Thrust into the spotlight at a very early age, singer-songwriter Glen Phillips has been writing and
performing music since he was 14. He's best known for his band Toad the Wet Sprocket, which
met commercial and critical acclaim via their albums fear (1990) and Dulcinea (1994). He's now a
successful solo artist, garnering praise for albums like Winter Pays for Summer and Mr. Lemons.
Phillips has navigated many changes in both his personal and professional lives, continuing to
balance family, multiple creative endeavors, and the challenges of an ever-evolving music industry.
In the past, you've criticized the music industry for being in a "state of flux" and not recognizing artists such as yourself. Do
you think the music industry "gets you"?
The music industry doesn't get much these days. I think I used to maybe criticize it for being in a state of
flux and, now, I really don't care. [Laughs] There's this genre, right? It used to be the kind of stuff that
people would put out records of. But it's amazing to look and see, okay, Shawn Colvin is no longer with
Columbia Records. And you can go down this list of "Who Have People Let Go"? You've got Kim Richey,
Sam Phillips, and Neil Finn, who at some point couldn't find a U.S. label. And Aimee Mann-she's
independent. All these people who are some of the best songwriters around and all outside of the
mainstream. There's not a name for their genre, there's not a recognition for it. I think people, on an
individual level, understand these artists and want to hear their music … but there's still no collective
bargaining for them.

You found commercial success very early on. How has your creative process evolved?
I have more tricks up my sleeve, but I still kind of work in "spurts." You know, it kind of depends year for
year. I was incredibly depressed for a while and wasn't having the easiest time writing. The very idea of
picking up the guitar freaked me out. I tend to have to store up a certain amount of information before I
can write again and get reinspired. When I was young, I would go "by feel" and not know exactly what I
was saying most of the time. Then I decided I should have a better idea of what I was talking about.
[Laughs] Sometimes I'm feeling very personal and navel-gazey, and sometimes it's really third-person and
characters. With the last album [2006's Mr. Lemons], I was aiming for simplicity-not only lyrically but
musically as well. I wanted it as simple as possible-the sound wasn't about being really clever with a lot of
key changes and turns of phrases that would show how witty I was. [Laughs]

Do you think releasing your work independently is creatively liberating?
I've been doing this too long. Even though I'm frustrated with the music business right now, I feel that it's a
great time. The music industry, as we've known it, is falling apart and in such a poor state. They're panicked
and they're not necessarily making great decisions. And the main thing is that they've backed themselves
into a corner where the only business they can play is the business of Really Big.

I'm definitely making broad, sweeping generalizations. There are bright spots; there are individuals who still
love music and still do great stuff. And things do happen that are positive but, by and large, they can't make
money off anything that sells less than a million anymore. They can barely get out of the red with a million.
The barriers are so high and it's so expensive to promote stuff. People are buying less and less albums, so
they're taking big risks with large pop things and I think what they've done is create a great vacuum for
interesting music, for smaller music. All of a sudden, the field is wide open. It's an exciting time.
Despite flirting with a computer-programming job shortly after graduating from Stanford,
singer-songwriter Vienna Teng managed to stay true to her undeniable talents as a musician.
Having studied classical piano since the age of 5, Teng has accomplished a great deal in a very brief
period of time. A native of the San Francisco Bay area, she earned critical acclaim and success through
the releases of her albums Waking Hour (2002), Warm Strangers (2004), and Dreaming Through the
Noise (2006). Her newest album is Inland Territory.  
Many critics and reviewers refer to your songs as "short stories." Do you agree with this assessment and, if so, is it difficult
to leave things to the listener's imagination?
That's a good question. I definitely agree with that-and it may be the power of suggestion that makes
people feel that. I do think of writing as trying to create a short story. As a joke, I think of myself as a failed
short story writer-or a mediocre one. [Laughs] I feel that I don't necessarily have the command of language
to construct the kind of short story that I really enjoy reading. The worlds [writers] create in such concise
fashions, the depth of the characters and the arc of their lives have always been fascinating to me. When I
write, I think that I try to draw on the same kind of approach: using little snapshots and small details that
somehow give the suggestion of breadth and depth and a larger scope, beyond what you're given. I like
thinking of songs that way -- taking that concept and trying to communicate that in four minutes.

I don't mind that a lot of it is left up to the listener's imagination. I think that's really the whole point when
it comes to music. I'm trying to communicate something that has a fuzzy boundary to it and, within that
boundary, you can interpret it however you like. I have a song called "Nothing Without You," which is
pretty vague in what it's actually about. It's been interpreted really widely and I think all the interpretations
that other people have are better than the one I started out with. [Laughs]

Whether it's an artist's relationship with the audience, or your relationship with someone you used to love,
someone you haven't met yet, or your relationship with a higher power-whatever that might be-all of those
are very different situations, but they all stem from the same kind of moment of vulnerability. So long as
people get that, I think people can interpret it as widely as they like.

For you, how does a song come about? Does it start with the lyrics, the melody, or something else?
It seems to start from all directions. It's a very relevant conversation for us to be having now because I'm
not touring as much with the intention of being at home and writing more. I was actually writing when you
called.

I've been sort of thinking about that: "Yeah, how do I write?" I'm trying to remember. I actually start from a
number of different directions. I first think of them as different "seed types"-you know, I start planting all
these different seed types in my garden and I'm trying to learn how to cultivate them. Some of them seem
to germinate and thrive a little more easily; others require some kind of special care that I haven't figured
out yet. Some of them happened without me even having planted them, like beautiful weeds or something.

The most fertile of the seed types is when I have a piece of music and lyric happen at the same time. If I'm
just sitting there, improvising, and I sing a lyric that I don't necessarily understand yet, but if it's a phrase
that works and there's a melody that goes with it-that's usually a starting point that I can work from
immediately. That will usually grow into a full song. I can start from pretty much every other angle you can
imagine: starting with a title, starting with a topic, starting with a starting with a chord progression. They
have varying degrees of success rates.

Have you ever considered changing a song? During some of your live performances, you change the style of your music, such as
doing a reggae version of "The Tower." Is a song ever truly "finished," in your opinion?
I have found that the arrangement of a song evolves over time-definitely. For whatever reason, I haven't
felt compelled to change the structure, the melody, or the lyrics of a song. Those tend to be the constant
parts. It's not that they're sacred, but I don't feel inclined to change them very often.

In terms of the arrangement-what "feel" is it, what instruments are involved, what tempo we play it at-that
seems to evolve very naturally over time. That feels like a natural lifespan of a song: you write it and it
starts out as a creature or a child that's sort of feeling out the world, discovering what it likes and doesn't
like, and what it wants to be. And then it goes out into the world, grows up, and meets new people and
occasionally undergoes a dramatic wardrobe change. [Laughs] Maybe it'll move to a hip neighborhood and
suddenly start wearing scarves and T-shirts, or it'll move to the country and starting wearing a cowboy hat
and a work shirt. It sort of depends on the environment that I'm playing in and what I'm listening to.


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