This is going to be a big(gish) post about whatever. I'm going to write for some hours about whatever enters my head. I will post it late tonight, or early tomorrow morning. Whatever. It doesn't matter when I post it, does it?
I've changed my mind again. I'm going to leave Gilly Marie off my demo. This means I will need to write another new song. The Beatles helped me decide, finally. I Saw Her Standing There on the Please Please Me album stands out like a sore thumb. I don't want that happening with my stuff. So, more work! (I'll be the hardest working man in show business at this rate.) Newsflash: these music updates are going to stop. They've got to. I'm going to make a fresh start on Monday. 'Ha! We've heard that before!' I mean it this time. Even if I get a publishing deal a few months from now I'll not tell you about it. But if you see my posting diminish to once a week or every couple of weeks, you'll know why ...
I want to squeeze the personal out. It's like a disease. I could get clean and aloof if I didn't have all this personal shit. I want to eradicate "I" as well as "you". (Yes, you'll be gone soon.) Am I a dreamer? I always want the impossible. (Or what seems impossible.) And I want to transcend the subject matter on a regular basis. (I've written over fourteen hundred posts, but only a handful have gone beyond.) How am I going to manage this? Christ knows! I'm not sure I have the discipline. Or the energy. The will. The passion? Oh, I have the passion. It's important to me because no one else does it. And I like to do the things other people don't do, and maybe don't even know about.
However, there's more transcendence in pop music, believe it or not. I think it's the joy that takes you out of yourself. It's why I want to write pop songs now (rather than any other sort of songs) which many people may regard as silly. Obviously, I want to earn a decent living for once in my life, too. (Lloyd didn't pay me as much as you might think. And Bobby D didn't pay me at all.) I should have done this twenty years ago. After giving up my dream of becoming a rock star I could have continued with the writing. There's a potential gold mine in my head, you know. I'm just like Colonel Sanders with that chicken recipe of his. But he waited until he was sixty-five. I'm only forty-three! By the way, people who have been rich their whole lives have missed something. Or it might be more accurate to say that something is missing in them.
Let's hope it's not years. It won't be years. Months, a few, six, nine. I don't know. Whatever. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, I can't stop thinking ... Gilly Marie is too good to leave off a demo. Damn! What am I going to do? I wish I could let you hear it. You'll hear it one day, don't worry. Two journalist girls into one. You can't beat that, can you? I must be a genius. What other explanation can there be?
I'm listening to Hurdy Gurdy Man. Donovan backed by Led Zeppelin (well, maybe, I want to believe it). Heavy shit! ... Now, Sam Cooke singing Summertime. Wow!
All I need: literature, pop music, my angel. I got literature coming out of my ears. I'm doing the pop. The angel will take time. I'm not in any rush. But ...
I must get rid of the "I". Oh, I'll never get rid of the "I". / If only words were like music. My third new tune makes me strong inside, lifts me up. I gotta find words for it. / And here? I gotta use words when I talk to you but if you understand or if you don't that's nothing to me and nothing to you ... and: some of these days you'll miss me honey ...
When I was seventeen I wrote a nice ballad on the piano. My music teacher at school, Mr Brown, told me that none of the chords went together. I grabbed him by the lapels and said: 'I'm playing all the right chords. But not necessarily in the right order. I'll give you that. I'll give you that, sunshine.' That's a true story. Well, no. I actually said: 'It sounds okay though, doesn't it?'
I've changed my mind again. I'm going to leave Gilly Marie off my demo. This means I will need to write another new song. The Beatles helped me decide, finally. I Saw Her Standing There on the Please Please Me album stands out like a sore thumb. I don't want that happening with my stuff. So, more work! (I'll be the hardest working man in show business at this rate.) Newsflash: these music updates are going to stop. They've got to. I'm going to make a fresh start on Monday. 'Ha! We've heard that before!' I mean it this time. Even if I get a publishing deal a few months from now I'll not tell you about it. But if you see my posting diminish to once a week or every couple of weeks, you'll know why ...
I want to squeeze the personal out. It's like a disease. I could get clean and aloof if I didn't have all this personal shit. I want to eradicate "I" as well as "you". (Yes, you'll be gone soon.) Am I a dreamer? I always want the impossible. (Or what seems impossible.) And I want to transcend the subject matter on a regular basis. (I've written over fourteen hundred posts, but only a handful have gone beyond.) How am I going to manage this? Christ knows! I'm not sure I have the discipline. Or the energy. The will. The passion? Oh, I have the passion. It's important to me because no one else does it. And I like to do the things other people don't do, and maybe don't even know about.
However, there's more transcendence in pop music, believe it or not. I think it's the joy that takes you out of yourself. It's why I want to write pop songs now (rather than any other sort of songs) which many people may regard as silly. Obviously, I want to earn a decent living for once in my life, too. (Lloyd didn't pay me as much as you might think. And Bobby D didn't pay me at all.) I should have done this twenty years ago. After giving up my dream of becoming a rock star I could have continued with the writing. There's a potential gold mine in my head, you know. I'm just like Colonel Sanders with that chicken recipe of his. But he waited until he was sixty-five. I'm only forty-three! By the way, people who have been rich their whole lives have missed something. Or it might be more accurate to say that something is missing in them.
Let's hope it's not years. It won't be years. Months, a few, six, nine. I don't know. Whatever. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, I can't stop thinking ... Gilly Marie is too good to leave off a demo. Damn! What am I going to do? I wish I could let you hear it. You'll hear it one day, don't worry. Two journalist girls into one. You can't beat that, can you? I must be a genius. What other explanation can there be?
I'm listening to Hurdy Gurdy Man. Donovan backed by Led Zeppelin (well, maybe, I want to believe it). Heavy shit! ... Now, Sam Cooke singing Summertime. Wow!
All I need: literature, pop music, my angel. I got literature coming out of my ears. I'm doing the pop. The angel will take time. I'm not in any rush. But ...
I must get rid of the "I". Oh, I'll never get rid of the "I". / If only words were like music. My third new tune makes me strong inside, lifts me up. I gotta find words for it. / And here? I gotta use words when I talk to you but if you understand or if you don't that's nothing to me and nothing to you ... and: some of these days you'll miss me honey ...
_________________________
When I was seventeen I wrote a nice ballad on the piano. My music teacher at school, Mr Brown, told me that none of the chords went together. I grabbed him by the lapels and said: 'I'm playing all the right chords. But not necessarily in the right order. I'll give you that. I'll give you that, sunshine.' That's a true story. Well, no. I actually said: 'It sounds okay though, doesn't it?'
