SPOTLIGHT: ERIC HARRISON
Meet Eric Harrison and tune into his new album “Bittersweet”
Bittersweet is your eighth studio album. What makes this project stand apart from your previous releases?
If I told you that it’s just better than its seven predecessors, then I’d feel unfaithful to them. Yet I’m lucky to say that since I released my first proper album in 1999, each new album has felt like my best. This one is no exception.
The record is split into “Appetite” and “Equanimity,” with a coda of Jersey-centric songs. How did you land on this structure, and what do those themes mean to you?
This sounds pretentious, but it is a fact that over the last couple of years I’ve been reading Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, which were essentially notes to himself on how to live properly. Balancing the appetites with frustrated appetites and developing a sense of calm in the face of adversity are major stoic themes, and I just felt like some of these songs are heavier on appetite, others are heavier on equanimity and a sense of balance. So I grouped them accordingly. “Sal’s Place” and “Diner” are simply love letters to New Jersey clubs and diners that didn’t really coherently fit with the other songs because they are both so extroverted and the 10 others are typical singer-songwriter introversion. So I broke off the two extroverts and slapped them on a single, which in the vinyl version can be found on a separate 45 and on the CD and streaming versions they are simply tacked onto the end of the album.
The opening track “Laughing at the Guillotine” immediately sets a striking tone. What was the inspiration behind its lyrics and energy?
The stoic phrase “Memento mori“ essentially means “You could leave this life today” - the ephemerality of life can be tragic. But it’s also uplifting in the sense of “let’s have a good time, be as kind and positive as possible and not be so serious because we never know when it will be over…” You’ve got to have that mindset to laugh about the prospect of your head being cut off. And if you’re listening to the replacements at the time, this song is what you might end up with.
You’ve cited influences ranging from Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello to Cole Porter and Marcus Aurelius. How do you balance such wide-ranging inspirations in your work?
Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” and Elvis Costello’s “King of America” set the template for what I do as a songwriter starting in 1986 when I was 18 and I wrote my first song. Every other artistic inspiration to come along since then feels like a kickboard I grab in the deep part of Lake Songwriter. I start kicking furiously to get away from the vortex of Bob and Elvis and by the time the song is done I hope I’ve ended up at some other interesting part of the lake, though I’m usually still close to the Bob/Elvis part where I started.
For example, I stole Cole Porter chords for “Mary Full of Grace” but the track still sounds like Elvis Costello trying to be Cole Porter. Which I’m happy with! But I would say it’s more of a constant struggle to get away from Elvis and Bob than it is a conscious balance of other influences.
The songs “Sal’s Place” and “Diner” are steeped in Jersey imagery. How does your home state continue to shape your songwriting?
It’s a Jersey thing, you wouldn’t understand…Nah, definitely joking. Despite the Boss being a billionaire celebrity, there’s a perverse pride that comes from being the butt of Jersey jokes and not being as sophisticated as New Yorkers. I’m an upper-middle class suburbanite whose daddy sent him to college, so I don’t really have the right to lean into the “working man’s blues” schtick, so I don’t. But I must say that we have some great diners and it made sense to place “down the shore” a club that welcomes failed musicians of all stripes. I know that Michael Imperioli of The Sopranos fame is an accomplished musician, and I chose “Sal’s Place” as the name of the club because I pictured his Christopher Moltisanti opening it after Adriana’s dance club failed. “Paulie, meet me at Sal’s Place tonight and we’ll talk about our thing.”
As both a trial attorney and musician, how do those two worlds feed into or contrast with one another in your creative process?
Litigating and songwriting to me share one common goal: getting a point across with as few words as possible. That’s kind of ironic, because my songs tend to be wordy and I almost always have to apologize to juries when my summations go on too long. The inspiration for my work in defending a lawsuit is the experiences of my client; the inspiration for a song is usually an ex-girlfriend or some other dashed hope or frustrated desire. Both can be gratifying to navigate.
You’ve said your “fantasies of stardom ended long ago.” How has that mindset shaped the way you write and release music today?
I used to consciously strive to sound like something or somebody that would grab the attention of what used to be a monolithic but definable music industry. Now that we are living in a world of complete entropy and I am way past my prime, I have the luxury of simply making music that I want to listen to. I would love to expand my reach of fans, but the ultimate test of success for me is whether I find myself wanting to listen to my own recordings. I’m really happy that has increased over my last several albums.
Your longtime collaboration with producer Kevin Salem has sparked what you call a “mid-career renaissance.” What does he bring to your music that feels essential?
Everything. I’m a pretty good songwriter, but Kevin is a multi-instrumentalist and a really talented producer who also has really good taste. That final point cannot be overemphasized, because in 2025 when there are so many tools at your disposal, it’s really easy to overdo it and lose sight of your objective. Kevin is a true collaborator in that he figures out what I’m looking for, often before I know, and he gets us there. Sometimes there will be adjustments along the way and he makes them with zero ego and dedication to my vision without losing sight of my occasional need to be told that my vision sucks.
“Accidental Poetry” is a standout from the album. How do you see poetry and philosophy intersecting with your songwriting?
Thank you, it’s my favorite too. I think it was on a Mekons album cover in the ‘80s that I first saw a monkey at a typewriter. I know they were being cheeky and/or political, but I have always liked the metaphor for romantic cluelessness of a monkey at an old school typewriter trying to compose a love letter that will get the girl. I basically built the song around that image and an innocent Buddy Holly-esque hope that I’ll run into her at the malt shop. There’s not much philosophy or poetry there beyond “I’ve been around enough to see that all the best things in life cost money.”
You’re known for weaving humor into your music, even when writing about heavier subjects. How important is humor to your creative voice?
Can’t avoid it. I’m 5’7” and my three best friends in college, as well as my law partners for the past 30 years since then, are all over 6 feet tall. When you’re the runt of the litter, you need to learn some tricks to get attention from the world. My tricks are mostly humor-based.
You’ve been called an Americana artist in the tradition of Dylan and Springsteen. Do you embrace those comparisons, or do you see your sound differently?
When you’re young, you’re offended by comparisons because you feel that it might devalue you in the eyes of others or limit your marketability. I am now 56 and I don’t give a shit. I think it’s objectively accurate to put me in that category.
Your song “Opening Day” has become a Yankees spring training staple. What’s it like having your music tied to such an iconic cultural moment each year?
It was really exciting at the time the Yankees first decided to use that song in the ‘90s. Then as payment they mailed me a T-shirt that was too small, they ignored my request for complimentary opening day tickets, and I haven’t heard from them since. That’s OK - I’ve got a day job, and they’ve got bigger problems this season.
You’ve also written topical songs like “A Jersey-Sized Disgrace” about Bruce Springsteen’s DUI arrest. How do you approach balancing commentary with artistry?
I don’t really consciously balance anything; it just comes out sometimes. When Bruce got arrested for driving while intoxicated on a motorcycle, we were in the midst of Covid insanity, political protests everywhere, and a sense of madness and doom. I had written “The Fundament” about the political moment, but with that silly Bruce story I was seized with a need to give it the Ruben Carter treatment with righteous indignation a la “The Hurricane.” Like the Yankees, Bruce never got back to me. That’s OK, he’s got bigger problems this season too.
Many of your songs explore nostalgia. What role does looking backward play in helping you process the present?
Ah, nostalgia just isn’t what it used to be… am I right, folks? I can’t enjoy the present without reconciling it with the past, so it’s a natural therapeutic process. Also - have you seen what our hair looked like in the ‘80s?!?!? Can’t ignore it.
As you prepare for the release show with the Crash Chorus, what do you hope audiences take away from hearing Bittersweet live for the first time?
I’m really proud of this album, but I’m a bit rusty on guitar, so what I hope audiences take away is a sense of the songs without too many blown chords.
Listen to “Bittersweet” here.
