In the song "Hammer Down", Jeff Finlin examines three people whose indecisiveness puts them in danger of losing control of their destinies.  They include a man who longs to step forward and express himself, but his shyness and fear of attention holds him back.  "That was me, you know", Finlin sings, "not too long ago." 

The stanza is autobiographical, explains the Nashville-based rocker. In the song, he musters the nerve "to put the hammer down".  In real life, he transformed himself from a respected drummer into a singer and songwriter with a literary bent.  This week, Finlin hammers home his goal with the national release of his album Highway Diaries.

The album is a powerfully textured collection with a well-read bohemian's knack for stripping situations down to their emotional essence. Finlin writes of conquering kings who fail to keep their lovers happy, of star-crossed high-rollers who find satisfaction by exiting the race, of immigrants whose visions of opportunity blur into tragedy, and of lovers who joyfully laugh while the world goes mad around them.  The album has an acoustic heart, but it's pumped with the sly, soulful dynamics of Van Morrison's Astral Weeks or Bruce Springsteen's Greetings From Asbury Park .   It's an audacious work bathed in warmth and reflection, and it's shot full of the kind of optimism that comes from a cynic who still believes in the possibilities of humanity. 

Finlin's songs creatively illustrate themes drawn from his experiences. He sings about gathering the fortitude to follow his heart, but he's just as concerned with keeping his balance along the way. Throughout the album's 10 songs, a couple of questions keep reverberating: Why am I doing this? What's important here? 

Finlin has repeated these questions to himself at various times in the last few years. The answers helped him follow the snaky path that led to Highway Diaries . "In a lot of respects, the theme of the album is dreams, and how easy it is for your perspective to get fucked up through the journey of trying to realize your dreams," he says.   "There are a lot more failures than success stories, and it's easy to lose your dream trying to achieve success.  There's plenty of examples of people who end up with a pile of money, but they're not happy.  You have to find a place in yourself where you're going to be happy - or at least sane.  You have to figure out what's important to you." 

Back in the late 1980s, as drummer for The Thieves, Finlin held tight while the rock band experienced the dizzying roller-coaster ride of music industry politics.  The promising band gained a major-label recording contract, only to see a good record barrel full speed into oblivion.  As the band's bright horizons turned dark, Finlin faced a larger personal truth: He yearned to write songs, to play and sing his own music. 

"I had hit a dead end as a musician", he says. "At about that same time, I met my wife, and making that relationship work meant breaking down a lot of walls inside me. It's hard to take chances with your emotions.   As I was going through this, I realized songwriting was just inside me. It was something I wanted to do.   I wasn't having fun anymore as a drummer.  I thought, why am I doing this?   What's important about music to me?  I decided to challenge myself, to write a record and put it out." 

To do so, Finlin had to battle his own insecurities. He was concerned about how he would be perceived by peers, whether he would fail, and what his motivations were.  "It was scary", he recalls. "I'd been pigeonholed in Nashville as being one thing: a drummer.   When you step outside of that, a lot of people think you must have lost your mind." 

His success silenced all doubts.  The songs "came pouring out", he says, crediting "a whole lot of stored-up baggage."   The results drew fast attention: He signed a song-publishing contract with a major conglomerate, which led to a stream of interest from leading record companies. After signing a contract with MCA Records, Finlin found himself back on a familiar roller coaster.  He recorded a complete album, but an executive shake-up resulted in a decision not to release his work. "It was a decision made by an accountant", he says.   "It was difficult at the time, but probably a good thing in the long run.   I don't need to be in that kind of situation, where creative decisions are made by accountants." 

Afterward, Finlin kicked around New York for a few months, then moved back to Nashville and started making frequent trips to Los Angeles.   A performance at a nightclub called Genghis Cohen led to a meeting with Pete Anderson, a producer and guitarist best known for his work with Dwight Yoakam and Michelle Shocked.   Anderson signed Finlin to his independent label, Little Dog Records. "After so many years of feeling that nobody really got what I do, it felt good to have someone really dig it right away", Finlin says. "It's refreshing to be working with people who are doing things for musical reasons." 

Finlin realizes he's still pushing up a hill that has worn down many good artists.   In an age that devalues language and introspection, he writes songs rich in allegories and esoteric messages. But he isn't necessarily fixated on reaching the mountaintop anymore:  He's content to seek out fans who gladly stay out of step with trends and modern musical tastes.  In fact, Finlin has recently been playing in bookstores around the country, an inventive idea that has put him in touch with like-minded souls.   Everywhere he goes, he says, he tends to find pockets of enthusiasm for what he does. 

"The more I get out and about, the more I find those who are hungry for good music and good songs", he says.   "There's so much media and sensory overkill these days.  There's more and more people looking inside themselves.  They have to, or they'll lose their minds.   It just seems there's no truth in anything anymore.   I think that's going to lead to people looking inside themselves to find it." 

Michael McCall
The Nashville Scene
Issue Date: March 7, 1996