Rick Springfield . . . really?

in catching up on my gossip mags, the ones strategically placed around my mother-in-law's house, I came across this interesting piece of news.

Apparently, Rick Springfield is releasing an album inspired by his sons.

Apparently, Rick Springfield and I are walking parallel paths.

my initial thought was "oh crap" I'm totally going be treading water in Rick Springfield's backwash.

However, where maybe tens of hundreds of middle aged soap opera fans may flock to best buy for Rick's album, I'll probably be lucky if I can convince my mom to download it on iTunes instead of having me burn her a CD.

But after my initial reaction, I got to thinking about similar lines of thought among artists.

Writing about one's children isn't exactly new. I'm sure if you think about it you could come up with a pretty decent top ten list of songs that are directly or indirectly about our little youngins and how they affect our lives. It's a deep well to dig around in.

But there are rules.

This about isn't about my son.
It's about his perspective. It's the raw emotion that he deals with everyday in order to navigate his way around the universe. It's his autobiography. As told by a ghost writer. who happens to be his dad. who happens to like changing things.

It can't be sappy.
Oh sure, Im gonna use sappy language from time to time, and I may even have to get a little sentimental, but this ain't the cats in cradle. I'm just sentimental sometimes.

It has to be fun to play.
The melodies have to soar. I have totally given up on trying to be cool with this one. frankly anyone who knows me, knows I wasn't cool, i'm not cool now, and the coolness forecast looks dismal. So if it's not cool, it has to be fun.

That's pretty much it for the rules.

They're good rules.

but I've found lately that I'm defending my idea to myself over and over. It's as if I'm atually a frightened about how this will all turn out.

Which is true. I am really uncomfortably with this whole idea. And all the people around me think it sounds interesting.

Interesting . . . not in the captivated audience kind of interest . . . but the "My first reaction is negative, but I'm gonna say something noncommital, just in case it's awesome or an absolute disaster."

Even if I'll never be cool, I guess I'm cool with that.

Just like Rick Springfield. Whose coolness factor is directly related to one's sense of ironic humor.

He did use the word "moot" once in a song.

That's pretty cool.

its a start

so I tried the new song out on my wife.

and she liked it.

the best part is calvin stopped his video game addiction and came over to me and put his hands on my knee the way he used to when I played.

It's funny that the first line of the chorus came directly from something that calvin had said that bruised my tender little heart.

but it requires a little splainin.

Way back in summer of aught 8 (2008 for those of you that don't get the aught joke.), Calvin was my music buddy. Each night after dinner, while my wife diligently did the dishes, I would grab my guitar and begin to play. Calvin, being my music buddy, would grab his ukeleli, a green pick and would thrash along with me. He would pick the songs and we would spend the next half hour playing. When the dishes were done and I was out of breath, we would call "break time."

"Two more songs and then break time" I would say.

"No daddy. THREE more songs and then break time." he would say holding up four fingers.

"How about TWO more and then break time?" I would say holding up six fingers.

"No daddy. THREE more songs and then break time." he would reply holding up five fingers.

"Okay . . . two more songs then."

"No daddy. Three." he would whisper in exasperation.

He wasn't quite three years old.

In the following six months we would play whenever I wasn't exhausted. My wife got sick and required a little more of my care. Our diets and exercise routines fell by the wayside. I got a little fatter, a little more out of shape, a little depressed, and a little less inclined to play. Calvin discovered cars and toys that weren't musical instruments. He discovered "WALL E" and the Wii.

And then one day it just happened.

I picked up my guitar from its dusty corner and began to play.

Seeing that he wasn't insterested, I began to play something faster with a little more volume. He paused his video game and walked over to me.

"Daddy, don't play so loud." he said

"Okay."

And that was that. I just had to except the fact that he had other things going on in his life. We hadn't played since. I would just hide in the garage to write and practice so as not to disturb his game play.

That, not incidently, is the first line of the chrous:

Don't play too loud, don't stand so close,
I need more light than you're shadow can provide.

But last night, as I played the new song for my wife, he stopped and listened.

Its a start.

and so it continues

everything about the first album went wrong.

my god, how everything went wrong.

from the moment I turned on the mic nothing but epic greek tragedies awaited me.

and it still continues.

this afternoon when I got home there was a message waiting from me from the printing company. apparently the proofs for the back panel were going to clip half the text.

I used their templates. I colored in the lines. and yet I still couldn't get it right.

but this is not the worst. this was an easy fix. until I tried to upload the new template. then the software I was using didn't recognize my file.

So I tried to email the pdf instead.

too big to email.

I created a new file.

ten minutes later . . . . upload complete.

However, what should have taken all of 30 seconds, blew half of my afternoon. I might have started a new workout routine. Guess that'll have to wait.

But again, this is not the worst little catastrophe. The worst happened when the teenager uploaded a virus on my computer that totally dismantled the recording program that organizes all of the instrument tracks. I spent months piecing together all of the recorded instruments one track at a time, rerecording lost files, scrapping great takes.

It was like trying to put together all the ikea furnature in the house without instructions or an allen wrench.

The whole album still smells of wood glue and duct tape.

As I got closer to the end, I gave up any level of artistic integrity and just started throwing paint on the wall. like jackson pollack, or a monkey.

Spinal Tap stopped being funny.

But I did it. I'm better for it. This time I won't make the same mistakes, won't be as beaten down by the set-backs.

Someday, I may even forgive the teenager.

Someday.

Change Lurks

So this new song, the one I'm currently writing, has been haunting me for almost three weeks now. As I said before, I had nothing but the first stanza.

From that one stanza, I must have written about ten choruses.

Ten is too many.

between the cigarettes and bottles of wine, I should have given up.

but then the twelve string happened and new life was breathed into the dead horse.

But that was last week.

I wanted to write something funky, something with cool little key changes. But everytime I found myself dancing around the circle of fifths, I kept running into a perfectly sub-cool flowing pop line.

Today I decided not to fight it.

Throw out the circle of fifths and dive into the easy rock and roll one four five minor sixth. Or in this case, one, minor sixth, four, minor second, five.

Yeah, I added the minor second just to keep my street cred as an indie unknown.

Awesome.

Another change happened as well.

This was going to be a song about how my son has given up playing his guitar. And how much that broke my heart. And how much I know that I can't really foist my dreams upon him (as much as I wanted to)

But then I realized I wasn't writing about me and my son.

I was writing about me and my dad.

Wierd.

Years ago, when I began writing songs in earnest, my father went out of his way to get me some studio time. We recorded some demos, had a really great time and then I was done. He had much bigger dreams

Dad still tells this tale to his friends. He was crestfallen and didn't know what to do next. But like a good dad, he just let me go on and try other things.

So now the song has an unbeleivable amount of dimension. Its written from the point of view of my son, even though its about me and my dad.

I did however have to abandon the really cool key changes.

And possibly my unknown indie artist cred.

Wait.

I didn't have any of that to begin with.

12 is a magic number

It is. Twelve is a magic number.

Oh I know what you're thinking.

Three . . . It's three that's the magic number!

But you're so incredibly wrong.

you're incredibly wrong by one fourth.

You're wrong by one half squared.

Okay enough of the math jokes.

Twelve is the magic number not only for its math joke capability, but it is also the number of strings on one of my guitars.

Why is that magic? you ask. Well, a few days ago I wrote about how I was torturing myself trying to create a song around a single stanza that I couldn't get out of my head.

"Only hope draws a solid line. I can see why you would need to dance for better days"

Man, it just says so much that I wanted to say in the next piece I write. But it's self contained. It is it's own beginning middle and end.

But so far its like a really great line out of a really bad movie. I have nowhere to go. So I took up the usual haunts.

First I sat in the living room where all the noise of the household was around me and tried to pluck my way through. That just made me tense. Then I waited until the house fell asleep and snuck into the quiet of the garage to test my skills. Nothing, and its cold in the garage. then I tried that usual failsafe of waiting till the household goes to bed and opening up a bottle ot scotch and just keep sipping off the highball until an idea comes or I pass out. (This is of course my favorite method, but my wife won't touch me for three days because she insists that I still smell of sweat and alchohol.) And then there's the last method.

I change instruments.

This method I came by naturally, cause I don't play any instrument particularly well, and I discovered that it was also a favorite of almost all the songwriters I admire most.

Changing instruments enlivens. It changes the phrasing and the voice. When banging on an unfamiliar instrument, suddenly all the world is possible, and any rut that I may have carved into my mind is filled with new sounds and ideas.

when I write, I almost always start with my six string. If and when that fails, I'll make a leap over to the piano. (I don't play piano past the first three chapters of a beginners manual, but the mistakes I make usually lead me to find a different direction.)

Sometimes I'll move to the bass guitar, but I have no rhythym and its doesn't last long before I go to something else. maybe the cello? Maybe the ukelele? Maybe my dad's ovation. Nope wait. He took that back.

But today. while calvin slept, i took out my old beat up twelve string and tried the phrase once agian.

and there it was.

the bright twangy sound exploded and a song was begun.

twelve.

its magic.

Learn to like it

I haven't written because I've been writing.

Since this is a blog about the song writing process, I'm sure you get the point.

This new one is a challenge. It's slow tempo, and back to my 6/8 roots. Kind of a waltz but not quite.

the reason it's such a challenge is because the only thing I like about it so far is the first stanza.

"Only hope draws a solid line. I can see why you would need to dance for better days"

Evertime I try to write past that line I run into a brick wall, with teeth, and claws. I let myself off the hook for an hour or two so I can plunge through the rest and then I walk or stumble off to bed.

"Its good" I tell myself. "It will still be good in the morning"

but it never is.

only the first stanza I keep.

this is why songwriters are supposed to start at the chorus. their supposed to pick a topic before they begin writing so that the rest can be filler. but no. I have to go and blow my whole wad at the first two lines.

then inhibition starts kicking in. I stop to rewrite each word. each phrase. I try on new melody lines and change keys. This is long before I've even got to the important part of the song, which should be the chorus. I feel like a girl in front of the mirror on prom night.

Well, maybe you'll be glad to know that I'm half way through.

I found a chorus and I'm sticking to it. I guess I'll learn to like it. Who knows.

Maybe I'll just throw the stupid thing out and begin again tomorrow.

Happy Monday Everyone.

Concept (Part I) Where I Went Wrong

About eight years ago I was pounding on my piano trying to compose a bridge for a new song. I pounded and pounded, but nothing sounded right. Furious that my parents had never made me take piano lessons, I stepped away from the upright and pulled my twelve string out of its dusty case. The strings were rusty and it was desperately out of tune but I strummed anyway.

Then, out of no where, there it was.

The perfect bridge.

I scratched the lyrics out on my yellow pad, took a single moment to enjoy the moment, and then raced into my little studio garage to begin recording.

The song was upbeat, the drums a steady rock tempo, even the out of tune twelve string sounded more alive than ever when doubled. I sang out the vocals with all the heart my diaphram could muster and then put the finishing touches, three part harmony and a doubled vocal on the chorus. It wasn't with the technological saavy garage bands have now, but it was clean, honest, and simple.

It was a perfect demo to send out into the world. So I went to bed.

In the groggy early morning light, I burned up a CD of the new tune and headed to work. I played the tune in my car over and over. Listening for technical glitches, of course.

As I pulled into the parking lot of my coffee shop, the bridge came on. At first I didn't catch it, but as I pulled to a stop, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

The apex of my perfect bridge happened to also be the chorus of Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It."

This is songwriting death.

In the intervening years I have returned to the tune to rewrite the bridge hundreds of times, only to be thwarted by the image of Dee Snyder in glam-rock make-up tellin me to give it up.

The title of the song is "Where I went wrong"

I may possibly be rewriting it for the rest of my life.

The moral of this story, and why it relates to the concept of the new album is that sometimes an idea will come out of nowhere, sound brilliant on the first few passes, and then turn into and absolute disaster later on down the road.

And I'm totally cool with that.

Catch it to Me (Part III) Of Big Blue Balls

Now of course it occured to me right away that using a phrase like "Catch it to me" is dangerously close to the kitchy taboo I've imposed on this project.

It's too cute. It's exactly the kind of silly rubbish that I want to try to avoid at all costs.

And there's absolutely no way of explaining the line without explaining who said it and why.

So how do I get away with it? How do I make it into something unfluffy? How do I darken it up a bit?

Well it just so happened, dot dot dot.

A few months later, my wife and I were at it again, ("talking" I mean) and Calvin had discovered this huge blue excercise ball that was purchased during my wife's pregnancy, used once, deflated and left in the garage for future generations.

To a little boy, this was the coolest thing ever. And while my wife and I were talking, he invented a new game.

A dangerous new game.

He would put the ball in the middle of the lawn and run at it at full speed. Just as he reached the ball he would jump into the air, bounce off the top of it, and roll head first into the ground.

I laughed. My wife screamed.

To her this was a recipe for a broken neck.

He could die!
He's not gonna die
Make him stop!
I don't wanna.
Please . . .
Fine.

So then I invented a much less interesting game where we would roll the ball back and forth between us. This new game lasted exactly thirty seconds after my wife went back inside. Then the game got down right brutal.

First, I would throw the ball high into the air and it would come crashing down, throwing his thin little frame several feet away. We laughed.

Then he would back up to the edge of the grass and run straight towards the ball as I hurled it forward like a pro-bowler. He would jump again just as the ball reached him, but this time it would throw him high into the air into a crazy spin before crashing back down to the earth. Boy did we laugh.

Of course my wife caught a little bit of this through the kitchen window and wasn't happy about it. She made us stop.

But the minute she turned around to head back into the house, Calvin ran to me, got up on his tippy toes and whispered.

ready daddy, catch it to me.

Now instead of being a cute little derivation from the english language, catch it to me became this dirty little secret.

I started hearing perfect alliterations
"Big Blue Bouncing"
"Pleases in Playing"
"Little Lies Linger"

Catch it to me became a bond of love, danger, and secrets.

Thats a song.