If I could kill my compressor. That would be nice. Something with guitars picking along, then electric swells, a voice full of heart and comfort, could it be my voice? Music to make – melodic, thoughtful, all truth and honesty. For this to happen, self-correcting must die. Squeezing the tone out of life must also end. I need to let loose ideas, gorgeous ideas, ideas full of wonder and raw emotion.
I should scrap all the old songs that linger over my head like dead branches of my family tree, ghosts all collected in verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus-outro and yet, never, never do I write, it became a blurry little electronic quest that takes up time in learning over time in production, yet maybe! once I tackle technicalities. A raw sound will pour from my face like radio waves out of a satellite. ripple motion – dancing friends – simplify the artist statement – make music out of daily life noises – sing always like the birds in the trees – fight the critical mind – the over analytic mind that let the ridiculousness of Labyrinth dissolve in theoretics – the over analytic mind that masquerades as a perfectionist yet is intimidated by the act of creating something honest, from the soul, from the hilt, from the Berklee hills of far I-90 Boston, from the possible life paths diverted, now grown over by brick ways, by vines and ivy, by bachelor of arts degrees in creative writing and yet I can’t even write a coherent song.
It is because I keep trying to breathe life into old corpse ideas. the Frankenstein spark of creation is not there. maybe I shall cut them all up and send a new electricity (DAW) into them.