Oh, oh ... I'm writing about music again, my music, yes. I will stop though, one day. I promise! Once, uh ... my demo is finished, I'll concentrate on finance, yes. This is a finance blog, you know. [I hope you know.] 'The conceptual stuff?' Er ... that's just what it is, Voice. Conceptual stuff. Leave me alone! I'll be writing another one later, kook(s). No. 681. But for now ... music!
Well, well ... / What's the sweet spot? The sweet spot is a part of my room that's got the best acoustics for recording. I discovered it at the weekend. I recorded a rough version of This World Don't Mean a Thing. Now, normally, my heart sinks when I play my songs back. The sound is often terrible. I'm only using a Zoom Handy thingy. They're great little gadgets, but they can't compete with a professional studio that's got microphones and engineers up the arse. 'Go to a studio then, boss!' No, no. I want to stay in control at home, take my time, and keep my songs secret. I haven't been to a studio since 1990. (The Light, Ophelia, Shall I Close My Eyes?) The first time was in 1987. (Strings of Thought.) / Anyway, so, I, uh, managed to get This World ... to sound the way I've always imagined it in my head. (Well, almost. I mean, I imagine a band and backing singers and strings and all sorts, you dig?) Listen! [Well, not listen, no, you can't, yet.] It sounds like the ultimate stadium rock ballad, man. It sounds like a recording contract signed, sealed, and delivered, as they say. And consider: it will be backed up by Nothing, which I'm convinced is the greatest song ever. So, uh ... 'And don't forget Round the Bend, and Lucky You, boss.' Ah, well, they're nice songs. They would get me a contract if I were twenty-five, BUT(!) ... I'm nearly fifty. That's why I've been working so hard on my BIG SONGS, son. I've been kicking ass, too!
By the way, way, way ... I sent the demo I recorded in 1990 to Rough Trade Records and got a nice letter back, offering encouragement and all that. They said I should keep going. So, uh ... I decided to quit music. 'Ha!' Yes, that's the perverse mindset I had in those days of my not so golden youth. Thank God I've been listening to the Vance/Musk audiobook lately! 'You're a changed man, man!' Fuckin' A I am, Voice! / I'd say Ophelia was the best of my early songs, but it's nowhere near what I'm doing now. All my old songs are on cassette. I've transferred some of them to my computer by the very crude method of placing a microphone in front of a cassette player. In theory, I could put them on the internet and let you hear them, dear reader(s), but I won't. 'Oh.' No, no. The past is best left in the past. Besides, I can't stand my vocals on those old recordings. Strangely, my singing is much improved now. I don't know why. 'Practice, boss.' Maybe, Voice. I must admit I was rather lazy in the old days. I thought rock stars became rock stars by just dreaming about it.
Oh, oh, oh, I'm reading Life on Tour with Bowie by Sean Mayes at the moment. It's nothing like the Vance/Musk book. 'Well, it wouldn't be, would it?' No, no. BUT(!) ... a rock star's life isn't that hard, really. As I've said before, it's nothing like building rockets and cars. NOTHING AT ALL!!! / I mean, with the songs I have now, with the mindset I have now ... at the age of twenty, if I could go back ... and then ... go forward again ... to, uh, this present moment, like, well ... I'd already be living in Malibu, a rock legend, man, surrounded by the Malibu Mafia. 'Who on earth are the Malibu Mafia?!' They're the bodyguards, "friends", and hangers-on that I keep firing and rehiring and giving Cadillacs to. They've all got deputy sheriffs badges, too. I feel so safe! 'Ha! Your imagination is something else, Mikey!' Tell me about it, my little invisible idiot!
Okay, okay. Later(s), crocodile(s)!
Well, well ... / What's the sweet spot? The sweet spot is a part of my room that's got the best acoustics for recording. I discovered it at the weekend. I recorded a rough version of This World Don't Mean a Thing. Now, normally, my heart sinks when I play my songs back. The sound is often terrible. I'm only using a Zoom Handy thingy. They're great little gadgets, but they can't compete with a professional studio that's got microphones and engineers up the arse. 'Go to a studio then, boss!' No, no. I want to stay in control at home, take my time, and keep my songs secret. I haven't been to a studio since 1990. (The Light, Ophelia, Shall I Close My Eyes?) The first time was in 1987. (Strings of Thought.) / Anyway, so, I, uh, managed to get This World ... to sound the way I've always imagined it in my head. (Well, almost. I mean, I imagine a band and backing singers and strings and all sorts, you dig?) Listen! [Well, not listen, no, you can't, yet.] It sounds like the ultimate stadium rock ballad, man. It sounds like a recording contract signed, sealed, and delivered, as they say. And consider: it will be backed up by Nothing, which I'm convinced is the greatest song ever. So, uh ... 'And don't forget Round the Bend, and Lucky You, boss.' Ah, well, they're nice songs. They would get me a contract if I were twenty-five, BUT(!) ... I'm nearly fifty. That's why I've been working so hard on my BIG SONGS, son. I've been kicking ass, too!
By the way, way, way ... I sent the demo I recorded in 1990 to Rough Trade Records and got a nice letter back, offering encouragement and all that. They said I should keep going. So, uh ... I decided to quit music. 'Ha!' Yes, that's the perverse mindset I had in those days of my not so golden youth. Thank God I've been listening to the Vance/Musk audiobook lately! 'You're a changed man, man!' Fuckin' A I am, Voice! / I'd say Ophelia was the best of my early songs, but it's nowhere near what I'm doing now. All my old songs are on cassette. I've transferred some of them to my computer by the very crude method of placing a microphone in front of a cassette player. In theory, I could put them on the internet and let you hear them, dear reader(s), but I won't. 'Oh.' No, no. The past is best left in the past. Besides, I can't stand my vocals on those old recordings. Strangely, my singing is much improved now. I don't know why. 'Practice, boss.' Maybe, Voice. I must admit I was rather lazy in the old days. I thought rock stars became rock stars by just dreaming about it.
Oh, oh, oh, I'm reading Life on Tour with Bowie by Sean Mayes at the moment. It's nothing like the Vance/Musk book. 'Well, it wouldn't be, would it?' No, no. BUT(!) ... a rock star's life isn't that hard, really. As I've said before, it's nothing like building rockets and cars. NOTHING AT ALL!!! / I mean, with the songs I have now, with the mindset I have now ... at the age of twenty, if I could go back ... and then ... go forward again ... to, uh, this present moment, like, well ... I'd already be living in Malibu, a rock legend, man, surrounded by the Malibu Mafia. 'Who on earth are the Malibu Mafia?!' They're the bodyguards, "friends", and hangers-on that I keep firing and rehiring and giving Cadillacs to. They've all got deputy sheriffs badges, too. I feel so safe! 'Ha! Your imagination is something else, Mikey!' Tell me about it, my little invisible idiot!
Okay, okay. Later(s), crocodile(s)!
