Pre-production for an album is all about developing a relationship with the songs and between the team that’s there to bring them to life. In the best case scenario, the artist and producer work together to find a vision or environment that suits the material and develop a common language around it. R.S. Field, Butch, and I began work on Miss Fortune in the condo Butch and I had moved into, but soon set up shop at what was R.S.’ studio at the time, The Hum Depot, and found keys, arrangements, and kept a log of ideas about each song and discussed how it fit into the whole. R.S. has a singular way of talking about music, and it was and still is compelling — he was coming from a different place than mainstream Nashville. I was in awe of his eccentricity and talent.
I think the influence of R.S. helped me see that I didn’t really have any place in that mainstream world either, and I began to drift farther away from it and not only because of the musical choices I was making. I just didn’t quite belong and never had. I didn’t have the temperament to undertake a mainstream career at that time in my life, and if I had been more commercially successful, I probably would’ve found some way to derail myself. The truth is, I wasn’t very comfortable performing. I am shy by nature, and though I’ve always traveled relatively well, I think that’s because I learned how to adapt to my surroundings very early on. My domestic side would emerge every time I was home for a stretch of time, but I always had one foot out the door. I was so convinced I had to follow the path I was on that I wouldn’t even get a dog for fear of not being able to be with it due to travel. But the traveling was not the only source for my discontent. I was sleepwalking through my life — numbing with alcohol much more often than I should’ve been, not looking inward for reasons for my own fear and resulting behavior — in essence, I just wasn’t a very well person. But I kept on. I see now how little I had to say in those days. And that was because I wasn’t digging for anything. There are brilliant moments in the work on Miss Fortune, and I don’t mean to slag on it. I also take full responsibility for my general lack of presence in my own life. I’m grateful to have lived through it so I could learn the lesson.
I liked R.S. immediately and we had a great time together — he has a deep well of knowledge about yes, music, but also endless esoteric subjects and would start conversations with people he didn’t know well by asking things like, “What’s your favorite siege?” He was unlike anyone I’d met before. The sound of Miss Fortune was something the three of us discussed a lot — we wanted it to be warm and lush and Jim Demain, who engineered the record, captured that feeling wonderfully.
We set up shop at Omni Studios on Division St. in Nashville to begin recording in earnest in either July or August 2001. I have no recollection at all what we did first. We had enlisted some musicians I hadn’t worked with before: Alison Presswood on bass, Kenneth Blevins on drums and also the drummer from my road band, Rick Schell. I also met the amazing guitarist Mike Noble, who played all of that acoustic guitar on “Let Go” so beautifully. We also had guitar legend David Grissom on some songs. It was a good group of folks. But looking back, I’m not sure I even felt like the record was mine when I was making it. I think I acted like I wasn’t checked out, but I was. I hadn’t ever checked in, to tell the truth. I hadn’t allowed myself the opportunity to figure out who I was as an artist and just worked because I knew I had to work. I didn’t feel like I had the luxury of stopping to ask what kind of work I wanted to do, what kind of work I really loved, what kind of work made sense for me, what the intention of it was, and what its legacy would be. But even I had had the time or space to do that, I doubt I would’ve done it anyway. I wasn’t ready. And here’s an example of the outcome of that: the saxophone you hear on “Going Down?” I didn’t want that on the record. I hated it. R.S. and Butch kept saying stones stones stones about it, and I understood what they meant, but I didn’t want that stripper saxophone on my record. So they recorded it as an overdub on the one day I didn’t go to the studio because I had a show that night at the Ryman opening for Dwight Yoakam and I wanted to rest.
And I didn’t fight to get it muted.
I had more of a place in mainstream Nashville than I was told I did or should’ve had. I wish I’d fought for that too. And not because I wanted to make mainstream music, but because I think there’s a way to co-exist without flipping a middle finger to those who are unlike you. The only way I knew how to live was with a middle finger up to the world. And I wondered why I didn’t feel satisfied or happy despite my attempts to be, and why I gravitated toward others who were so malcontented?
History is history. I’m so grateful to be here now. And I know one thing for sure — albums are only documents and are time-stamped whether we want them to be or not. We can’t help but change if we’re doing our work as human beings. That’s one of the reasons why a body of work is so interesting, isn’t it?
More soon.
AM
Allison, I’m really enjoying these posts. As someone who only now (at 64!) has the time to develop my lifelong love of songwriting, I’m fascinated to hear about your experiences doing what I used to dream of, and appreciate your honesty & detailed stories!📝💜
So how do you feel about the saxophone part now? As an outsider listening, it's fun. I remember seeing a show in NYC at the Mercury Lounge sometime soon after Miss Fortune came out, and as I recall you finished "Going Down" by sliding into a killer version of "Sweet Virginia." It was the Stones, but cooler and with a better singer. Has the passage of time changed it for you, or did the way it was done ruin it for you no matter how it might sound afterwards?