How to Turn 50

A manual

Drive.

Drive out of your neighborhood, your state, your region, and keep going. Perhaps, pass Taylor and Travis in Kansas City on the other side of the highway, their engagement-night caravan flanked by a sea of flashing motorcycle cops, audacious red and blue lights jolting you from a road-weary stupor.

When you get to Nashville, collapse on the couch of new friends who feel like old friends and cry because you’re turning 50 and your kids won’t be with you, and all of this - the album you’re about to make, the leaving home, the money you’re spending - all of it feels absolutely ridiculous. Foolish. Extravagant. Silly. You’re making a record on the cusp of your 50th birthday, and that is … crazy.

And yet, the gravitational pull to make this thing is too strong to resist. Also, you couldn’t back out if you wanted. It’s simply too late. The deposits have been made, the musicians booked, the studio reserved, and your reputation is now kind of on the line with some important-ish people in Nashville.

So, on the morning of your first studio day, meditate. Burn the Japanese incense you brought in a mason jar. Try to have less anxiety than you do, but know that isn’t actually an option, because where you’re heading is a complete mystery. You’re making a record on the cusp of your 50th birthday, and that is … terrifying.

Dress like you’re going to work: mascara, lipstick, blue pin-striped button down tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up, boot-cut jeans. Look sexy, but also like you’re taking this, every last second of it, seriously. Pull up just a hair late to the studio in a car laden with gluten-free snacks, half a case of good wine, the ponderous Hohner, and your silver Birks because the heeled Fryes you have on are going to get uncomfortable sooner or later, and you want to be prepared.

When you meet the band, just go right in for the hug, with an “I’m a hugger,” like everyone’s kooky aunt. Breathless, a little sweaty (it is Nashville, after all), your pulse quickening, greet each musician, each engineer like an old friend, because that’s the vibe you want to create, and after six days, they will actually be like old summer camp friends. You’re making a record on the cusp of your 50th birthday, and that is … joyful.

There is Rachael, the much sought-after engineer, her enviously long hair framing a disarming smile. There is Dom, the drummer from Philly; handsome, intelligent, responsive. There is Ryan, also from Philly; her small stature belying monster chops and wry East Coast humor. There is Josh, a joke-a-minute guitarist whose effortless ability to conjure sound from strings is alarming. There is the lovely, quick and quiet Joanna, second engineer. And of course, there is Mary: producer, ringleader, maven of decorum, master of schedules, artist whisperer, vocal coach wizard.

Try to not be intimidated. But, perhaps, that ship has sailed?

In a few moments, everyone will pile into the control room of Sound Emporium Studio A, and begin listening to your demos, or “work tapes,” as you learn they are called. Recording will begin in earnest. In a few moments, all the songs you wrote and re-wrote, all the lyrics you agonized over, all the melodies you couldn’t help but sing, all the harmony you over-thought will be filtered through these very people. Their years of work, their decades of experience their hours of practice will inform your music in fresh and surprising ways, and something new will be born. You’re making a record on the cusp of your 50th birthday, and that is … prodigal.

And in the making of this thing so vulnerable, so strident, so delicate, so potent, you are both prodigal mother and prodigal daughter. Both welcoming and coming home to yourself, arms outstretched in longing, arms outstretched in belonging, a wholeness complete.