You Have Your Whole Life To Write Your First Album...
+ Norman Brannon and Nabihah Iqbal on Identified
When I was a toddler, I once ran up a flight of apartment stairs, clutching a lunchbox in one hand and something else in the other—maybe a mushy ball of tofu or a greasy blob of seitan. In my excitement, I tripped and landed face-first on the metal railing. I vividly remember the deep red color of the blood pouring from my chin, the look of terror on my mother’s face, and the antiseptic smell of the hospital where I got stitches beside a woman who’d choked on a bone in a McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish. But I don’t remember the pain. I don’t remember crying, dropping my hippie snacks, or how we got to the hospital when we didn’t have a car. My memory is about surviving it, not feeling it, and now it’s just another story that’s part of my life.
I’ve blocked out the hardest parts of writing my memoir, My Life in the Sunshine. I know it was long and painful at times. But now that it’s done, my mind is on the outcome. The new struggle? Figuring out what’s next. They say you have your whole life to write your first album and six months to write your second. I’m not a songwriter, but I’ve always understood that phrase. I’ve also understood the concept of the sophomore slump, which refers to the same problem: it’s not easy to come up with new shit.
My book is just over two years old. If I were still in a band with a two-year-old album, I’d be panicking, worried that we don’t have enough new songs, or that we can’t go on tour until a new album’s out. That kind of pressure can weigh heavy on anyone trying to create. I wrote My Life in the Sunshine under no pressure—no one knew I was working on it until a couple of years in, when it started to take shape. By then, the momentum pushed me to the finish line. After an 18-month book tour, where I talked about myself endlessly, it’s nice to have some breathing room. I started a podcast, I’m traveling for work and fun, I’m enjoying life. But deep down, I need a bit of pressure.
On June 4, 2022—three days before my book was published—I began jotting notes after my CBS Saturday Morning segment aired, triggering a flood of messages from people connected to me or my father. What started as notes soon turned into a diary, capturing moments I didn’t want to forget. In Iowa City, I hastily typed into my phone about someone’s physical description and their tales of performing in my father’s band in the ‘70s. Late at night in a Cleveland hotel room, I detailed an impromptu party with a random assortment of book event attendees at an elderly woman’s home. In Memphis, I documented the one-way conversation I had while standing over the grave of the man who enslaved my ancestors. Each of these stories felt significant on their own, and together, they’re starting to form something greater. But I’m still searching for focus.
Now, at the end of a week-long vacation in Palm Springs, while AJ played golf, I’ve been writing at the Rancho Mirage Public Library, grateful for their air conditioning instead of the 113-degree heat outside. I tried to create some self-imposed stress, listing goals: Sections to expand and contract, themes to build, stakes to define—all the things you’re supposed to do when writing a book. But instead of clarity, I’ve ended up with more material and less focus. It always comes back to music for me: I went in with 10 pretty good songs, hoping to emerge with three great ones, and instead came out with 15 that are pretty good.
Maybe I need something to happen that dictates finality—in Sunshine, the surprise ending happened at the last minute, when I was on my final draft. Whatever I’m working on now isn’t even in first draft status, so I suppose I should just keep at it, endure the struggle, and look forward to a time when I can’t remember writing this post.
Two amazing guests recently appeared on my podcast, Identified:
Nabihah Iqbal is an accomplished musician, writer, and broadcaster from London. During the pandemic, Nabihah and her mother spent an unplanned two months together at their family home in Pakistan. Naturally, she spent that time excavating her own fascinating family history. I spoke with Nabihah at SXSW in Austin, where she shared a compelling reflection on how the diversity of her audiences shifted from city to city on her recent tour.
I knew that Norman Brannon started the ‘90s New York band Texas is the Reason, and the zine Anti-Matter, but it’s the stuff I didn’t know that’s more fascinating… from the American immigrant experience to choosing one’s own name to the various ethnic epicenters of Queens, NY. I’m not sure how we crammed this into 37 minutes.
Thirteen episodes of Identified are live now. Episode one is with Karen Ayers, a living descendant of the man who enslaved my paternal ancestors. After that, it’s a rapidly growing list of musicians, comedians, authors, chefs and friends talking about family. A new episode will drop every Thursday for the foreseeable future. Identified is available on all major podcast platforms, 100% free and ad-free. You can watch short video clips on YouTube and Instagram.
I hope you’ll give Identified a listen and share it with others who might enjoy it.
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My memoir is called My Life in the Sunshine. You can order it here, or listen to the audiobook on Spotify.
I hope to see you somewhere soon. Upcoming events are always listed here.
Nabil Ayers / Brooklyn