I dream of music. I really do. I don’t dream of big performances, more or less. I dream of songs and musical textures and, if what was in my dreams could reach directly into your head, you would, too. I’d like to pretend that my musical thoughts are so beautiful, so spectacular, that few could resist them and even those who could would recognize the quality in that music they unwisely rejected. In truth, I do have really good musical thoughts, probably not as good as hoped, but good enough. So far, those thoughts have escaped only in commentary on other music or, in high school, in actual vocal performances, solo, group and/or choir.
Despite my confidence, I’ve written and shared very little of my own music with the world. Sure, a few have heard my ideas, some of them good, all of them half-baked (non-pharmaceutically). My favorite of all time came from a high school session with Rob Ashby where he and I wrote and recorded “The Inhuman Song” whose lyrics I now share for the first time ever:
They were barking at the front door
That’s what you get when you sleep on the floor
I said go to hell
All they could say was oh well
They were the inhumans
Aaah. Aaah. Aaah. Aaah. Fuck it!
I don’t remember the second verse, but it was at least as good as the first. We made exactly two copies of this now-classic song, one for each of us. You, of course, have never heard it.
Some day, you may hear something musical from me, albeit without Rob Ashby’s talent. Just yesterday or the day before that (or some day that is not today), I received some long-needed software to record my “compositions” so that they might be shared with the world, raved at/bout, or maybe just shared. I’d had some decent software that came with my recording interface (the thing that connects microphones to your computer USB port), but that, fortunately, crashed permanently. Why fortunately? Because, for the short time while it worked, I had no excuse to not record … beyond fear. When it crashed, fear was no longer relevant. It’s relevant again. After installing the software, I started it up and stared, slack-jawed. What now? Now I have to do it. And so I shall … when I’m sure I’ve exhausted all excuses. I’m pretty sure there are no excuses, but not totally sure. Totally sure will come … you know … soon enough. And on that glorious day, I will have something to share that will be at least 100% better than “The Inhuman Song”. I promise.