Where Does It Go?

Why is it that literary and musical artists seem to run out of steam at some point? A couple of weeks ago I listened to the new Lyle Lovett album. It's terrible. Maybe two decent songs and the rest is just blah.

It's not like he's putting out product too fast either. From 1986 to 1996, he released six albums of pretty good quality. The last of these six, "The Road to Ensanada," is probably my favorite. Since then he has released two albums of new original material: "My Baby Don't Tolerate" (2003) and the latest, "It's Not Big, It's Large" (2007). The former is a pretty good album, the latter is very disapointing.

So what happened? Did he forget how to write? Is he trying to do new things that just aren't working? Has comfort and success dulled the creativity gene? Or is it possible that there is only so much creativity in a person that runs out after so many songs or so much time? After all, it happens with athletes. The arm or legs can tolerate only so much mileage.

I'm not picking on Lyle; it happens with everyone. The Rolling Stones are still touring to big crowds, but face it, nobody goes to the show to hear the material from their newest stinky album; they're wanting to hear "Jumping Jack Flash" one more time. Jackson Browne is easily my favorite singer-songwriter ever, but his latest album is even worse than Lyle Lovett's; there is not a single song on it that I enjoyed.

Being able to continue to perform is not the same as being able to create new music. The former is one thing--when you can't sing or play anymore, the people stop coming. But when you can't create anymore, do you lose your relevance? I don't have a lot of answers, but I have a lot of questions.