“Would you like to do a piece on Murray McLauchlan?” the editor asked. I couldn’t say ‘sure’ fast enough. I was all set, then my father went and had a heart attack. The nerve of him. The interview, thanks to some fancy footwork from my editor and Murray’s patience, got pushed. Two weeks later, once the surgical dust had settled, he called right on time.
All those JUNO awards, Member of The Order of Canada, Country Music Hall of Fame… want to know something about the man, something that speaks even more to his character than the accolades? I picked up the phone. After the requisite pleasantries, the next words out of his mouth were “hey, sorry to hear about your dad. It’s kind of a tough family thing. I hope he’s doing better.’ Man, I thought, that sounded really genuine, heartfelt and supportive.
Now listen, I know Canada doesn’t have a monopoly on empathy and compassion, but it was the easy calm and sense of familiarity that made the words sound and feel exquisitely and quintessentially Canadian. They were without pretention, charming and, for this interviewer, disarming. Murray Mclauchlan just may be the archetypal Canadian.
Artists get pigeon-holed all the time. I think the public, as consumers of art, likes, nay, needs to be able to define what they’re putting in their ears and eyes. The artist then gets labelled as a producer of only a single type, cast in that mould. It’s fair to neither him nor those that consume his work.
For his part, Murray McLauchlan has avoided the label maker. Yes, he’s a Canadian singer-songwriter in the country, folk and rock genres, but that’s just for the folks with a narrow palate. You know you’re dealing with a deep guy with a broader view when he praises Star Trek: The Next Generation not for Picard’s soothing voice, Data’s unyielding attachment to reason, or even the not-so-subtle sexuality of Troi (that’s what got me hooked), but for that episode where Data recreates Shylock’s court monologue from The Merchant of Venice. Yes Data, if we prick you, you leak.
“I have very wide and eclectic taste,” says Murray. “Sometimes my son will turn me on to a song that he really likes. There’s a John Mayer song called ‘In the Blood,’ which is a terrific song. That’s something on one end. My go-to piece when I really need to get my head straight is Debussy’s ‘Claire de Lune.’”
John Mayer. Debussy. That’s certainly the beginnings of varied taste. But, hang on, there’s more.
“I’m also a big fan of be-bop jazz. I’m a huge fan of singers. I’m almost an addict of Blossom Dearie. Ray Charles is another one of my go-to guys. As long as it’s emotionally moving, I’m in.”
I doubt Van Gogh bought a yearly pass to the Kröller-Müller Museum in Otterlo or the one in Amsterdam that bears his name in order to gaze upon his work every day. Murray has a similar appreciation and regard for his art; you’re not likely to find him at home giving Song from the Street repeated spins.
“I had to do that a few years back when True North records was putting together a two-CD career compilation. Normally I don’t because when you make something all you ever see are its flaws. It’s disconcerting. It’s enough to make you not want to do it anymore. So, I make a habit of not doing that.”
Murray is more inclined to give his more recent efforts a heavier rotation.
“To be fair, the last couple of records I’ve made I actually do listen to because I really like them. I think I really got it right, and I can’t find a way to sit down and even have a scotch and go ‘geez, I f&#$ed that up. I wish I’d done it better,” he says.
Okay, so maybe Vincent snuck into the museum now and again to peek at Wheatfield with Crows.
“But early stuff is sometimes difficult for me to listen to. Sometimes it’s because I remember what was going on when I wrote those songs, you know, and some of it’s a little painful.”
When one hears the name Murray McLauchlan, one thinks songwriter, singer. But Murray is also an accomplished painter and pilot. These are avocations for a different tale and a different time. I’m thinking of a children’s book called, The Cockpit and The Palette. Moving on. Murray’s stock in trade are words and melodies, pencil and paper. Like Murray himself, his means to the end have not remained constant.
“It’s changed over the years. My methodology changed quite radically when I worked on an album a few years ago called Human Writes. That was when I gave up the idea of a linear narrative. Instead, I began to sit down in what amounted to an isolation circumstance, very quiet, no interruptions… just kind of poked around in my head with a sharp stick, and I would write the first thing that came out, not worry what it was about, not edit it. Things just started to coalesce almost from the middle out, both melodically and lyrically.”
Have you ever stood in the kitchen, left the recipe book on the shelf and just started cooking? This is akin to the sort of automatic writing Murray had begun to employ.
“I honestly didn’t figure out what I was writing about until it was done. So, what happened was I got songs that had a very wide range of themes all the way from if there are alternate universes to love songs, but in a very different way, or writing songs about depression. Again, from a new perspective. That was hugely different for me,” says Murray.
If the chef analogy didn’t work for you, imagine building without a blueprint. Start swinging a hammer. It’s going to be a clumsy tree house, the Taj Mahal or something in between. Often, Murray’s efforts at “carpentry” ended up less like a clubhouse for the kids in the backyard maple and more like a white marble mausoleum in Agra. The folky kind. You know what I mean.
“These days” is a phrase that rings dismissive of them (these days), as though all the noteworthy and remarkable accomplishments are in the rear view. Maybe true for some. Not Murray. He doesn’t just spend his time, let alone kill it. For a musician, time is precious. I know this. I’m always trying to keep from speeding up. Murray seems to use his time wisely, placing it here and putting it there, where it can yield the greatest return.
Witness Lunch At Allen’s, Murray’s impromptu act with other Canadian song writing stalwarts Ian Thomas, Marc Jordan and Cindy Church. It began as a lunch and turned into a dinner get-together at one of Murray’s favourite watering holes on Toronto’s Danforth and became a full-on touring band, which hits the road again for dates this October.
“We decided we’d be like Crosby, Stills, Nash and a Girl,” jokes Murray.
Whether or not anyone is behind the kit, Murray marches to the beat of his own drummer. Wait, that’s not accurate. Rather, Murray strolls to the rhythm and tempo he decides to lay down.
“I haven’t had management for years and I think I’m a better person for it. I like running my own business.”
That means looking after everything at Locomotion Music Ltd. from dealing with the man, in some cases, the Canada Revenue Agency to liaising with the tour company Murray uses and all the business minutiae in between. And then he must wear the artist’s hat.
“I go to Sony Publishing’s offices, lock myself in a rubber room and I write. I am also involved in a number of different social initiatives including being on the board of directors of a foundation that deals with music care in a number of different contexts: Alzheimer’s and dementia care, of course, and palliative and end-of-life care,” explains Murray.
As primary caregiver for a couple of family members, Murray is acutely aware of the need for social enterprises that seek to help. Four years running, he has put together a star-studded show at The Glenn Gould Theatre in Toronto. This year’s Voices That Care Concert, in support of the Room 217 Foundation, was proud to include Jann Arden and Murray’s wife, Canadian music industry trailblazer Denise Donlon, and others.
In 1972, Murray released “The Farmer’s Song” as a single off his eponymously titled second album. It was a “thank you” to the countless, nameless farmers who get food to our tables. Murray’s involvement with organizations like the Room 217 Foundation is another example of giving back, of putting his time in the places where the dividend is needed, worthwhile and kind. It’s not as much about knowing on which side your bread is buttered as it is simply being grateful for the dairy and the grain, figuratively and literally. Murray gets this.
Legacy is a funny notion. It implies a gifting, which, in turn, suggests a departure from those who have chosen to receive the gift. I think Murray comes at the idea slightly more obliquely.
“The only thing I think is important to me is that when I look at my son, he’s proud of me.”
Change is the only constant. Hmm, too cliché. Only morphing remains. No, makes me think of mighty teenagers fighting bad guys. For Murray McLauchlan, there are the subtle modifications, the alterations and fine tunings that continue to drive his life’s art and feed his art’s life. For true artists, life and work are fabrics, woven together to become indistinguishable. This is the coat Murray McLauchlan wears.
“I’m really very much geared to looking at what the next move is rather than the one that just went by,” he says.
Murray is humble, but that humility doesn’t prevent a little bit of pride and the good feelings that accompany it to seep in now and again.
“When I walked up on stage with Blackie and the Rodeo Kings at the National Arts Centre and got the Governor General’s Performing Arts Award last May, it didn’t make me feel bad. That’s for sure,” he laughs. “It’s really gratifying to still find that kind of acceptance and be appreciated for your work.”
As you read this, Murray is gearing up for his tour of BC in June. No doubt he will be re-inventing himself almost imperceptibly and delivering his gift to the appreciation of his adoring (not too strong a word here) fans. As for my dad, I’m happy to report he is on the mend.
Sidebar:
If you were to meet your 20-year-old self, what advice would you give him?
“You’re going to really screw up a lot, and you’re going to make a lot of mistakes, but go ahead and make them because that’s what turns you into the person you finally are.”
Who or what has influenced you the most and why?
“Two teachers. A lady named Doris McCarthy and a fella named Bob Ross (not that Bob Ross). Bob said, ‘there are two kinds of people in this world, one guy is standing in front of his easel, and what’s in his head is a picture of himself drawing, and the other guy is just drawing. What kind are you?’ What Doris told me was ‘any fool can paint a picture. The trick to being an artist is learning how to see.’ Both of those thoughts have had a profound effect on me.”
What are you most grateful for?
“That’s pretty much a slam dunk. I’m able to uncompromisingly go out and do what I do in the way of carrying my art forward. I’m able to do it in my own country to a very grateful and supportive audience.”
What does success mean to you?
“Someone asked Clint Eastwood, ‘Clint, you’re 88 years old. What’s your next move?’ And Clint said, ‘I’m going to wake up tomorrow. I’m going to go out and start a new movie.’ The idea that ideas ever stop or that you somehow dry up and blow away at a certain period in your life just doesn’t wash with me.”
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