Category Archives for
Soundtrack of My Mind
This is [Part II of] an Open Letter.
To: Eddie Vedder, Jay Farrar, Tom Waits, Gillian Welch & Dave Rawlings, Dan Bern, David Byrne, Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova, Colm Mac Con Iomaire, Rob Bochnik, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Levon Helm, Mic Christopher, Mark Geary, Ezra Caldwell, Sam Amidon, Jolie Holland, Win Butler, Mike Cooley, Lisa Hannigan, Joe Henry, JohnSmithJohnSmith
Cc: Eddie Watson, Ben Gunsberg, Ryan Reardon, Rob Robertson, Jason Slatton
Bcc: K–, T–
Re: Finding One’s Voice
Part I of this open letter is where I tell about how I can’t play guitar but want to, have always wanted to. Also it is where I display my inability to play guitar (…plus also I sing. A, like, song. I, like, wrote. Or whatever…) to the world. Via YouTube. As some sort of hair shirt. Or something. For an unrequited love. (Lord. What a perfectly beautiful lady…) Etc.
Seriously, though. It’s quite a spectacle.
Click here to check it out. I’ll wait…
So without further ado, let’s proceed to Part II:
So is a muse where some preternaturally beautiful lady sings a preternaturally beautiful song — and makes a video of it with the help of some fella called “Myles” — and it makes your eyes go like Mowgli in The Jungle Book when that crazy snake (Kaa?) works its magic on him and his eyes go all googly? Oh. Okay. Just checking. (Thank god I’m not Damien Rice. Because then I’d be Damien Rice and I’d have to watch this. [And this.] Jay-sis.)
And this bird you cannot change.
My Anonymous Sister says she doesn’t like “Freebird.” Which is maybe why she’s anonymous. (Alas: no word as to why I’m anonymous, as far as that goes. Hmm.)
Those kinda things don’t happen no more nowadays.
I so love the Mic Christopher.
I am sorry that the Mic Christopher is now a ghost.
Wait: no I’m not. I so LOVE ghosts.
(I am [very] sorry that the Mic Christopher isn’t alive anymore, but that’s a totally different thing, it seems to me.)
…and Christmastime coming…
O she wouldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no.
All she’d do is just sit and sew.
(But, I mean, she’s a puppet. What did you expect? Everybody knows puppets get laconic sometimes. That’s how they roll. That plus herky-jerky arm motions = puppet de rigueur. At least this one doesn’t blink. Probably goes without saying, but you get a tight-lipped, herky-jerky puppet¹ that just blinks at you, that’s a bad scene.)
¹ Oddly enough, I originally typed poet for puppet in this sentence. (They kind of rhyme, I guess?) Notably, the assertion applies in both cases. In fact, the poet version (tight-lipped, herky-jerky, blinking) is slightly more disconcerting. Or so I’m told.
…and I wished I played in a rock-and-roll band.
(But you knew that already.)
1971. Exactly the way it sounded.
(or: How many Harry Nilssons does it take to…)