The Flow

Easygoing, as if it was woven into my DNA. If I had to guess, I think it was passed down from my dad — the kind of person who is hard working in his own silent way. Never needing to be celebrated, never burdening others with his troubles.

Perhaps, I picked up a little bit of “easygoing” along the way too. In a house full of siblings, it was natural to take up my role as the middle child — often dialing myself back a few notches.

Music has been in my life since before I can remember, specifically the piano. In our house, we had one of the old, out-of-tune pianos (I’m sure many of you know the type). My dad would sit down to play every once in a while, and I would dream that one day I could be as good as he was.

At family get-togethers, I would hide from my grandpa: “Cameron, why don’t you go play us a little something after dinner?” he would say. I do miss that man, but I sure don’t miss that persistent request of his. He believed that music was meant to be heard. He was right. But I preferred to keep music small. Keep it quiet. Keep it safe.

The more I wanted music to be something, the more self critical I became, and the less I enjoyed it. So I went on for years protecting myself from myself.

I am so fortunate to have people in my life who could see through that layer of defense — who would gently nudge me, time and again, toward exploring something I was passionate about. Still, it took years of hearing their message before I actually listened to it.

In college, it became clear I wasn't on track to play short stop for the Cubbies, so I studied finance and accepted a job with EY. As my thoughts churned about what role music was meant to have in my life, I began working through the mental hurdles. #1 on that list was that I had made music too special and too fragile. I loved it so much that I was terrified I'd be bad at it.

Good. Bad. Right. Wrong. Black. White. I guess my brain prefers to draw a thick line right down the middle. It's simpler that way, but music does not exist in that world. I had to learn how to let go of that as I entered a world of subjectivity — where there is no universal “good.” When no one can explain what is good and what is bad, the only guidance has to come from inside. Reflecting now, I see how this lesson applies to my life in many ways.

It took some time, but I started to have fun writing music again. Slowly, it became clear what actually mattered to me: finding out what lies on the other side of dedication. I didn't need to be successful to be successful, I just had to go for it. And so I put in my two weeks with EY.

When I was putting together this album, one song poured right out as if it had been brewing below the surface all along. It was about losing myself in being too easygoing — keeping myself small in the hopes I wouldn't disrupt the world as it unfolds around me.

Easy I have come and I have gone, never noticing the lines of my palm.

This worked well for a long time and life played out in ways that I felt aligned with. But as I got older and opportunities stopped knocking so loudly on my door, I slowly shied away from the world. I kept my interests to myself, and my sense of community and fulfillment dissolved over time.

Towards the end of college, I was in a low place and my overall reaction to my lack of enthusiasm was confusion. How can someone with so much love, support, and opportunity all around him feel so apathetic and disconnected?

Hard to see all of what went wrong with me. I lost my love for most, if not all, of the things I used to love back then.

I felt broken, like someone flipped my on/off switch. During this time of feeling disconnected, music always found a way through. I was playing obsessively. I think I was seeking out connection and playing the piano was one way I knew I could find that feeling. There is something to music, lyrics aside, that I have always felt so deeply. As if it can touch on certain emotions that we struggle to articulate. And in a way, it is nice not having to articulate them because language on its own does not always do them justice.

As I opened up to people during this time in my life, I found that so many wanted to help and they each had their opinions on what would pull me out of this rut. I would listen and hope their words would reunite me with the happy-go-lucky kid that was hiding somewhere inside. But part of me knew that the answer I was looking for wasn’t actually in the answer. It was in how I would get there. The guidance from friends and family was necessary but ultimately the answers had to come from me this time. Yet again, I was confronted with the ever so difficult challenge of listening to that voice inside of me.

Save your voice, keep it for when I need the noise. This time, I speak my heart to find it feels but knows not to describe.

Going with the flow is often described in a positive sense, but when you practice fitting in with your surroundings for long enough, it becomes difficult to tell the difference between what is you and what is the remaining space in the room. This song summed up what this music journey has really been about for me. It's all about the music and it's not about the music at all. It's about acting on something that feels true.

This album has not been easygoing. It was a lot of hours spent commuting to and from Wheaton to record. Booking gigs, selling tickets, learning how to sing. Managing that lingering question in the back of my head whether I had made the right decision to quit my job to make a bunch of noise for a living. And it's been worth every second.

So all of this just to get out of that steady stream of water, that lazy river that pulled me around. In an attempt to escape it, I hope you get lost in it.

The Flow.

I’ve talked a whole lot about myself here, but Rolled Oats is not Rolled Oats without Kiersten Joyce. I had already started working on this first album by the time we decided to create Rolled Oats together. She has been nothing but encouraging and supportive the whole way through. She constantly found ways to improve and elevate each song with her ideas and with her voice. More importantly, she elevates the whole experience.

I knew I met my match when I first saw the stack of notebooks that she has been scribbling in over the years (“scribbling” actually better describes my handwriting. Her’s is more Zapfino). Songs, lyrics, poems, and thoughts. Every page. Every notebook.

We’ve agreed that community and collaboration are two of our north stars. We want this next project to be a true Rolled Oats project, meaning that it comes from the band as a whole. I am grateful for the opportunity I’ve had to pour myself into an album, but I really can’t wait to see what happens when we take every step together.

In other words, there is a lot more music to make.

— Cam