Anyone who has kids in Boston knows Alastair Moock. He is a Grammy-nominated musician who, for the past ten years, has primarily focused on family music. Before releasing four acclaimed albums of kids/family music, he was a renowned singer-songwriter in Boston, responsible for curating some of the best events around town, like the Pastures of Plenty series. On June 3, Alastair will release his first “grown up” music album in ten years and will play a release show at Club Passim. We got to have a chat about songwriting, comedy, politics, and getting to a place where your art can really thrive.
It sounds like you had a blast making this record. It’s loose and confident. It’s been ten years since Fortune Street, your last album of “grown-up” music. Starting with a broad question, what was it that made you feel like it was time to record and release the songs on Alastair Moock?
I was waiting to have some new songs to release. I had a huge block for ten years with this material, and I couldn’t find an entry point to get back to writing for adults. Every time I sat down to try to write a song, it was like I was trying to replicate what I was doing 15 years ago. And I’m not that guy any more. For me, writing needs to feel honest and direct for it to have any impact. I wasn’t accessing the honest parts of who I am now.
I finally realized that’s what these new songs needed to do — they needed to embrace the gray in the beard, the being a dad and husband, all the shit we went through with our daughter’s cancer [she’s now 5 years in remission and doing great]. That’s the honest stuff. When I realized that, everything opened up.
Several of the songs on the album deal with, or reference, the ephemeral nature of life — I’m thinking about “Dream,” as well as “Off They Go” and even “Graveyard.” Was that a conscious thread as these songs developed or has it been on your mind in some way?
The funny thing is, after all the twisting and turning, and not being able to write and finding a new perspective, etc, I kind of came back to themes I’ve always written about, but they feel more honest now. Death has always been a compelling theme for me because it’s a call to action. That final note compels us to make the best of our time here.
A song like “Dream,” for me, is more a wish than a reality. I’m not that relaxed, I’m not that in-the-moment, but I wish to be. I want to be reminded that life is ephemeral and that we need to live in the moment. I think we all need that reminder now more than ever. It can be hard to function in this political climate we’re in; you want to put your head in your hands every day, but there’s no time to do that — we have to keep moving forward.
That makes me think about the song “Make It Great.” If Hillary Clinton had won, does that song show up on the album?
Probably not. I was kind of on the fence. It wasn’t even if Hillary won, I assumed she would win. Mark [Erelli’s] initial thought was let’s not put it on the album — release it as a bonus track.
I love comedy and listening to interviews with perceptive comedians. The question of how much to tie yourself to current events comes up a lot in their work as well. It’s a tricky line. Politics is ephemeral, moments pass. Sometimes political commentary in art ages fast.
But when Trump won, Mark and I both felt: this is no longer a passing moment, it’s a turning point for our country. And it seems worth marking the moment in time, because I don’t think it’s brief. I think something profound happened in our country that needs paying attention to.
Still, I made a conscious decision not to mention Trump by name in the song. This strain of fear and jingoism we’re seeing right now has been here before, and we’ll see it again.
You see it in Europe too, but there’s that very specific national exceptionalism thing you really only see here — this crazy rhetoric about America being the greatest country the world has ever seen. You hear it more from the right, but Democratic politicians say it too — with a straight face, like it can’t possibly be anything but true. It’s a fascinating part of our culture, this idea that we’re an exception to the rule, that we’re not part of the rest of the world. And those are the twin colors of Trumpism: the crazy kind of American exceptionalism mixed with a crazy level of fear and anger. You put them together and it’s fucking dangerous.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that song too. Such a great tune, and a perfect example of timeless political commentary.
I see trucks riding around these days with the Trump stickers, and huge flags in the back — US flags and ‘don’t tread on me’ flags. John had it right: put enough stuff on your car and eventually you’re gonna run up a tree. Liberals do it too. We all to have to throw our beliefs out in every direction.
This album is funny — it’s self-deprecating, like on “Hallelujah” or “Let’s Make a Family” — and you use satire as well. Some songwriters have a hard time using humor in songs for fear that they won’t be taken seriously. How do you think about that?
I’m drawn to humor in writing and in life. I think humor is more profound than most of us are able to acknowledge. When a politician has a sense of humor, and can take a joke, it’s an incredibly defusing and powerful tool. It’s really an important way to connect.
I love truth-seeking through humor. The great comedians — Pryor, Louis CK, Lenny Bruce — those guys really seek truth through humor. And I’m drawn to stand-up because it’s such a pure art form. You don’t even have a guitar to hide behind; it’s just one person, vulnerable, on a stage.
But, coming back to the album, I felt like I finally was able to include all those parts of me as a songwriter. I did struggle with what to do with humor in the past. I have a pretty goofy, absurdist strain in me and sometimes I was embarrassed by it, because I thought I was supposed to convey some kind of prophetic, Bob-Dylanish image. But that humor was in there and wanted to come out. It was like I was in the closet — someone might find out I’m goofy.
When I started doing the kids’ music, everything kind of came together, because I was immediately able to access that part of who I am. Humor is useful and expected in kids’ music. But I also felt like I was able to draw on those other parts of myself as a songwriter. I wanted the music to be fun but I also wanted to talk about big, important things that kids think about. Certainly, with the album about cancer, things got into territory you wouldn’t expect kids’ music to go. I felt like that album drew on everything I know how to do as a songwriter. It was my Owen Meany moment. But even with the album after that, where I was writing a lot about gender politics, identity and orientation, I felt like I was able to use humor as a door to get into some pretty serious areas.
For this new ‘grownup’ album, my mantra was ‘no bullshit’. I know that sounds corny, and it’s not even possible — we all have deceptions and walls — but that was the goal. I wanted to try to bring everything to bear on this album; I wanted to include all the different sides of my writing. I feel like I was able to do that on this album in a way I was never quite able to on my previous adult albums. I flew my freak flag proud and included all the goofy parts of who I am.
Being a dad’s helpful. It breaks down a lot of stuff for you. It’s hard to have an attitude when you’ve got people at home calling ‘bullshit’ around every corner. It’s a humbling experience. I wanted to bring that into the songs.
You asked Mark Erelli to produce the album. How did he help some of these songs take shape and to help you achieve that mission of ‘no bullshit’?
It worked really well. Honestly, I was a little nervous. We’ve been friends for a long time and any friendship with people who work in the same field as you, that friendship can be extra deep, but there are also complexities.
I keep coming back to comedy, but Marc Maron and Louis CK did an interview that’s an incredible testimony to the complexity of friendship. They had fallen out — they were old friends from the beginning of their careers — and they kind of had it out on air. They had this very honest conversation about the complexity of maintaining friendships, and how we all have thin skins, and we all have our little jealousies.
Mark and I have a deep and old friendship. He’s an incredibly talented musician so I knew how much he would bring to the album musically. But, yeah, I was a little concerned about where it might take our friendship. In the end, it all went really smooth and Mark totally killed it as a producer.
I know you were heavily involved in the Boston Stands benefit for the ACLU. That was an amazing night, because, speaking of relationships, it felt like a “no egos” night where everyone was there for the cause, not just for themselves.
That’s totally right, and some of that is a testimony to what the Boston scene is like. In general, it’s a very supportive community. The other thing though is: everybody on that bill has been doing this a long time. They know how to do what they do, and they’re confident, and it’s not a competition. There’s nobody there that can’t walk down the street, nobody has reached a level of fame that young people shoot for, but they have all made viable careers out of music and that’s an extraordinary thing.
There are a lot of musicians around Boston who had a moment when they were younger when they were the next it thing, and they were poised. They had a major label or a big time manager, and then the moment passed. Some of those people went and got other jobs but decided to continue to make music a big part of their lives, and they continue to write and perform locally. I find that incredibly compelling and it’s been inspirational to me. You know, I’m managing to make a career out of music, but I’m doing it by the skin of my teeth and by wearing a lot of different hats.
People always seem interested in the question: do you make a living playing music? And the answer is deceptive, because I do it in a thousand different ways — I do concerts at night for adults; I play shows for families; I spend a lot of time going to schools, doing assembly programs and writing residencies, where I’m being a teacher.
We confuse art with fame, and they’re two very different things. My wife and her friends struggle with this too, in their parallel world of writers. There’s all this definitional stuff that happens: at what point are you allowed to call yourself a writer? If you have a day job that somehow undermines your artistic integrity, or we’re afraid it will. We’re all vulnerable to that stuff, and making art is hard enough without it.
Art and commerce are just uncomfortable bedfellows. It’s putting something vulnerable and honest next to something crass and ruthless and sometimes arbitrary.
This is a tangent, but I did a thing at the Kennedy Center in DC recently. It came through this award I’d won for children’s music, but it wasn’t a kids’ event and I was invited to come play whatever I wanted. As I’m coming on stage, the guy who’s emceeing introduces me as “emerging songwriter, Alastair Moock.” I got to the mic and said, “It’s true, I’ve been emerging for twenty-five years.”
I like this point I’ve reached. I feel like I know who I am and know how to do my little part of this songwriting thing. That doesn’t mean I’m satisfied — I want to keep learning and getting better — but I don’t feel caught up in the race anymore. I think there’s something freeing about reaching the point where you go, ‘I’m not going to be Bruce Springsteen, but that doesn’t mean I need to stop making art.’ I actually think, for a lot of us, that’s the point when you start making better art — when all the b.s. falls away and you start to focus on just doing your thing.
Alastair plays Club Passim on June 3. You can find more dates and music at his website here. And, because we talked a lot about stand-up comics, it’s worth hearing this voicemail message Alastair once received from the man himself, George Carlin.