baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Folding Up My ear is seeing the oddest things. When I hear music that's free from the trappings of language-my sense of interpretation flows in a million beautiful directions. There are no words to light the way. No verbs to call out action, no adjectives to describe pain or delight or sadness or ecstasy-just a murky succession of notes that point in a million wondrous avenues of interpretation. When words enter the sonic landscape-I feel as if the interpretation is laid out before you: as if the words have taken you by the hand and led you to the secret spot where all secrets are bare. "Here's my heart," the lyrics say, "Right here on top, beside, underneath and between these verses, choruses and bridges. Come take a stab at vulnerability." In many ways, despite my love of writing and words, lyrics are painful to me. I have found that I expose too much in my writing-and, we all know what happens when things get a little too honest. Someone sees something which may or may not have been in the song and feelings get hurt. Who is this song about? Is this me? Is this you? Is this him? Is this her? I'm tired of these questions. I'm sick of them. And so, I suppose, the change was most likely inevitable. In my recent attempts at marrying melody and language, I've moved away from writing anything, but the most painless and lighthearted of lyrics. I'm tired of blatantly spilling my guts whenever I play a song. Secrets spill out in my music because the notes I play and the songs I write act as a funnel for my fears, strengths, foibles and pride; secrets that may have been too easily read between the rhyming lines and regular meter of the *verse, pre-chorus, chorus, bridge, ride out* constraints of the pop song. So, I suppose, I started hearing instrumentals to give myself back some of the distance I've lost over the years of writing song upon confessional song. Instrumentals, I have discovered, aren't quite as open with their intentions. Off course-some of these three to four minute lyrical confessionals are still out there. I play them all the time. I'll play some tomorrow night when I make the trek to the City of Angels to perform in yet another dark, romantic, noisy club in front of the mostly disapproving stares of other musicians and friends of other musicians. This is fine. These are old works. Sufficiently disguised by lies and the miracle of time. The new stuff-the new creations-these are the open books-the open diary of secrets that defy interpretation solely because I've excluded one simple thing. The lyrics. 10:01 p.m. - 2001-04-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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