: Yeah. Anyway, there were a ton of artists who inspired me. Then, in the late-'70s, my roommate turned me on to Patti Smith and Tom Petty. My boyfriend was in The Real Kids; he introduced me to Dwight Twilley, Talking Heads, Tom Verlaine and [his band] Television.
PM: Your mentioning Petty makes me think of how Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and Robin Lane and the Chartbusters, and so many of your contemporaries were lumped together under the heading “New Wave,” but you weren't New Wave bands. There was no category for what he was doing, nor for what you were doing—though, actually, your two bands are linked by that sort of “jangle rock” element.
RL: Yeah. And our band name was a take-off on theirs.
PM: Did you ever stop to think, “What kind of music are we making?” Or—
RL: No. No, I just made it.
PM: Calling it “New Wave” served a purpose: it got young people like me who were into New Wave and punk to check it out, because we were looking for something new and different.
RL: I acted like I was a punk. I said it was a punk band, but it wasn't at all, and no, it wasn't New Wave, either. But I wanted to be part of the New Wave and punk crowd rather than the singer-songwriter crowd. I didn't even have to say so; that's where I got put. That was my kettle of fish.
PM: Well, I'd say that you and the band definitely had a foot in punk. “I Don't Wanna Know,” “Imitation Life,” “No Control”—these are great punk songs, or really punk-pop songs. The beats-per-minute are way up there, and I know ya can slam to 'em because, well, I have!
RL: (laughs) My manager at the time—the worst in the world—hated all that talk of punk. He'd get mad and say “She's not punk! She's a folk singer from California!”
PM: The accurate way to say it would have been “She's not just punk,” because sometimes your music sort of was, and sometimes it wasn't. You and I have talked about this before: this “need” on the industry's part to categorize women artists, in order to co-opt them.
RL: Yeah. My manager was, well, less than great.
PM: Do you have a favorite of your own albums?
RL: No, I don't. I don't listen to the albums, so I can't remember which songs are on which. Like, I can't remember the album side you were talking about. What's on there?
PM: I'll tell ya what's on there, 'cause Imitation Life Side 1 is up there with the best. It starts out mid-tempo with “Send Me an Angel”; then, into my favorite—the song of yours that my own band covers—“What the People Are Doing,” which ramps up the drama; into the blazing title track; then, you bring it down with “Say Goodbye,” which is intimate and heartfelt; then you go through the roof with “No Control,” which ends on that big double-hit, BAM-BAM. Done.
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RL: There are only five songs on there?
PM: Yeah, but they're five of your best, sequenced to form this terrific, dynamic “journey.”
RL: That's a really good order for those songs.
PM: Hell, yeah. I can't imagine them any other way.
RL: Wow. That is a good side.PM: Of course, the art of “album-side-ing” is largely lost now, isn't it?
RL: Yeah, but not the art of track sequencing. For Dirt Road to Heaven [Lane's imminent, somewhat folkier follow-up to Instant Album], I'm trying to think of an order now, and I just absolutely can't. It's really hard, in part because we're including two Instant Album tracks on there: “It's Your World” and “Not So Bad.” I want “It's Your World” to be heard as much as possible. That's OK, to put a couple of tracks on a couple of different albums, right?
PM: Yes. For one thing, both albums have quite a few tracks, so those are just like “extras.” Also, “It's Your World is certainly a song of this moment. It's prophetic. And yet, it's not new; sometimes, when we put something out into the world, it may not be the right time for it yet. The right time might come 20 years later. “It's Your World” came out in, what, 2000?
RL: Nobody ever heard that song. It was on the Rock for Wood [Monolyth Records] benefit compilation album in 1999, so like two people heard it. But the song just now came out on Instant Album, and if it's on the next one too, then some people will hear it. It doesn't really fit on Dirt Road to Heaven, but I think it should be there anyway.
PM: You need to draw attention to that song now, 'cause it's about now; this is the time. By the way, look: I'm holding your Out of the Ashes album (2011)—a digital-only release. I bought the download and burned it onto a CD, so I now have it as a record you can hold in your hand and put in a player and play, which is what I like to do, still.
RL: That ex-manager of mine was my “record company” for a few years there, although he didn't really do anything other than set up Out of the Ashes for sale on Amazon. Again, I don't recall which songs are on there, but the title song I think is a good one.
PM: It's great. It's a strong album. I haven't created packaging for it yet, but when I do, I'll send you a copy of, well, your own album!
RL: Thanks! Did you ever hear Heart Connection (1984)?
PM: I own the old vinyl EP. It's your “New Wave-est” record, thanks to that '80s-keyboard layer.
RL: There are a couple of songs on there that I suspect nobody's ever heard. (laughs)
PM: I suspect you're mistaken, if only because it's included on your 3-disc career retrospective (Many Years Ago, 2019).
RL: Oh, right.
PM: In fact, I suspect that, in general, your work is heard more than you think. Like, by most everyone reading this interview right now. You definitely have a fan base.
RL: I suppose.
PM: We were talking about your influences, and before we move past that, I'd be remiss were I not to ask about one more artist. The Neil Young fans would never forgive me if I didn't—
RL: Neil, of course! He was an influence. And Stephen Stills. Stephen's music, I think I liked more, at least in those days.
PM: Though Neil has had the more interesting post-CSNY [Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young] career. When you reflect on singing for Neil on [Crazy Horse's 1969 classic] Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, on “Round and Round (It Won't Be Long),” what comes to mind?
RL: Well, we'd sung the song together a lot, long before he made that album. He'd come up to what we called the Rocket House; those guys in The Rockets later became Crazy Horse. They had a house perched on a hill in Laurel Canyon [California] where everybody, all the musicians, came to buy pot. That's where I met Neil. He taught me that song, and I sang it with him. When he went to record it a couple of years later, in '69, he invited me to come sing it on the album. We sat around in a circle, me and Danny [Whitten] and Neil, and we sang that song. I think we went through it two times; that was it.
PM: Are we listening to a single take there? Or, does it have elements of both takes?
RL: Oh, no; no way! In those days? We didn't do that.
PM: Your part is somewhere in between a backup vocal and a duet. It's so prominent that I can't just call it a backup vocal: you're singing every chorus, plus some wordless “Ooo, ahh” stuff during the verses, and your voice is high in the mix.
RL: Yeah, but I'm in the middle; it's Danny who's doing the high harmony.
PM: It's gorgeous. The song stands up well; it's of its time period but not limited to its time period. It doesn't sound dated today.
RL: Well, that's good.
PM: You and Neil shared a home at one point, is that right?
RL: He asked me to move into his cabin, so I did. I guess we were like boyfriend and girlfriend, though we never really communicated.
PM: Through music, maybe?
RL: Jeez, I don't know how we communicated! It was kind of like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Like, there's something going on here that's really profound, but you don't know what it is.
PM: “Do you, Mr. Jones?”
RL: (laughs) Yeah. It's so weird, 'cause I lived with him! Well, we were really young and crazy.
PM: Also, you both dipped into and out of altered states back then; that can play with memory.
RL: Well, yeah.
PM: I'm not going to ask about your childhood, or about Dean Martin. [Robin's father Ken Lane—Martin's pianist and arranger—composed “Dino's” signature song, “Everybody Loves Somebody Some Time.”] Or [Hollywood star and Lane “friend-plus”] Sal Mineo. Or Andy Summers. [Chartbusters drummer] Tim Jackson covers all of that in his documentary [When Things Go Wrong: Robin Lane's Story; see Sidebar]. I want to get to Instant Album. Instant Album How would you describe it relative to your prior albums? How does it differ; what makes it distinctive?
RL: It's a cobbled-together thing. I think it kind of comes across as, like: you're making up a song on the spot, and here it is; and here's another; and another; and another. I didn't really think about it; I just randomly grabbed a bunch of songs—“instantly.” Honestly, I needed something new to sell at shows for $10 a pop.
PM: What's interesting to me—as someone who seeks creative interaction between the left-brain conscious mind and the right-brain unconscious—is, you can call it a random group of songs, but they do work together as a single piece. You “didn't think about it”—consciously. And yet…
RL: I don't know how that can be, because it's got songs like “Kitty Kat”—I mean, what's that about? Then, “Goddess to a Doormat”—? Where does that come from in the scheme of things?
PM: The messiness of life. Its tendency to stray beyond the borders. Sometimes beautifully.
RL: I'm talking about the music, though.
PM: The musical styles? Well, it's eclectic and varied, as your work, writ large, has often been: on one of your albums, we can say, “Here, she's in kind of a Western/folk vein,” or “Here, it's more that 'alt-jangle' sound.” But this album brings them all together in one place. That's the musical style: many. It goes with that messiness-of-life theme. And God knows, our lives all got pretty messy eight months ago, so, it's timely, it's apt.
RL: I actually wish it could be more “messy.” I wish I could put “Out of the Ashes” on there.
PM: Well, you've got “It All Makes Sense” on there, which says sort of the same thing.
RL: I put that one up on Facebook once, and people said, “That's my favorite song you've ever done.” Yet nobody will ever hear it. I could put it on “Dirt Road to Heaven.” But I'd re-record it. The original wasn't a great recording; I can do it better now, and I want to, 'cause I like that song.
PM: Great song. And an important song, a therapeutic one, in terms of the lyrics and the way you sing them. So, yeah, do it justice. It's going to impact listeners—and maybe influence other songwriters, too. 'Cause, y'know, over the years, you've gone from being influenced to influencing others. Not to say that you're not still being influenced by colleagues—I think we all are—but: what's it like to learn of the influence you've had on other artists, younger artists who came after you? Maybe even on artists with whom you've then gone on to collaborate?
RL: Like you? (laughs)
PM: (laughs) Others. Many others. Most of whom you don't even know.
RL: Yeah, sometimes I hear about my influence, either on their music or in other ways, and that's really nice. But as you say, it's usually not something I'm aware of. There are some people around here [New England] who've been influenced, I suppose, but—
PM: Well, I was living in Wisconsin at the time, so …
RL: OK, but I do think my music's been overlooked, so my influence has been overlooked…
PM: Agreed.
RL: …even though I've written, like, eight-gajillion songs! Some of my younger friends who are doing music out in L.A., they go, “Wow, I wish I could do that!” Well, how have they ever heard it? Only because they know me, and I've played it for them. There's one younger person I've influenced who was able to put it all together and who I think could still be commercially viable: Jim James [aka “Yim Yames,” aka James Edward Olliges, Jr.] of My Morning Jacket.
PM: And he's from Kentucky—see? Tim Jackson kicked off his doc about you with a superimposed line about your great influence and impact.
RL: But then, he says I've been “largely forgotten.”
PM: But at the time—I've read the reviews—you were compared in flattering terms to your contemporaries: Patti Smith, Debbie Harry, Chrissie Hynde, Lena Lovich, even Janis Joplin.
RL: Yeah. But you never know how things will turn out. Sometimes, I hear about an artist from the '40s or '50s, and people really loved them then, but now they're forgotten. Where did they go? It happens today, too: there are musicians, artists, writers who are really good, maybe they've gotten recognized here and there, but the world is like, “So what?” (laughs)
PM: I do a live program called “Writers You've Never Heard of—Till Now” comprising the work of colleagues of mine who, just like me, are published authors but aren't famous; they've had good or even great reviews but have never achieved breakthrough commercial success. Their stuff is as good as anyone else's out there; it just hasn't gotten the breaks, the push.
RL: It's the same thing in music. You need someone to market it, and then you need to get lucky.
PM: Yeah, but if you're making art of any kind principally in order to hit it big commercially…
RL: Then the work's not gonna be all that good. If it's being made to fit a formula.
PM: Right. As for work that's unique and timeless, I think about artists and performers where you can look across the eras and see, well, not a formula, but an archetype. In the '40s, my late father got to see Cab Calloway in concert; it was amazing, transformative. When I got to meet Morris Day backstage, I told him, “You're the Cab Calloway of my generation.” I mean, he's Morris Day, which is big, but he's also today's Calloway. So, I'm wondering if there's anyone out there, or has been at any point since your heyday, whom you'd consider to be “a Robin Lane.”
RL: Huh. I don't know. I mean, there are a lot more women out there now. Sometimes, I think I've heard people who are like me. Like, oh, Dar Williams.
PM: Yeah. I can hear that.
RL: She's a really good friend of a friend of mine. At first, I didn't like her stuff, but then I heard this one song of hers, and I went, “Wow! That's really good,” and then I went “That kinda sounds like me.” I also think Lucinda Williams, a bit. And a couple of others.
PM: Lucinda's a little younger than you, but not much. I can hear you in artists who are younger still: Liz Phair; Alanis Morrissette.
RL: That's so funny, because Alanis' first album [1995's multi-platinum Jagged Little Pill] was produced by Glen Ballard, whom I used to work with; we wrote songs together. Such a nice person. I couldn't believe it when I saw that Glen had produced her album.
PM: There's a definite overlap in your sounds. And Liz Phair—who's still really popular here in the Midwest; she's the pride of Chicago—there've been times when I've thought she sounds like you. Yet there's a song on Instant Album where you sound like her. I think we can be influenced by those whom we've influenced. And it becomes a conversation.
RL: I love her titles. Exile in Guyville. What song do I sound like her on?
PM: On “Special to Me,” your Beatles homage—your “original Revolver track,” basically— there's a quality to your voice, and also on “Casey,” that reminds me of Phair. A kind of smart-tough innocence. It's the voice more of a girl, a wise girl, than of a grown woman.
RL: Well, back in the day, I used to know T-Bone Burnett, and he produced a song by Sam Phillips on which she sounded like that. I wasn't copying that; it just happened. She has some really good songs. We were all in the same circle. T-Bone wanted to produce our second album.
PM: Imitation Life? Wow.
RL: But Warner Brothers didn't know who he was.
PM: Ha! They know now, huh? I love his work. But I also love how Imitation Life turned out; I wouldn't change a thing about that record. Still, it would be great to hear a collab between you and T-Bone. He did great work with Elvis Costello—among many others.
RL: Yeah. All those people were brought together in one place by a friend of mine—who became a friend of everybody's. Y'know how some people are opportunists?
PM: Yes. (laughs) Yes, I do.
RL: I introduced him to T-Bone. My friend just kept rising in the industry: he ran MTV, then VH-1; now he freakin' runs the world. All these people came together because of that meeting, and they all became friends. One time, he said to another friend, “Yeah, I could help Robin with a flick of my pinky finger—but I know all these artists, and this music business hasn't made any of them happy, so…”
PM: Has it made you happy?RL: No. I mean, at this point, it would make me very happy if something big were to happen. But when I was young, if I'd gotten really big, really successful … well, I already have my problems without having had that kind of success. That probably wouldn't have been a good thing. But who knows?
PM: “Too much too soon” can be dangerous. Although you were a smidge older than most when you first hit and achieved a certain level of fame—
RL: Yeah, but I had a fucked-up brain; I was still too young.
PM: Yeah, 'cause you'd been through some bad shit as a kid, I know from Tim's doc. But after the fame, you kinda found yourself, huh? I think about that scene where you're performing, backed just by Scooter [Chartbusters' bassist Scott Baerenwald]; your hair is in corn rows; your daughter's been born by then and she's there with you. You're not playing for very many people; you're on a local cable show. And you look so happy!
RL: Mm-hmm.
PM: 'Cause at that point, it's about the music. I mean, I asked you, “Has the music business made you happy?” and you said “No,” but it's really a two-part question, right? The music part makes you happy; the business part, not so much.
RL: I got confused for a while—it's happened at a few times in my life—and didn't want to do music. It was too painful, because I knew I was good but what did that matter? The music wasn't reaching people. But then at some point, I got it back—like, “It all makes sense”—and it's all about the music now. It would be great if something hit big, but I'm not doing it for that reason.
PM: Correct me if I'm wrong, but during those times when you weren't so sure if you wanted to keep making music, there wasn't some other thing that was pulling you away and saying “Do painting,” or “Do acting,” or whatever. Right? Or was there?
RL: Only at one point, about 15 or 20 years ago, when I went back to college. When I started working with trauma survivors, I was about to go to Smith to become some kind of counselor. But that was taking me away from the music, so I just didn't go in that direction; instead, I started playing more again and writing more again.
PM: Yes, but you're playing and writing now within the context of helping traumatized people heal. You realized that to do Songbird Sings, to provide the kind of help, counseling, musical inspiration and healing you wanted to provide, didn't require a degree or degree program. Yes?
RL: Yes, but it was kind of sad. See, I had a friend—I still have her—who was part of my workshops; she came in as a participant. At that time, she was in advertising in New York; she made big commercials and stuff. Then she did a master's program; now she's a therapist. And I think, “Wait a second. I've done just as much as her,” but I didn't have a bachelor's degree, so I couldn't get into s specialized program to become a therapist. You know what I mean?
PM: I do. But through Songbird Sings [Lane's songwriting-based trauma-recovery workshop program], you're already doing just what you'd be doing with that degree.
RL: Yeah, but I can't get a job!
PM: Right. If you wanted to work as, say, a music therapist, you'd need to complete the Bachelor's and then another degree, then go through a certification process.
RL: Yeah. Just to get a normal job.
PM: It's true. And what you're doing now doesn't pay the bills, or not all them. But don't pretend for a second that you're a person to whom The Almighty Dollar is the most important thing.
RL: The Almighty Dollar does mean a lot, because if I don't figure out something, I could be living under the bridge.
PM: I didn't say it doesn't mean a lot. I said it's not your top priority.
RL: Nah. I wish it was. (laughs) No, I don't.
PM: You wouldn't write the songs that you do. You wouldn't be Robin Lane. Not the one that I know—or that my colleague Brett Milano knows. Let me read this quote from his liner notes for the Many Years Ago retrospective, 'cause when I first read these words, I realized that he'd summed up in a nutshell what I'd always kind of known and thought while I was getting into your music as a teenager:
What comes through most strongly in Lane's music is the emotional generosity, whether it's a yearning love song or one of the many (“Don't Cry,” “When Things Go Wrong,” “It'll Only Hurt a Little While”) that offer solace to troubled friends.
Then, Brett gets into your so-called “Christian phase”—very Dylan of you, by the way. And I'd say that yours was the right kind of Christianity, as opposed to right-wing kind. It wasn't the judgmental, goats-versus-sheep kind; it was open-minded, open-hearted, love-centered Jesus- freak Christianity. Yes: emotionally generous. And that quality comes through to Brett, it comes through to me, and I promise you, it comes through to everyone who has loved your music for as long as we have. And I don't know that it was consciously intentional on your part; I assume it's just a huge part of who you are, so it comes across in your songwriting, in your music. And in your vocal stylings too, frankly. (pauses—finally!) Sorry for the speech.
RL: No, it was good. Y'know, looking back on it all, at this age, I think that I did have that, I do have that, in a way. Not that I'm a saint or anything—
PM: But you care, and you put that caring out there. Always have.
RL: But I was so fucked up and hadn't dealt with things, so … I don't know what I'm trying to say.
PM: Maybe that you were also offering solace to yourself?
RL: Well, yeah. So, there's this saying about how you're not that generous a person to your family, and you're not that good to the people who truly know you, yet you can still be that to the outside world. Do you know Pema Shödrön?
PM: No.
RL: You should look her up; she's so great, so beautiful. She's an American Buddhist author, and she actually has a book called When Things Fall Apart.
PM: Not to be confused with “When Things Go Wrong.” Or [Chinua Achebe's novel] Things Fall Apart. But I'll bet there are similarities beyond the titles.
RL: She's a big influence on me and on so many people. But she's a mother too, and her kids report that sometimes she yells at them, and she can get real crabby!
PM: I have Buddhist friends, and part of me is drawn to that tradition. Daisaku Ikeda is one of my favorite writers, and he's operating on a similar level of having incredible insight and wisdom into the way the world, and how people operate, and how we can be our best selves.
RL: Yeah, exactly.
PM: To the extent that you were somewhat fucked up in your early years, that probably helps in fostering the empathy that you had, and have, for fucked-up people.
RL: Well, you know what they say about people who become therapists, right?
PM: That those people are looking to treat themselves, heal themselves.
RL: Yeah!
PM: But I think it's also that they know, from their own injuries, what it's like to be wounded, and that triggers their empathy. The two motivations for going into mental health aren't mutually exclusive; they go hand in hand. I have deep respect for mental-health workers. I think they're often very unfairly stereotyped in a negative way by the media and especially the entertainment industry. In my fiction, I write them as good people—as the vast majority of them are—who went into the field for all the right reasons. They may be flawed heroes, but they're heroes.
RL: Yeah, I agree. They can't help but bring themselves into the equation. Like this guy Bessel van der Kolk, who coined the term PTSD. He's a Harvard professor, very famous. They say he's very argumentative, very “RAHHR!”—yet he started The Trauma Institute [and Child Trauma Institute, in Northampton, Mass.] and does a lot of good. He's beloved by many.
PM: Yeah. I work with [former Congressman] Patrick J. Kennedy [D-RI], who co-founded this amazing mental-health consortium, The Kennedy Forum, with Gen. Peter Ciarelli, Retired. And Gen. Ciarelli argues that we need to take the “D” off “PTSD” and call it “PTS.” He says—I'm paraphrasing—“As a General, I've worked with enough military men and women to know that it's an inherently macho culture. It's hard enough to convince the guys and gals to seek or accept help without telling them 'You have a disorder, you're disordered,' which to them means 'You're weak.' Instead say, 'You've done three tours, so you've been thrown into some pretty stressful situations. That can stick with you. But we can help you deal with it.”
RL: Instead of using that label “disorder.” Same thing with “bipolar disorder.”
PM: Right, as opposed to “bipolarity.” Anyway, back to Instant Album. “Special to Me,” the “long-lost Revolver track,” makes me wonder: Do you have a “fave Fab,” a favorite Beatle?
RL: (considers) Not really. I like them all.
PM: (holds up photo from liner notes) This is a very cute picture, by the way, which I'll try to put in the article: you, back in the day, holding a Beatles toy-guitar.
RL: Yeah, cute. Well, I adored those boys.
PM: Y'know, a lot of teens and young adults had crushes on you.
RL: I can see why now. I couldn't see it then. Anyway, yeah: loved those Beatles.
PM: But you didn't have a favorite. Some do; some don't. I'm a lifelong “Georgie.”
RL: In the beginning, I loved George the most, because he was just a little different. But then I came to love them all.
PM: He operated on a different plane. I hear his “Within You, Without You,” from about the same time John was saying, “We're more popular with young people than Jesus is.” Which may well have been true, but: how arrogant. And here's George, he's all of 24, he's a member of this band that has the world in its hand, and he's basically saying, “It's not about us. It's not about me. I'll be gone, and the world will go on.”
RL: Wow. Yeah. I never thought of it that way.
PM: He was prophetic. Of course, so is some of your work, including on Instant Album. You mentioned wanting “It's Your World” out there far and wide. It's so timely now, even though you wrote and recorded it 20-plus years ago. Do you find that your songs sometimes change over the years in terms of their resonance, their meaning—overall, or even just to you personally?
RL: Yes, sometimes, with some songs. “It's Your World” wasn't written about the world; it was written about me or somebody like me.
PM: And now, it has this very broad scope: it's about humanity.
RL: It started having that right away, actually; people started hearing it that way and telling me. They weren't taking in all the verse lyrics, necessarily; they were focusing on that chorus.
PM: Maybe writing self-reflectively and intimately is ultimately the same thing as writing about, well, humankind, so that something personal becomes political or sociocultural. Even universal.
RL: I may have been writing it about me and somebody else, someone specific. It wasn't just about me. I've never “drunk myself into a stupor.” But…
PM: But you've known people who have.
RL: (laughs) Oh, yeah. We've all known them. And we all know people who've “fallen out of their ivory towers.” So, it's kind of universal in that way. As a guitar-player friend of mine says—a friend whose name I can't remember… (laughs) This is crazy. Guitarist in Til Tuesday. Uh…
PM: Everyone remembers the young Aimee [Mann], but not her lead guitarist.
RL: Robert Holmes! There you go. Robert says, “I've known a lot of people who've had record deals, and it didn't do one of 'em a damn bit of good.” The ivory tower didn't save them.
PM: Same goes outside the music world. I mean, you could have someone who got sick and spent a few days in the ivory tower of a top-of-the-line medical center—say, Walter Reed—with a dozen doctors assigned to him. Then, once he's better, he goes back to his home in a mansion—another Ivory Tower. He might be protected, but he's sure as hell not protecting others, and maybe that fact ultimately brings him down, too. That's what “It's Your World” means to me right now. Of course, we could play the song for him, but it wouldn't do any good.
RL: No, it wouldn't. 'Cause you have to have the capacity to … to what?
PM: To learn.
RL: Yes. To learn. And he's incapable.
PM: You could wait forever, but he'll never learn. It is what it is; you just need a different leader.
RL: Because I think you have to be at least a little bit humble to learn.
PM: Without humility, there's an assumption that you already know everything there is to know.
RL: Yeah, he's definitely one of those.
PM: “I know more than my generals do. I'm a very stable genius.” Right. Speaking of political arrogance, let's talk about the new album track “Military Man.” “Scooter” is there, not just on bass but also in a guest vocal on Verse 2.
RL: His bass playing on that is really good. (imitates a riff, vocally)
PM: Yeah, it's like a bass version of a martial drum beat. In my teens, when I started playing bass, I learned a lot just from listening to him and playing along. People can teach you without even knowing that you exist.
RL: Scott's a natural. Though when he went up on stage with us, he made so many clamors [i.e.: hit so many wrong notes]! He made them throughout our heyday. He'd make a clamor, then he'd get all mad and take his hands off the bass to “fix” the mic, or he'd kick the bass amp (laughs) as if the problem was in there!
PM: (laughs) Yeah, I think I've tried that. Not fooling anyone, sorry.
RL: He was the one that everybody picked on.
PM: Really? All six-foot-five of him, he's the one who got picked on? That sounds dangerous!
RL: He can dish it out too, though. In Tim's movie, Scott said something not so nice about me. Kind of disparaging, like I was the ruination of the band.
PM: He's barely in that movie; I wondered why, especially since you have occasionally worked together, over the years.
RL: Tim did put a few things in there that weren't exactly complimentary to me. Which is fine; you want a well-rounded piece. But, c'mon—there was that Unckey-Monkey manager of mine, going “When I started working with her, she was already long in the tooth.” (laughs)
PM: When you were all of 32. But Robin, that tells us about him, not you! You come across well in the doc. There are a few “warts,” but that's what gives a piece credibility.
RL: I know. And I like that. Even what Scott said I think should be in there.
PM: It's how he feels, and he was there, so his opinion's part of the history. The doc never comes across as hagiography, and that's all to the good. It comes across as an authentically flattering portrait of someone who of course was never perfect, but who shined. And who, even though out of the limelight, continues to shine. Including through Songbird Sings; shall we talk about that?
RL: Sure. But right now, with COVID, I don't know what's going on there. I can't hold group workshops, obviously, and I can't go into prisons and earn money doing work with the women there, so I'm up a creek. I've got to figure out some other way to do it, maybe on Zoom, but I just don't know how. It's like I'm disconnecting … disconnected … I don't know how to get out of my own way right now, 'cause there's just too much going on. For all of us.
PM: Yeah, we've had this dark cloud hanging over our heads since last March. Really since November 2016.
RL: And those two things, together, are huge: COVID, and then his reaction to it.
PM: His lack of one. Whereas, if not for Russian collusion, Hillary would've dealt with this, like, last December. And the GOP would be haranguing her for the, like, 200 deaths.
RL: And they sure didn't harangue Trump as we passed 200 thousand. Still aren't. You know who I hate? I don't like to hate, but—Sean Hannity. And that Tucker Carlson, too.
PM: Yeah, the whole cabal. There are some people you kind of have to hate, or else you're in denial of your own humanity. We're not Jesus Christ; we can't love everyone, sorry.
RL: I hate people who aren't kind to other people.
PM: Right. The only people against whom I'm bigoted are bigots. We all should do our best to understand and love each other, be “emotionally generous,” but if someone has no interest in doing that, they do the opposite, I'm not gonna waste time or effort on 'em. Just, “Goodbye.”
RL: I really like [self-help author/guru and 2020 Democratic Presidential candidate] Marianne Williamson; she tells it like it is. I mean, why not be kind? Why not love?
PM: If someone who opposes Trump can love him and his cronies, I say, “You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.” I didn't back Marianne for President, but yeah, I'd appoint her Secretary of Love. Why not have a cabinet-level department for it? We have one for war preparation.
RL: I think Joe Biden should put all those wonderful candidates in his Administration.
PM: It's a broad, deep pool of talent. I served on [Senator] Kirsten Gillibrand's [D-NY] Illinois finance committee, and I would establish a Department of Gender Equality Assurance, put her in charge. You're right: it's a great, empathetic group; they're on the same page as Songbird Sings—which you do plan to continue through these weird times, right?
RL: I say that. I hope I can. If I can get out of my own way, and learn how.
PM: I'm already in contact with an organization in Milwaukee that's interested in hosting one of your workshops, once in-person is feasible again.
RL: I've just started up with Patreon. There's a guy that moved into this area, Ric Oliveira, who's gonna help me. He likes me and my music. I guess I had a big impact on his life: when his mother was dying, he was listening to my music, and it helped him. Back in 2016, I was a judge at this music contest at the Hard Rock Cafe. I took him aside and told him a lot of good things about what he was doing. He's an older guy, and he had all these young kids as his band; they were great. And his lyrics were great too, and he was singing them (gruffly) like THIS, RAAAAR! He said he'd been about to give up music, until I inspired him to keep going.
PM: Wow. Wow. What a gift.
RL: He writes all this crazy stuff. He loves squirrels, he's had them as pets, and he wrote this song I just love about a magic squirrel. I'll send you a link to the video.
PM: This is another weird synchronicity, Robin: here's this guy who's been helped so much by your music, as I've been, and we've both written about a magic squirrel. Figuratively magic, in my case: at the start of my novel Unplugged (2002, John Daniel & Co.), the life of my heroine, Dayna, is saved by a squirrel—by her need to save the squirrel. And it's a kind of, yeah, magic.
RL: Oh, I have to read that.
PM: But it's incredible that Ric was going to quit music, until you. I mean, that's magic.
RL: He was a deejay in one of those little towns down south of Boston. His brother works with [former US Secretary of State] Madeline Albright.
PM: Too cool. She's a hero.
RL: Yeah. So, the brother has money, so he bought a cool little house with vast acres around it. 's the one who helped me record my vocals for our song—yours-and-mine, “Chip off the Block”—on the Tascam, and then get them to you. I'm happy he's around, 'cause he's smart, and he's political. But—this squirrel song! (sings gruffly) “Don't want no GMOs in m' ge-e-enome / Leave my nuts alone!” (laughs)
PM: (laughing) God, yes, send me that link; I'll put it in the article.
And please send me his US Mail address; I'll send my “squirrel brother” a copy of Unplugged. 'Cause clearly, we have some other stuff in common, too. Y'know, I gotta tell you what a thrill it is for me that you and I've written and released a song together and have another in the works. It's really a dream come true to work with one of my longtime heroes. Finally, at age 58.
RL: So old! I wish I was 58 again. I thought I was old at 58, even at 53. But now…
PM: Oh, c'mon, you're still a lead singer; you still sing like one, you still look like one.
RL: You're sweet.
PM: You can feel old at any age; it's all relative. When I turned 20, that seemed old: “I've finally figured out how to be a teenager, and it's over.” So, I put on old-age makeup, I put on your friend Neil's song “Sugar Mountain”— “You can't be 20 on Sugar Mountain…”
RL: Yeah, you've got to leave now! Leave “the barkers and the colored balloons.”
PM: Yup, and I sat in my bathrobe and invited my friends to come by my dorm room to visit the invalid: “Paul, can I get you anything?” Now, I'm close to three times 20. How'd that happen?
RL: At least we're spared the angst and pathos of 20-year-olds.
PM: That's true. And the earnestness. Now, we require political disaster to get that earnest—but that stuff matters, “Chip Off the Block” matters, 'cause it's geared toward having a positive impact on America, on our history. And we did get it out there 10 days before the election.
RL: We were gonna release it earlier.
PM: In conjunction with the second debate—the one that never happened. If you can even call what Trump does “debating.” They really need to be in separate rooms with separate video feeds, so the moderator can turn Trump off when his time's up. Which would also be the safe way to do it, in terms of the pandemic.
RL: Oh, but he's “cured” now! Yeah, right. Don't you love how he took off his mask the moment he set foot back in the White House, with no regard for anybody around him?
PM: He took it off so fast that he risked getting whiplash. Right in front of camera operators and staff. And of course, a lot of his staff, and Pence's, are sick right now. Even before he got sick, his policies made him a “super-spreader.” And he's been so disruptive of our attempts to get past it. Y'know, it strikes me as appropriate that, several times during this interview, our sound has gone out, and the picture has frozen. Because we're living in such fragmented, disjointed times.
RL: Think about the people who are trying to go to school online and are going through those disruptions. You know it must be happening to them, too.
PM: It is. And folks working in healthcare, in clinics and hospitals, sometimes via telemedicine. And they're having to work extra hours, at the risk of their lives—sometimes on behalf of people who don't even believe in COVID! And yet, they still do their work. And artists still make their art. And some (holds up an advance copy of Instant Album) even manage to put out a masterpiece—complete with “emotional generosity”—that serves as a candle in the darkness.
RL: Elton John?
PM: Robin Lane. “Candle in the Wind”—that was Elton. I predict that everyone who buys Instant Album is going to really enjoy it and also feel better, inspired by the variety and range of these songs, all linked by and in the service of that “emotional generosity.”
RL: Thank you.
PM: As we wrap up here, I know I keep coming back to that term “emotional generosity,” and I don't want to be redundant, but Brett Milano really nailed it. Are you still in touch with him?
RL: Yeah. I mean, I could be.
PM: Send him a link to this article once it's out. He should see the importance of what he wrote.
RL: Oh, my God, are you kidding? Of course I will. And the album, too. Y'know, I'm trying to find a record company for the next one; there are some down south that might be interested. It would be nice to have a label behind me. We're only having 100 copies made of Instant Album, first run. I assume we'll wind up making more.
PM: You'll have to—a lot more. You deserve that; the album deserves it. And the listening public deserves it, too.
RL: Thank you, Paul. For everything.
PM: Thank you for everything, Robin—starting 40 years ago. You know, 40 years ago (quoting from Lane's “Many Years Ago”), “You could live a simple life / And…”
RL: (laughs) “And not be so frustrated.”
PM: Do you get a royalty every time I quote from your records?
RL: (laughs) Nope. So: bye!
How Things Went Right for When Things Go Wrong
Boston-based Renaissance-Man Tim Jackson—filmmaker; drummer for the Chartbusters
and, frequently, for the movie soundtracks of acclaimed writer-director John Sayles; actor (most notably “Joe Kopechne” in the 2017 feature Chappaquiddick); songwriter; humorist; internationally competitive “gurner” (maker of ugly faces)—managed to “hit it outta Fenway” with his third feature-length documentary: the moving and riveting New Jersey International Film Festival-winner When Things Go Wrong: Robin Lane's Story (2014, Gumpy Productions, 75 minutes). When I asked him what he'd learned from making the film, the always engaged and engaging Jackson had plenty to say…
About Robin: “We'd spent a lot of time together back in the Chartbusters days, touring and rehearsing and recording, so I'd already heard some of her stories. I heard more of them, and in greater detail, while we were making the doc, and those stories are in the movie. But the movie is more than the stories, and for Robin, however she regarded her life before, now that she's seen the movie, I think that version has to some extent become the story, the reality. For me, too.”
About the band and the music industry: “Looking back like that, I learned the importance of image for an act. Maybe Robin should've allowed herself to have an image made for her. For us. She liked to do everything herself, and she didn't like to compromise. She wasn't a punk, but she did say she wanted to “obliterate melody,” which is a punk-rock impulse: it's a way to obliterate the past. And she'd had a rough past. Our manager never understood that. But then, he never understood Robin. I actually think he was trying to compete with her.”
About filmmaking: “The thing I'm proudest of is that we managed to make a feminist rock-doc. Of course, it was right there in the story. And I did want to tell a story, an actual story. I wanted that three-act structure: The rise, then the fall, then the comeback through Songbird Sings. Robin's life and career fit that arc perfectly.
“I learned the importance of having an editor whom you can trust. Laura Colwell was actually a student of mine at the time—now, she's the lead singer for Sun June—and the film and tape formats we were working with were all over the place; we had all this really old stuff on VHS! But she did an amazing job, and it worked. So, I also learned that I like working with women editors. It's free flowing, because women just get it. They don't ask questions, 'cause they don't have to; they already know. So, you don't argue.
“I followed up When Things… with Joan Walsh Anglund: Life in Story and Poem (2017, Gumpy Productions, 35 minutes), another feminist doc about another woman artist: the multi-million-selling, now 96-year-old children's author and illustrator. Robin wrote and sang the film's beautiful closing song “I Do Not Need an Ocean,” adapting from one of Joan's poems—then became a huge fan and friend of Joan's.”
About the creative process: “I learned about the strength of instinct and intuition. How well it pays off to work on impulse. Whether it's making films or music, or acting, or whatever: just follow your intuition. With Robin's doc, that's how I worked, and it came out just the way I would've hoped.”
For more information on When Things Go Wrong: Robin Lane's Story, click here.
