Do you have any comments or suggestions for young up and coming songwriters?
For starters, throw away the chord books and the notations for Stairway to Heaven. Stop listening to music, especially anything recorded. Don’t use tradition tunings. When you break a string, leave it off, detune, write a song with the guitar upside-down. Don’t write anything in 4/4 or 6/8. Record something on a 4-track and play it backwards. Try to learn it this way. Don’t use C or G or A or D chords. Find chords that make your hands hurt. Find out how far your hands can stretch on the fretboard. Make up your own language and sing in that language. Don’t use vibrato. Sing the whole song in your head voice, in your falsetto. You should never be completely comfortable. You should always feel a little weird.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Six Month Anniversary (Nocturne in Eb Major)
softest skin in the world
that i am touching
comes from Holland
fingers travel all over
unrestricted visas
over foreign countries
peaceful conquerors
equal dictators of passion
we sit on thrones to each other's
feelings about charged air
quick motions on flesh
little promises here and there
climbing hillsides and tumbling
down water slides of guiltless relief
slick my hair back and smoke
into the crisp night air that comes
into the windowless room, hovering
just above your body lit by
some ethereal light unaware of the sky
the sky is just an idea because it
it never gets away from you
after times like these it burns and struggles
i hope to tend it ever longer
each time you flash camera teeth, movie giggles
i went to the bank to take out
three dollars and i got
a giant collection of classical records
something to think about
to throw myself on and around
the cut of a delicate needle spins
the most beautiful song
that has not already been a cliche
octopuses in the fog take me back
to the landing strip and i pay them
with my own black blood i pay them back
for happy favors on thankful nights
that i am touching
comes from Holland
fingers travel all over
unrestricted visas
over foreign countries
peaceful conquerors
equal dictators of passion
we sit on thrones to each other's
feelings about charged air
quick motions on flesh
little promises here and there
climbing hillsides and tumbling
down water slides of guiltless relief
slick my hair back and smoke
into the crisp night air that comes
into the windowless room, hovering
just above your body lit by
some ethereal light unaware of the sky
the sky is just an idea because it
it never gets away from you
after times like these it burns and struggles
i hope to tend it ever longer
each time you flash camera teeth, movie giggles
i went to the bank to take out
three dollars and i got
a giant collection of classical records
something to think about
to throw myself on and around
the cut of a delicate needle spins
the most beautiful song
that has not already been a cliche
octopuses in the fog take me back
to the landing strip and i pay them
with my own black blood i pay them back
for happy favors on thankful nights
Black Swan
Time moves too fast for me to ever figure out what's going on
I crack the window slightly and watch a descending black swan
Swoop on by the loudest street in town, at the thirtieth floor
It is so swift and beautiful that my eyes never ask what it's there for
Turning back to my desk I remember to call my daughter again
But the telephone rings pre-emptively and the papers flood in
The desk is a mess of life and the choices I couldn't help but make
When the clock hits five I haven't called or remembered the birthday cake
My wife yells at me on the phone as I pull into our slim, cracked driveway
Like I need this now because I care, but it was murder on the highway
She says my daughter cried but I don't believe a word she says at all
I wonder, for two seconds, how our love escaped its resounding call
The sky darkens up with low, pressing clouds, pouring rain on this town
I, along with most people, cross off plans as the rain pours down
In one quick argument and some scattered rest the whole day is gone
As I pour a second glass of scotch, I see the window framing the black swan
I crack the window slightly and watch a descending black swan
Swoop on by the loudest street in town, at the thirtieth floor
It is so swift and beautiful that my eyes never ask what it's there for
Turning back to my desk I remember to call my daughter again
But the telephone rings pre-emptively and the papers flood in
The desk is a mess of life and the choices I couldn't help but make
When the clock hits five I haven't called or remembered the birthday cake
My wife yells at me on the phone as I pull into our slim, cracked driveway
Like I need this now because I care, but it was murder on the highway
She says my daughter cried but I don't believe a word she says at all
I wonder, for two seconds, how our love escaped its resounding call
The sky darkens up with low, pressing clouds, pouring rain on this town
I, along with most people, cross off plans as the rain pours down
In one quick argument and some scattered rest the whole day is gone
As I pour a second glass of scotch, I see the window framing the black swan
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Die Young, Die Kicking
I have very little control over everything I do
When I popped a couple pills it made me think of you
And the seven signs spun around, you are the devil
I want to come back, through the gates, into the revel
After all of that wishing I saw you in the next room
I could smell your heart cooking through the drunken doom
The world tilted on its axis and I fell toward your arms
Just a glance at the kitchen knife prevented all harm
When we went up the stairs I was not sober but dumb
So stupid that the clarity just made me very numb
When the bedposts rattled and fell right off of the bed
I ran out of the room and I didn't stop when I heard you hit your head
When I popped a couple pills it made me think of you
And the seven signs spun around, you are the devil
I want to come back, through the gates, into the revel
After all of that wishing I saw you in the next room
I could smell your heart cooking through the drunken doom
The world tilted on its axis and I fell toward your arms
Just a glance at the kitchen knife prevented all harm
When we went up the stairs I was not sober but dumb
So stupid that the clarity just made me very numb
When the bedposts rattled and fell right off of the bed
I ran out of the room and I didn't stop when I heard you hit your head
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms
“Now kill all the boys. And kill every woman who has slept with a man, but save for yourselves every girl who has never slept with a man.” Numbers 31:16-18
“Finally, brothers, good-by. Aim for perfection, listen to my appeal, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” II Corinthians 13:11
I step out of the shadow of the equipment barn and hear my father’s hurried footsteps approaching. The fields to the left of me that should be waving with tall, brown Illinois corn are filled with the angriest fire. The black smoke blows into me, my eyes and my mouth. The fire’s anger fills my father and he drags me toward the house. His strong arms are taught like wire and my feet make long muddy tracks as they drag in the damp earth. I protest, yelling and sobbing. We pass by the couple of idle tractors and swing wide around the main barn, also lit with a passionate blaze. After a slew of questions I devolve into a slur of unknown complaints and tears. My father doesn’t respond to even this basic language. Later he won’t be able to distinguish for us between what he remembers and what he doesn’t want to talk about.
The fire from the main barn prickles my skin and makes me flinch. We pass the barn as the giant triangle roof caves in and sparks fly everywhere. My father picks up his pace and whips me toward the house. The little playground he built for us reflects the fire off of its steel slide. It looks like it’s on fire too. I think of how much it would hurt to slide down a slide that was on fire. I flinch again. My father swings me wide and everything blurs. The wind whistles and I bang my elbow. The last thing I hear is a slam as the door of the white, sturdy Bonneville closes behind me.
I pull myself up on the worn, red seats and I look out of the back window at the house. My father goes to the screen door at the back and nearly rips it off of the hinges entering. I can see my mother shuffling in the kitchen. My sister is probably still upstairs in her room. They are all yelling but I can’t figure out what they are saying. The walls of the house and the window of the car muffle all of their words into loud ideas. I look over at the garage and wonder about my father’s Jaguar. I wonder when this will all be over and when he will take me out in it again. I’ve been trying to let my hair grow out so when we hit the fast country roads it whips around better. There is another loud slam and I swiftly turn to the back window.
I see my mother and father come out of the house with bursting suitcases. My sister is behind them and has a bag of her own. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning and she looks scared. Her left eye is purple and swollen. She walks so slowly and I think she could break at any time. My father looks back to yell something and she panics, tripping and falling to the ground. She hits the ground hard and stays down. I see my mother run to her and I hear my sister sobbing. I open the car door cautiously and my father closes it in my face just as authoritatively. He moves to the trunk and begins heaving suitcases in. I am forced to move to the car door window as the raised trunk whites out the back window. My father has picked up the suitcases my mother and sister dropped and is heaving them in back as well. My mother is carrying my sister the rest of the way to the car. My sister’s face is buried in my mother’s shoulder. A few of my friends said that pregnant girls go crazy. But, it seems all right to me. It seems okay to me that someone would go crazy from something like this.
My father slams the trunk down and my sister jumps in my mother’s arms. He quickly moves around them and holds the other back door open. My mother carefully lowers my sister in next to me. My mother then slowly closes the door as my father takes his position in the driver’s seat. My mother takes her seat next to him, shaking and smoothing her dress down. She grabs his shoulder while concentration and resolution shine grim from both of their eyes. I want to ask so many questions that I don’t. My sister is quiet now but she is still sobbing. I see my mother watching her in the mirrors. I want to pat my sister’s shoulder but I am too afraid. My father starts the car and its roar sounds louder than it ever has before, even louder than the days that we leave really late for church. The car slowly slides down the driveway and onto the country road where I like to ride my bike on Sunday afternoons.
My father looks everywhere as he turns the car onto the road. As we drive by our fields, completely filled with the untamed fire we all see someone. A man is heading towards our car and he is yelling. To me he looks like the devil and I am very scared. He is screaming a lot of insults, even ones that I don’t know, and most of them are at my sister. My father speeds up but it is clear that the man is going to cross our path. As he gets near the car I notice that he has a rock in his hand. My heart stops beating for a second. I focus so hard on the rock and where it’s going, the windshield of the car, that I don’t notice that the man is Larry Plummer’s father until right before the rock hits. My father swerves the car and it lurches as we tumble into a ditch. My head spins again and bounces off of the car window. There are too many colors at first and then everything goes black in a flood.
Earlier I was in the equipment barn, reading my father’s copy of The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms. My mother had sat me down in the kitchen and asked if I had any questions about my sister’s pregnancy. I had already heard about it all from the people at school so I didn’t have too much to ask. Larry Plummer’s brother said he would kick my teeth in. I asked my mother where my teeth would go if they got kicked in. She looked really upset. She told me not to worry too much. It sounded more like she was talking to herself. She told me that if I had any more questions I should use my Bible. But I didn’t like my Bible. It had too many people climbing mountains and skate boarding on the cover. I didn’t like the color pages. It made me feel too much like a little kid. I found my father’s old Christian Worker’s Bible in the equipment barn. First I just carried it around for a while. I messed with some of the spare dials sitting on the shelves and pushed around a roll of wire sitting out behind the barn. I tried to climb several shelves but got scared after the last one almost fell down on me and some of the boxes my father needed. I got upset though too, because I got scared so easy. So I sat down, frustrated, and tried to find something in the Bible to help me, just like my mother said.
I liked my father’s Bible because it had the entire Old Testaments cut out of it. I didn’t like how the stories sounded and they confused me. We hardly ever talked about anything else at Sunday School. Except we always did talk about Jesus at the end. It made no sense to me, how it all came together, so I liked it better just being separate. I read some verses in Psalms first, mostly just the ones that made me feel good when the house made noises at night and kept me awake. That’s how smart this Bible was, they knew to even keep the Psalms in when they kicked out the rest of the Old Testaments. Then I read some of Jesus’ words in red and that made me feel all right too. I looked around some for stuff on pregnant girls but I didn’t find too much that made me think of my sister. I did feel a lot better afterward though. I don’t know why anyone would bother with the Old Testaments when they’re so confusing and depressing. I set the Christian Worker’s Bible down on a table, leaving to talk to my mother some more and see when my father wanted to take a ride into town. I walked toward warmth that is uncharacteristic for the morning.
“Finally, brothers, good-by. Aim for perfection, listen to my appeal, be of one mind, live in peace. And the God of love and peace will be with you.” II Corinthians 13:11
I step out of the shadow of the equipment barn and hear my father’s hurried footsteps approaching. The fields to the left of me that should be waving with tall, brown Illinois corn are filled with the angriest fire. The black smoke blows into me, my eyes and my mouth. The fire’s anger fills my father and he drags me toward the house. His strong arms are taught like wire and my feet make long muddy tracks as they drag in the damp earth. I protest, yelling and sobbing. We pass by the couple of idle tractors and swing wide around the main barn, also lit with a passionate blaze. After a slew of questions I devolve into a slur of unknown complaints and tears. My father doesn’t respond to even this basic language. Later he won’t be able to distinguish for us between what he remembers and what he doesn’t want to talk about.
The fire from the main barn prickles my skin and makes me flinch. We pass the barn as the giant triangle roof caves in and sparks fly everywhere. My father picks up his pace and whips me toward the house. The little playground he built for us reflects the fire off of its steel slide. It looks like it’s on fire too. I think of how much it would hurt to slide down a slide that was on fire. I flinch again. My father swings me wide and everything blurs. The wind whistles and I bang my elbow. The last thing I hear is a slam as the door of the white, sturdy Bonneville closes behind me.
I pull myself up on the worn, red seats and I look out of the back window at the house. My father goes to the screen door at the back and nearly rips it off of the hinges entering. I can see my mother shuffling in the kitchen. My sister is probably still upstairs in her room. They are all yelling but I can’t figure out what they are saying. The walls of the house and the window of the car muffle all of their words into loud ideas. I look over at the garage and wonder about my father’s Jaguar. I wonder when this will all be over and when he will take me out in it again. I’ve been trying to let my hair grow out so when we hit the fast country roads it whips around better. There is another loud slam and I swiftly turn to the back window.
I see my mother and father come out of the house with bursting suitcases. My sister is behind them and has a bag of her own. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning and she looks scared. Her left eye is purple and swollen. She walks so slowly and I think she could break at any time. My father looks back to yell something and she panics, tripping and falling to the ground. She hits the ground hard and stays down. I see my mother run to her and I hear my sister sobbing. I open the car door cautiously and my father closes it in my face just as authoritatively. He moves to the trunk and begins heaving suitcases in. I am forced to move to the car door window as the raised trunk whites out the back window. My father has picked up the suitcases my mother and sister dropped and is heaving them in back as well. My mother is carrying my sister the rest of the way to the car. My sister’s face is buried in my mother’s shoulder. A few of my friends said that pregnant girls go crazy. But, it seems all right to me. It seems okay to me that someone would go crazy from something like this.
My father slams the trunk down and my sister jumps in my mother’s arms. He quickly moves around them and holds the other back door open. My mother carefully lowers my sister in next to me. My mother then slowly closes the door as my father takes his position in the driver’s seat. My mother takes her seat next to him, shaking and smoothing her dress down. She grabs his shoulder while concentration and resolution shine grim from both of their eyes. I want to ask so many questions that I don’t. My sister is quiet now but she is still sobbing. I see my mother watching her in the mirrors. I want to pat my sister’s shoulder but I am too afraid. My father starts the car and its roar sounds louder than it ever has before, even louder than the days that we leave really late for church. The car slowly slides down the driveway and onto the country road where I like to ride my bike on Sunday afternoons.
My father looks everywhere as he turns the car onto the road. As we drive by our fields, completely filled with the untamed fire we all see someone. A man is heading towards our car and he is yelling. To me he looks like the devil and I am very scared. He is screaming a lot of insults, even ones that I don’t know, and most of them are at my sister. My father speeds up but it is clear that the man is going to cross our path. As he gets near the car I notice that he has a rock in his hand. My heart stops beating for a second. I focus so hard on the rock and where it’s going, the windshield of the car, that I don’t notice that the man is Larry Plummer’s father until right before the rock hits. My father swerves the car and it lurches as we tumble into a ditch. My head spins again and bounces off of the car window. There are too many colors at first and then everything goes black in a flood.
Earlier I was in the equipment barn, reading my father’s copy of The Christian Worker’s New Testament and Psalms. My mother had sat me down in the kitchen and asked if I had any questions about my sister’s pregnancy. I had already heard about it all from the people at school so I didn’t have too much to ask. Larry Plummer’s brother said he would kick my teeth in. I asked my mother where my teeth would go if they got kicked in. She looked really upset. She told me not to worry too much. It sounded more like she was talking to herself. She told me that if I had any more questions I should use my Bible. But I didn’t like my Bible. It had too many people climbing mountains and skate boarding on the cover. I didn’t like the color pages. It made me feel too much like a little kid. I found my father’s old Christian Worker’s Bible in the equipment barn. First I just carried it around for a while. I messed with some of the spare dials sitting on the shelves and pushed around a roll of wire sitting out behind the barn. I tried to climb several shelves but got scared after the last one almost fell down on me and some of the boxes my father needed. I got upset though too, because I got scared so easy. So I sat down, frustrated, and tried to find something in the Bible to help me, just like my mother said.
I liked my father’s Bible because it had the entire Old Testaments cut out of it. I didn’t like how the stories sounded and they confused me. We hardly ever talked about anything else at Sunday School. Except we always did talk about Jesus at the end. It made no sense to me, how it all came together, so I liked it better just being separate. I read some verses in Psalms first, mostly just the ones that made me feel good when the house made noises at night and kept me awake. That’s how smart this Bible was, they knew to even keep the Psalms in when they kicked out the rest of the Old Testaments. Then I read some of Jesus’ words in red and that made me feel all right too. I looked around some for stuff on pregnant girls but I didn’t find too much that made me think of my sister. I did feel a lot better afterward though. I don’t know why anyone would bother with the Old Testaments when they’re so confusing and depressing. I set the Christian Worker’s Bible down on a table, leaving to talk to my mother some more and see when my father wanted to take a ride into town. I walked toward warmth that is uncharacteristic for the morning.
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