I'm writing this now, so I don't have to write later. I hope that makes sense. I want to work on a couple of songs, you see. It's about time I made some serious progress. They're only pop songs. What's all the fuss about? It's not rocket science.
I've been reading about Lionel Bart. Apparently, he couldn't even play an instrument. He just used to sing his lyrics into a tape recorder. That makes me feel better about my guitar playing. There's no need for me to be like Eric Clapton, for Christ's sake!
(As you can imagine, I'm listening to Brian Eno's Apollo again. Well, it's the night-time, ain't it? What else would I be listening to? 'David Sylvian's Gone to Earth?' Oh, you really think you know me, don't you? 'I know you, believe me.')
It's all psychological, man. I reckon I need to transfer my creativity from my blog to my songs. 'A bit of it.' Yeah, a bit. 'Don't be afraid.' It'll be like turning on a tap, I know it will. Fear is stupid. And there's nothing to fear, anyway.
(I hope you don't mind all this - again. It makes a nice change from the financial muck that everyone else is wading through, doesn't it? No, I don't have any charts for you, but there are countless idiots with charts. I offer you ... humanity[?!] But I'll be making the personal impersonal soon, completely, permanently.)
These music updates will stop, eventually. I'm going to lay down the law. Watch this space. I'm talking about my higher self, obviously. My lower self has been ruling the roost for far too long. 'Yeah, five years.' Whatever. 'Why are you using the brackets?' None of your business.
(And I thought I had killed the voice. But they keep coming back. Yes, there are many voices. 'You ain't got the energy to kill us all!' Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Oh ... 'Enough!' You're right. Thank you, Voice. 'You're welcome.')
Will it be ghost time in the night-time? 'That's all you need, Mikey.' Well, what other time? I'm not going to worry about it. 'What's that noise?' There's nothing to fear. It's the rain. 'Or someone creeping around outside.' Some excitement? I'm not that lucky.
'But you've got a lucky face!'
I've been reading about Lionel Bart. Apparently, he couldn't even play an instrument. He just used to sing his lyrics into a tape recorder. That makes me feel better about my guitar playing. There's no need for me to be like Eric Clapton, for Christ's sake!
(As you can imagine, I'm listening to Brian Eno's Apollo again. Well, it's the night-time, ain't it? What else would I be listening to? 'David Sylvian's Gone to Earth?' Oh, you really think you know me, don't you? 'I know you, believe me.')
It's all psychological, man. I reckon I need to transfer my creativity from my blog to my songs. 'A bit of it.' Yeah, a bit. 'Don't be afraid.' It'll be like turning on a tap, I know it will. Fear is stupid. And there's nothing to fear, anyway.
(I hope you don't mind all this - again. It makes a nice change from the financial muck that everyone else is wading through, doesn't it? No, I don't have any charts for you, but there are countless idiots with charts. I offer you ... humanity[?!] But I'll be making the personal impersonal soon, completely, permanently.)
These music updates will stop, eventually. I'm going to lay down the law. Watch this space. I'm talking about my higher self, obviously. My lower self has been ruling the roost for far too long. 'Yeah, five years.' Whatever. 'Why are you using the brackets?' None of your business.
(And I thought I had killed the voice. But they keep coming back. Yes, there are many voices. 'You ain't got the energy to kill us all!' Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Oh ... 'Enough!' You're right. Thank you, Voice. 'You're welcome.')
Will it be ghost time in the night-time? 'That's all you need, Mikey.' Well, what other time? I'm not going to worry about it. 'What's that noise?' There's nothing to fear. It's the rain. 'Or someone creeping around outside.' Some excitement? I'm not that lucky.
'But you've got a lucky face!'
