A professional singer who loves when people don't listen.

Most musicians love performing, seeing the crowd stand applauding in approval and awe. The spotlights gleaming on your smiling face, the edrenalin after a major performance. Don't get me wrong, I love it too. But there's something unexpectedly lovely about sitting legs crossed on a stool, in the corner of a dim lit room, pouring your heart out to a crowd talking and laughing amongst themselves in a restaurant or public event, barely listening at all.

I wrote this song in Nashville with some great people about the facination I have with watching my own audience as if they're my entertainment, and realizing how alike we all are, burdens, damage, scars and all. I think what people don't always realize is, although you are watching a performer sing and play, they're watching you too. Some of my favourite performances were simply myself and my guitar acting as a soft hum in the background for socializing, eating, drinking, laughing audience members. My greatest feeling of approval comes from the soft gaze of a woman sublty nodding her head to my lyrics all the way across the room. From the lonesome set of hands that clap loud enough to make others turn their heads and join with golf snaps and table taps like a domino effect. And from the little child who's head is under their parents conversations, giving me shy smiles when I grin at them inbetween lines. It's the little things I notice and love most about being background music. On a big stage where the audience is shadowed, apart from maybe the first few rows, you feel empowered, but when on the same level as everyone else - just you and your guitar, you feel connected.

It's a very special moment when after a set spent feeling like nobody was listening (and that's perfectly okay,) someone comes up to me to meet and talk. Especially when it's a little kid all shy and sheepish to take a picture or just to say hello. Knowing that people feel the urge or pull to come up to me after a show makes me feel like I must've done something right, because personally I think it takes a lot to approach someone you don't know and strike up a conversation with them about their passion. Sometimes after larger shows, you don't always get the chance to meet people or have genuine conversations in the midst of the chaos and energy of the venue. Small, quiet venues where it seems nobody is listening tend to show you who you're really connecting to, what songs and lyrics people are drawn most to. I really love that.

"See it From Here" is set from the perspective of a musician singing in a "divebar on a Thursday night [and] it's closing time." The first couple lines set the exact mood of a musician in a small, quiet gig where they're simply background music playing for the few ears listening. Singing the same songs I always do just as people are having the same small talk conversation that they always do. We're all just doing what we're used to, putting on brave and happy faces, "dancing with our demons and hiding our tears." Everybody has their issues, their scars and baggage but continue on with life and go to...social gatherings..or gigs..despite adversities. The second verse describes how after singing the same old songs, seeing crowd after crowd, it all becomes fulfilling when "sometimes on a good night when someone get's that certain line / and you know you both understand that moment might be all you have." Like the lady across the room, or the approving solo claps, or the grinning child. Feeling connected to someone through your art, and understanding eachother even for a moment. That's something I've felt most deeply in small gigs.

Overall, music is music. Whether it's 50,000 people in a stadium or 15 people, 4 of whom are actually listening in a coffee shop, music connects. The special moments between artist and audience is what makes it most magical, creating connection without talking to one another. Everybody's "searching for any reason, a silver lining we can believe in," and the unexpected connections created by guitar strings and the right moment allow people to feel understood. So yes, I love the roaring audience, the spotlights, the heat of the moment, the edrenalin of large gigs - but the dim lit rooms and hum of small talk, seeking out the people I'm really connecting to through a crowded room...that's my favourite. Because when it seems nobody is paying attention, you discover who's really listening, and what lyrics or songs create the strongest connection.