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ArtFull
May 2000
Finn Degnan
 
THE SECOND COMING OF A RELUCTANT ICON
Finn Degnan spends time with the extraordinary
Patsy Moore and regains his faith in
the future of American music
 
Leave Patsy Moore and it is not only her music that remains with you, but her eyes. They are large, dark, and expressive—almost hypnotic—her perfectly shaped shaved head allowing them to blaze magnificently, no downy distraction stealing their thunder. Come to think of it, there is also the fierce intelligence that you remember, the carefully selected words, the easy laugh, and that voice—part tomboy, part network news anchor. Some intangible suggests that she is, synchronously, younger than her 35 years and wise beyond them. She is an enthusiastic talker who listens well—serious-minded, yet in possession of a swift and acuminate sense of humor. In short, Patsy Moore makes quite an impression.
 
I recently spent three afternoons interviewing the petite, exotically attractive singer/songwriter. Perhaps, it didn't require eleven hours of discourse, but she is not one of those people to whom you feel inclined to bid 'adieu'.
 
In 1988, Moore—freshly arrived in Nashville, Tennessee from 'out of nowhere'—was identified, immediately, as a major writing talent. By 1991, she was considered one of a handful of artists brilliantly redrafting the musical map. I missed the whole thing. In fact, almost everyone missed the whole thing and, less than four years after landing a deal at Warner Brothers (where she completed two distinctive and critically-acclaimed albums), it seemed to be over, guaranteeing that countless others would miss the whole thing as well.
 
It appears that, back in the day, nothing about Moore could be mistaken for cliché. She was a cut above that company of angst-ridden "girls with guitars" springing up weekly. When a host of young women was invading the scene—visions of urban diva-hood hip-hopping around in their heads—she dared to be an unrepentant nonconformist while, concurrently, hinting at an eclectic assortment of influences: here, a smidgen of Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Miles Davis; there, a touch of The Beatles, Peter Gabriel, Marvin Gaye. Her lyrics and interviews indicated that she had read and, more significantly, understood J.D. Salinger, Marcel Proust, Nikki Giovanni, William Butler Yeats, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Rainer Maria Rilke. Her material was weighty and contemplative one minute, self-effacing and wickedly funny the next. She was a deeply spiritual person who had grown increasingly impatient with the perimeters of organized religion then suddenly, ironically, and somewhat uncomfortably [like Sam (née Leslie) Phillips before] found herself nothing less than a cult favorite in the esoteric world of Contemporary Christian Rock. As the pop rollercoaster began its dizzying descent into Dumb and Dumber Still, Moore came to berth with something so achingly smart it eluded many listeners accustomed to a steady diet of trifle. She was that rarest of things—a bona fide original.
 
I sought out this MIA musician and found her alive, well, and living in Glendale, California, atop a hill with a breathtaking view. What follows is an abridged record of my conversations with the engaging Patsy Moore or, as I've come to think of her, The Woman Who Transformed a Longtime Intractable Cynic Into a Born-again Believer. Just as I was about to give up hope, an exciting, new breed of American artists is headed our way, and guess who's a leader of the pack?
 
DAY 1: TELEPHONE CONVERSATION
 
FD: I spoke with several people, in Nashville, about you. You're sort of a mini-legend there. A couple of artists even pointed to your work as a primary influence on their own.
 
PM: That's...hmmm...
 
FD: What?
 
PM: Well...it's flattering but, I suppose, a little strange.
 
FD: How so?
 
PM: It feels unearned, maybe? I mean, I think of the artists who have influenced me and they have impressive and, generally, voluminous bodies of work. I did these two projects for the Brothers Warner and then was hobbled before truly coming into my own.
 
FD: Coming into your own? Many would argue that. You're perceived—and I think rightfully so—as having a singular artistic identity. Who else, back then, released anything resembling "Regarding the Human Condition" or "the flower child's guide to love and fashion"?
 
PM: In understated ways, they pushed the envelope of the genre but, in retrospect, they're not without their compromises...uh...their subtle adulterations, you know? They were me, but me through some filter of slickness and safety and, at times, maladroit cleverness. (pause) Not to mention feeble vocal performances. They're a little painful for me to listen to.
 
FD: Is it possible you're being a bit hard on yourself?
 
PM: (laugh) Possible and probable, dear sir. I do think it's a fair assessment, though.
 
FD: Nevertheless, these people were consistently passionate about your abilities and your impact on pop music, if only a small segment of it.
 
PM: (quietly) That's...it's flattering and humbling. Humbling because I know that thing which resonates in us, when we come into contact with art, is bigger than those who create it. A work of art, once freed from its creator's mind or hands, is its own life force, I believe. I feel very fortunate to share in that...to be a conduit.
 
PM: Your relationship with Warner Brothers ended when?
 
PM: Early '95.
 
FD: And—about that time—you suffered a substantial financial loss, correct? [Funds were embezzled by a trusted employee. - FD]
 
PM: Mmm...the year before. (uncomfortable silence) How'd you...? I'd rather not discuss that. (pause) I mean, the matter's still under investigation.
 
FD: All right. So...you left Nashville and moved to be near your family, in North Carolina. For how long?
 
PM: Until the summer of '96.
 
FD: What were you doing during those two years or so?
 
PM: Fighting depression, teaching school, trying to write music, co-authoring a children's book for [the child sponsorship organization] Compassion International...working in a video store.
 
FD: A video store? Really?
 
PM: (sigh) Yeah, a cool spot that specialized in the rare...hard-to-find...great foreign film section. Anyway, in '95, I put a band together and we played around Chapel Hill. It was essential to the preservation of my sanity.
 
FD: The rumor is that you and your band were well received.
 
PM: Audiences were charitable.
 
FD: '96 brought you to L.A.?
 
PM: I drove cross-country with a couple of people. We pulled into the city on the fourth of July. That part wasn't planned, but doesn't it just drip with poetry?
 
(laughter)
 
PM: When we spotted the sign welcoming us to the state, "California Dreamin'" was on the radio. Honestly!
 
FD: Did you, indeed, feel as though you were finally asserting your independence?
 
PM: Yes. Driving from one side of the country to the other was tremendously symbolic for me. Dropping anchor on July 4th was simply the pièce de résistance.
 
FD: Once you arrived, were you, straightway, able to revisit the business? Was that a goal?
 
PM: Meaning music?
 
FD: Yes.
 
PM: I had a few produced demos that no one seemed particularly interested in. That is to say, they took meetings with me, gushed over the tunes, and then disappeared into some black hole, never to be heard from again.
 
FD: Every time?
 
PM: Without fail. And then there was the one chap who decided not to waste any time or energy with the gushing. He dove directly into telling me, in no uncertain terms, that my finger was nowhere near the pulse of modern music.
 
FD: The kids couldn't dance to it?
 
PM: In his considerable British estimation, they couldn't even tap their feet.
 
(laughter)
 
FD: How were you keeping food on the table?
 
PM: Scarcely. (pause) I took a position at Virgin Megastore, in West Hollywood. Early on, I supplemented my income by working for a caterer on weekends.
 
FD: That must have been hard—to go from recording music to selling it.
 
PM: I felt like I was dying a little every day. One of my coworkers had actually seen me in concert, a few years prior, when I was on tour [opening for phenom guitarist, Phil Keaggy - FD]. Facing him, on a regular basis, was agonizing. My first day at Virgin, I rang up a customer who was buying—among other things—"flower child".
 
FD: Wow.
 
PM: Yeah. Exactly. I'll tell you a quick story:
 
Suzanne Vega comes to do an in-store about the time I'm due to get off work one day. I decide to stay for the show. In the last few minutes of my shift, I look out onto the floor and there, rifling through a bin of CDs, is someone I knew in Nashville—a rather celebrated producer. I'm stricken with embarrassment and fear that he'll see me clad in my Virgin Megastore tee shirt, so I duck behind the counter and make my way out the side door. My roommate is employed upstairs at the Laemmle theatre. I go up and trade shirts with her and return for the performance. Later, when the producer and I run into each other, I feign surprise. How lame is that?
 
The thing is, when he asked what I was doing [in Los Angeles], I couldn't lie. He, being the man he is, was completely gracious. (long pause) He is, in fact, a standup kind of guy.
 
Those days were hard—not merely because of the circumstances, but because of my poor handling of them. Engaging in that type of behavior—you know, things like The Great Shirt Switching Incident of 1996 (laugh)—left me enormously disappointed in myself. I didn't have so much pride that I would refuse a job like the one at Virgin, but I had just enough to not want it to be a matter of public record. At various points of my stay there, I met up with musicians who had played on my recordings. It was unsparing. When I was promoted to the cash office, it was such a relief because I didn't have to deal directly with customers any longer.
 
FD: You finally left when...?
 
PM: I was offered a chance to work for the musical director of a late night talk show [Quincy Jones' short-lived VIBE TV - FD]. The pay was markedly better and it was a way to be around people making music—the next best thing to making it myself. Later, I replaced the show's music supervisor.
 
FD: Fun?
 
PM: Toughest job I've ever had. Not for the weak. I learned a lot, though.
 
FD: Didn't you work in radio when you were in high school?
 
PM: Yes, and in college.
 
FD: Let's see...radio, retail, music supervision. You could start your own label, no?
 
PM: Ugh! For the love of God, man! No!
 
(laughter)
 
You know, I'm sentient with respect to each of those episodes, including my time at Warner...aware of how they were beneficial to my journey as an artist. I have to say, though, that an intimate knowledge of the business has colored my sensibilities in a way that I sometimes resent. There's an irrefutable loss of innocence. It's an effort not to be jaded...not to have joy interrupted.
 
FD: That seems like a familiar and necessary rite of passage, though.
 
PM: Mmm...yes, but it's sad, nonetheless. It's...I don't know. I'm a romantic, I guess.
 
FD: It occurs to me that you're a deliberate speaker. Do you say anything without forethought?
 
PM: Uh...Let me think.
 
(laughter)
 
PM: I'm sure I do.
 
FD: You're certain?
 
PM: Well...
 
FD: OK, let's play a game—a word association kind of thing. You know how this works, right? I throw something out and you volley with the first thought that enters your mind.
 
PM: Yikes!
 
FD: What was that?
 
PM: Criminy!
 
(laughter)
 
PM: Go for it, buddy! Your type doesn't scare me!
 
FD: All right, here goes. Art.
 
PM: Redemption.
 
FD: Magic 8 Ball.
 
PM: "It is decidedly so".
 
(laughter)
 
FD: Louis Malle.
 
PM: Wow. "Elevator to the Gallows".
 
FD: Good one! Frank Lloyd Wright.
 
PM: Oh...um...Schindler and Neutra.
 
FD: OK. Genius.
 
PM: Uncommon occurrence, overused word.
 
FD: Guilty pleasure?
 
PM: (laugh) "The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane".
 
(laughter)
 
FD: Really?
 
PM: I love that movie.
 
FD: So do I!
 
(laughter)
 
FD: I'm probably one of the few heterosexual men, you'll ever meet, who'll admit to owning it.
 
PM: (laugh) You're probably right.
 
DAY 2: HIKING
 
Patsy phoned me the evening before we were scheduled to meet and continue our talk.
 
"Are you an outdoor kinda joe?", she asked, sunnily.
 
"Sure," I falsely replied.
 
"Bring hiking boots tomorrow, OK?"
 
Oh boy.
 
The next morning, Moore's distinctive peepers betrayed the insomnia she had endured for a week, but she greeted me with a warm smile and an unexpectedly firm handshake. She, her supporting guitarist, and an aspiring actor share a modest, charming hillside home built in the late seventies and reminiscent of a ski lodge. It is immaculate and filled with those understated articles of refinement that announce "Interesting parties reside here." There is a vast array of obscure and challenging music (a good third on vinyl), French film, heady books, and art magazines. Wry, political cartoons are precisely exhibited on the refrigerator door. I took note of Moore's framed photography collection (mostly black and white), her cookbooks (primarily vegetarian and soups), and her preparedness (water bottles, filled and awaiting us on a retro crimson-tiled countertop). A skeptic might have been tempted to declare such trappings affected; however, it all smacked of legitimacy. As obsessively neat as this house is, one has no trouble believing it is lived in. Magazine pages are dog-eared. A clothes dryer hums in the distance. A stick of incense burns on top of a wood stove. It is the marriage of organization and a particular coziness.
 
My interviewee was eager to tackle the mount rising about her rustic dwelling. Thrilled by agreeable weather and craving exercise, she was also hopeful that a vigorous trek would induce a restful night's sleep. During our two and a half-hour hike, she mercifully slowed down or stopped altogether so that I could catch my breath. She was sweetly maternal when encouraging me to drink water or pace myself. As before, Moore was candid and articulate.
 
FD: Yesterday, I went back over the tape of our phone conversation and was struck, for the second time, by something you said.
 
PM: What's that?
 
FD: That you never came into your own, artistically. It was as though you believe your career is over. Am I reading too much into that statement?
 
PM: Oh, yeah! What I meant was I never really came into my own while I had that [record] deal. I didn't intend to sound so fatalistic.
 
FD: As you know, I had the chance to see you perform [at Highland Grounds] in Hollywood. I was floored and, as much as I enjoy some of the work on your CDs, this newer material is patently more evolved and naked...haunting. It's just amazingly mature and well written. I also thought your vocals were luscious. You should be pleased.
 
PM: (shyly) Thank you. That's very kind.
 
FD: It was apparent that I wasn't the only one who was blown away and I observed something not often seen in LA: people truly responding to lyrics in a live music setting. Your listener almost has no other choice because your writing is incredibly strong. The answer, I'm sure, is obvious, but how important are the words to you?
 
PM: Unwaveringly. I don't know that there is any way to fittingly or...um...accurately define art, but I cling to the notion that the artist's mission is twofold: self-expression and connection with the rest of humanity. The artists of the world, in heeding those calls, provide much of the language for humankind to apply in order to also partake in those two, very real basic needs. So, as a songwriter, the words I use are, thereby, critical. I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but this is about telling everyone's stories...lending names to passions...the lyricist placing soul mysteries under a microscope. That's not to say that instrumental music can't transport us or be fully expressive, but when words are added to the formula, they should be thoughtfully drawn. Whatever the incorporated elements, they count, you know?
 
FD: It all matters.
 
PM: Yes.
 
FD: You've thought about this.
 
PM: It's with me, constantly. I mean it.
 
FD: There was, I thought, an inherent theme running through the songs, that night, and in your demos.
 
[Before heading out, I asked Patsy to play some of her latest recorded work. The result: Several minutes of dazzling music, chock-full of enjoyably slippery melodies, masterful, vibrant imagery, and entrancing vocals. It was superior fare that struck my ears as being conceptually whole and, from a production standpoint, record shop-ready. I was awed to discover she had engineered everything herself, at a friend's home studio, and also served as producer and sole instrumentalist.]
 
FD: If I had to title those tunes, I might choose "The Anatomy of a Vanquished Love Affair".
 
PM: Well, that title would be somewhat true to the spirit of this stuff, but it's a bit of an oversimplification. The Failed Romance is a single vignette in what has developed, for me, into an aural film, of sorts, about recidivism. I'm fascinated by why we return, time and again, to things and people and situations that damage us...the Sisyphean exercises that punctuate our lives. (long pause) Certainly, some romantic relationships apply.
 
FD: Do you have a title in mind?
 
PM: "Phantom Limb".
 
FD: Ah! You say it feels like a movie to you. That's interesting because, as I listened to the CD, I could see it! It's very visual and, of course, the instrumental that you included—"The Awful Daring"—plays like film score.
 
PM: Oh, wow! Thanks. I actually, originally, wrote that piece as part of a group of instrumentals to present to indie filmmakers.
 
FD: It's wonderful. The title is a nod to [T.S. Eliot's] The Wasteland?
 
PM: Yes, exactly. The passage it's extracted from is one that I cherish and which deals specifically with the power of those tiny, often unseen instances that, ultimately, inform our existences. Eliot writes—and I'm paraphrasing, here—that they wouldn't be expressible in, say, a eulogy. You can't verbalize or synopsize those seconds. It's a beautifully profound statement. He tells of "a moment's surrender which an age of prudence can never retract".
 
FD: That definitely complements your theme.
 
PM: Right.
 
FD: This is probably a good time to address that film seems to play an important role in your life. Today, when I pointed out specific videos in your collection, you came back at me with choice lines of dialogue, camera shots, acting moments, etcetera. I mention to you that I, too, think Joe Vs. the Volcano was underappreciated and you launch into a heartfelt oration on the virtuosity of [its screenwriter-cum-director] John Patrick Shanley.
 
PM: (crinkling her face in contrition) Sorry.
 
FD: No! No! No! I loved it! My question is this: Do you think your affection for cinema intersects your work as a musician?
 
PM: I'm sure it does. In ways of which I'm not even cognizant. Everything that's a part of my life is a part of everything else that's a part of my life. That's how it works.
 
FD: But you don't consciously construct that intersection?
 
PM: No. (long pause) Those surrendered moments we were discussing?
 
FD: Yes?
 
PM: When you connect the dots between them, an epic is formed. Life is cinema vérité. (another long pause) You should have some more water, Finn. Dehydration is no joke.
 
DAY 3: SHOOTING THE BREEZE
 
A few days later, I returned to Moore's place. She opened the door, beamed impishly, and exclaimed in impeccable Keanu-ese, "Dude, what else could you possibly need to know?"
 
In the hours that ensued, we discussed myriad subjects: what it was like for her to chat with her musical heroine, Joni Mitchell, about growing the perfect tomato; the sanctity of friendship; how she has fallen back in love with her instruments (the piano and the guitar); the fact that she longs to be a dog owner again; her two compositions featured on the last Dianne Reeves album; Macintosh versus PC (She's pro-MAC!); David Bowie; Jenny Holzer's electronic sign art; the Teletubbies; rap music emerging from Paris, France; why Martin Scorsese is the greatest living American director; and how frustrating we both find the inattention being given "Bitter", Me'Shell Ndegéocello's 1999 Maverick release.
 
Moore skipped nimbly from topic to topic—somehow making them all seem related, never forgetting the thing that delivered us to wherever we were.
 
In Patsy Moore's presence, there is the overwhelming sense that you are with someone destined for greatness. No doubt, there are countless artists to come who will be influenced by her perspective, musicality, and poetic, confessional writing. Listening to her current treats, you realize they stand to make her a household name; talking with her about them, you realize she couldn't care less about that. Fame does not appeal to her. Too bad. It feels inevitable.
 
EPILOGUE
 
Two nagging questions compelled me to put in a final call.
 
FD: Hey, this "Phantom Limb" project...Is it the type of record you would have made at Warner Brothers if you'd been permitted?
 
PM: Well, I think I might have wanted to make it then but, to be honest, I'm not sure I was capable of doing so. So much of this was borne from my experiences since Nashville...my growth as a woman and as an artist. I don't think I'd been handed the tools, then. I sincerely don't.
 
FD: I understand. One more thing. When we played the word association game, do you recall how you replied to "art"?
 
PM: Uh...
 
FD: You said "redemption".
 
PM: OK.
 
FD: So, if art is redemption, what is our transgression?
 
PM: The abdication of truth.
Finn Degnan is a freelance arts and entertainment journalist (and aspiring screenwriter) who served, for two years, as editor-in-chief of the now-defunct ArtFull Online. He presently resides in Berlin, Germany with longtime partner Shelley des Barres, an accomplished painter/sculptor. Degnan recently completed his first book—a biography of French composer Camille Saint-Saëns.