Sunday, May 29, 2011


"//...Oh, my mother I have tried to be your joy and pride; but failure comes naturally to me//"

I wrapped up recording last night. I guess, technically, it was 5:30 something this morning. Nothing really grabbed me until I recorded a one take track of a song I'd written only a few hours prior and it made everything else sound like an inferior waste of time. I write constantly, but every now and again there's one song that just comes out exactly as it needs to be and captures something other songs don't; that's what happened with The Waiting. It's raw, dark and somehow hauntingly beautiful. Maybe it's the weeping cello line. I couldn't be happier with the little sad song. Thank you Soundwire Records for making it possible. I'm floored by how well the whole album carries with only a tambourine, clapping and stomping as the sole means of percussion. You don't even really notice that there aren't any drums at all. Well, not until I point it out and ruin everything anyway. Now it'll sound weird. People always comment on "My Look" here in Nashville. I guess I look different. I just never realized how much I stood out until was the only guy in town who didn't look like an effeminate cowboy or a Taylor Swift baby doll. They always say I look like a rock n roll Johnny Cash. I can live with that. In fact, I'll take that baby and run with it like a kidnapping, sprinting fiend. I had a guy who takes pictures on the street in an Elvis suit for a living ask to take a picture with me...true fact. He actually gave me a dollar and told me if I couldn't make it with "my look" and sound than nobody could. I think he's my new best friend. Or at least the guy I'll call for a confidence booster. I always try to stick out whenever I play and I guess the fact that I've been playing out nearly every night means I end up standing out a lot more often than usual. Going backwards a bit, I've listened to the rough mix of The Waiting 837,000 times and can't get over it. I feel like a pompous, self-absorbed jerk listening to my own song that much. Speaking of arrogance, I get a small twisted sense of pleasure whenever cocky people get the runs or are deathly ill. It makes me want to ask them how it feels to be down here with the rest of us. I don't think anyone can be arrogant with diarrhea. Well, maybe Glenn Beck. It kind of happened on accident while playing on the street a few nights ago, but after breaking every D and G string (don't laugh), I ended up putting on whatever gauges I had left over to finish the night and ended up with my guitar strung in common tuning but with E/A/A/B/B/B strings. I'm not really sure why, but the uncommon tone I got out of it sounded so unique that I ended up restringing my guitar that way when I recorded last night. I'm pretty sure that satan is a cicada. One got in my housetruck last night and the end result was nearly suicide. They're hideous and hideously loud. I think the only thing that would be worse would be tiny dragon unicorns with poisonous horns who could break through windows and sting you in your sleep with their toxic poison that makes your flesh decay, limbs rot off and leaves you convinced that you're a pirate with laser vision named Davis. That might be worse. Or Muskrats. Muskrats are definitely worse. A flying Muskrat would make me cry...

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