Fresh ears, happy accidents, and the long road to “good”

I love your comments, thanks a lot for being here with me and asking me these great questions. Recently, someone asked how I know when a piece of music is “good.”

The truth? I don’t — not right away.

When I’m deep in the work, I can’t trust my first reaction. In the moment, an idea can feel brilliant, intoxicating even. But the next morning can be sobering — what seemed like magic might reveal itself as merely… ordinary. That’s why I need distance. Time to step away. To return with fresh ears.

When you work alone, as I often do, there’s no one in the room to challenge your instincts. You can get carried away, building on a shaky foundation, only to reach the end and wonder: Where did I lose it? Sometimes the answer is simple — I was chasing the wrong idea entirely.

That’s why I’ve always valued having a listener. Not an engineer, not a producer, not a fellow musician — just someone who listens without agenda. My wife was like that. She wasn’t a musician, which made her feedback even more precious. She’d simply say, “I like it” or “play it again.” No explanations, no technical notes. Just a pure, unfiltered response. You can’t buy that.

Sitting in the dark, rather.Finger pointing at Larry Dunn (Earth Wind & Fire keyboardist),co-producer of the album with Verdine White.

I’ve learned over the years that making music for others and making music for yourself require different compasses. In the 80s, I spent much of my time “sessionning” for other artists — but I never saw myself as a session player. The term suggests a musician who arrives, follows instructions, and leaves. That was never me. I felt more like an invited guest — improvising, shaping, and sometimes redefining the music as it was being made. My parts were mine, as much as they were the artist’s.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never thought of my own albums as “solo” records. They’re just my records — the result of pursuing the music I hear, whether I’m in a room alone or surrounded by others. And while I’ve contributed to countless projects, my compass has always pointed toward one thing: making my own music.

Doing some vocal trims with the help of Doctor Spike Drake.

Even now, melodies circle in my head no matter what else life brings. Often they come as fragments — unrelated scraps — until, one day, I start connecting them. Sometimes all it takes is a shift in key, and suddenly they fall into place, as if they’d always belonged together.

Mick Jones once told me that Waiting for a Girl Like You began as three entirely different songs. Combined almost by accident, it became a hit. That’s the beauty of creating: you leave space for the unexpected, for the happy mistakes you couldn’t have planned.

Creation isn’t easy. And that’s exactly why it’s worth it.

Now I’m curious — what would you like to see here next?

An unreleased track from the archives?

A moment from the road?

Or a glimpse into what I’m working on right now?