Last night, I read something. It was something written by some musician about love and people and being kind and doing nice shit. We’re all in the this thing together, he said, we all go through the same shit. He’s right.
So then I had a hankering for music and I began to look. There are two frogs living outside in the garden, in discarded buckets full of okra weeds and rain water. They sing at night, looking for love, just like we do. We write words looking for something, we sing songs looking for something. They were soundtracking the hunt.
It’s a stretch to explain but by the grace of a couple of evening beers and a pair of headphones, all of this I became acutely aware of while I perused and hungrily looked for something to sate my thirst, something in the form of notes played on an instrument. And there was nothing, it seemed. Nothing.
When I first started writing here — back before, when I wrote in too many run-on sentences as opposed to too many fucking paragraphs — I found the music. No one gave it to me. It was out there, I knew it, and so I traipsed off in the early morning hours or after my son was put down for bed and sometimes I stayed up too late and the next morning called for more coffee. But that was okay then. Then.
Today, mornings are spent waking up to whatever has been sent to my inbox. There, amidst emails from friends and periodicals from record label mailing lists are songs and now, after I’ve been at this for over a year, I wait for it there. I wait for the water I need in something that is tiny enough to be relegated to a word upended by something obviously small: box. Goddamn inbox. I don’t look for it. I sit on a vintage couch in the dark and the within this tiny box I hope with all my hope, something great will come. Year(s) ago, no one sent me shit and everything was new. Now I feel like maybe I’ve heard everything and there is nothing else to be found. How fucking cynical.
I’ve got to stop that/this. I wait for it to come to me and then I turn around and bitch that people listen to what is spoonfed to them and look at how I’m becoming a hypocrite. I pine for new submissions and then I complain that (nearly) everything that originates in that tiny online box is shite.
I’m busy, yeah. There are soccer games (PLURAL) every week and practice. There is reading to be done and there are baths to give and dinners to cook. There is love to give and it all takes time. But there is always time for music and perhaps if I didn’t take it so seriously, perhaps if I could learn to be just a little more passive about listening and not so involved, this will all happen as it should and as it used to.
This is a seriously fucking real rant for such an early Thursday morning. Shit. But the point is I am not waiting anymore.
So, 6am Repeat. I spent hours (dudes, SERIOUSLY) last night perusing bandcamp, my former go-to for the goods, and it seems to be populated by the crowd that auditions for American Idol but there’s still decency in those pages. It took a bit before I stumbled upon Roadkill Ghost Choir and in the end, because of that all those hours were worth eating Frito Pies for dinner so I could accommodate this endeavor with time. In other news, I probably could have explained this music-based crisis in fewer than 600 words. Fuck it, brevity is not my strong point. And apologies to such a stellar band for dragging them into this. But in the end thanks to them too for pulling me out of it.
Roadkill Ghost Choir :: In The Lion’s Mouth [mp3]
Roadkill Ghost Choir