God it’s gloomy out, isn’t it. Let’s see now though, I’ve got the afternoon, might as well make something of it. No rehearsal due to Ken’s daughter’s graduation from preschool or whatever the fuck it is. Drummers. You’d think I wasn’t paying him…well whatever I’m paying him anyway. Ah well. I’ve got the afternoon, so might as well make the best of it.
I want to do something productive, so let’s rule out absolutely any weed smoking at all, since that puts the whole affair right into the bin just as often as not. I should write a new song. Maybe I’ll watch some Youtubes first, just to get the old creative juices flowing, as it were. Maybe there’s something there, perhaps I’ll call it “Creative Juices”. Bit ribald though, that. I fancy that a bit as well. All right, we’ve got a tentative title.
Last time I watched Youtubes in a search for inspiration, though, I ended up down some dark hole of teenagers mispronouncing the names of Pokemons - whatever those are - on purpose. What if I end up with a song about Pokemon? How am I going to square that with the back catalog of Sir Paul McCartney? In the old days we used to fuck about with silly shit like that, though, didn’t we? I mean look at fucking Yellow Submarine, for God’s sake, what a load of utter nonsense. How would it look a 76 year old man producing material about children’s cartoons, though…bit pedo.
All right well let’s leave the Youtube alone for now. I should just sit down with a guitar and hammer something out. I used to write my tunes in 20 minutes, for God’s sake, well at least early on I did. Yes, I’ll get a guitar and just, the first thing that comes to mind, let’s have it, that’ll be the tune.
Which guitar should I choose, is the question. It’s about a 35 minute walk over the guitar room as it is, downstairs through the second foyer and beyond the observatory, and then once I get there I’ve got to select one from the 27 guitars in the room, and tune it up and so forth. We’re looking at a 45-minute proposition before note one. I supposed I could text Miranda to fetch me a guitar, oh wait today’s Tuesday, she doesn’t come in until 5pm today. Jerry’s on duty in the kitchen, it’s Thursday. Bloody fucking Jerry, I can’t stand him. Well that’s out.
It’s 1pm. What I really want is a glass of wine and a nap, but I know if I head down that road then the day’s wasted. I need to produce something between now and 4, then I can catch an hour’s nap and have time to get ready for dinner. That reminds me, I have to see what I have to wear for this evening. I don’t even remember where we’re going.
This turtleneck I’m wearing cost $328. It’s not by far the most expensive turtleneck I own. I only know the price because I was featured in an article wearing it, where the accompanying photos listed the garments I was wearing and their concordant price tags. Said my jacket in the one photo cost six grand. Imagine that, six grand for a jacket. What would dear old dad say about that.
This couch I’m sat on cost $56,000. I could set fire to it right now, piss on it, completely tear it asunder, have an identical one right here to replace it by 9am tomorrow morning.
Ah, a text message! It’s my grandson. Stephen. Quite a shame they elected to go with the PH spelling, reads as a bit German, doesn’t it. I far prefer Steven with a V. He’s got such an oblong-shaped head, hasn’t he, I wonder if he catches hell for it from the other boys in school. Come to think of it, he’s homeschooled. By that exorbitantly expensive Alsatian fellow. Always feel a bit odd when I describe someone as Alsatian, feels I’m reducing them to the status of a canine.
Stephen’s sent me a link. My business manager told me not to click on links, generally, as that’s what ended up fouling up my bank password and disbursing a dreadful amount of money directly to a fascistic terrorist cell operating out of the Azores. Bloody awful, that.
The link says “Lil’ Yachty”. As I’m not completely out of touch, I know that that’s most likely a rapper, although I didn’t realize that rappers have much of an affinity for yachts. I never cease to be amazed.
I Never Cease To Be Amazed, now there’s a decent lyric. A bit close to Maybe I’m Amazed, though, that. That tune sounded halfway decent in rehearsal yesterday, even though I can’t hit the Little Richard scream on “Ever have me” anymore, haven’t been able to in a while. I hate putting those extreme vocal takes into recordings, really I do, all it does it set myself up for 150 shows worth of sore throats over the ensuing tour cycle. Then I always have to modify the part, and face all the internal criticism - am I washed up, can I do it like I used to, am I no good anymore.
That piano run in the breaks on that song has far too many notes in it. How did I decide to write that? I wasn’t even on many drugs at the time, beyond my usual complement of corporate nerve stabilizers. Ever since I took the few years off and hired the clone for the Beatles before I came back, I’ve needed those to go on stage without freaking out.
So many notes in that piano run though, it’s basically the entire scale. I remember it being sort of a joke, sort of goofy when I put that run in, but then it became the song. Those are the best songs and parts of songs, I think - the ones that seem kind of goofy, kind of ridiculous when you first write them. All songs are kind of silly, now that I think of it. But those goofy runs, played almost for comedic value, give the song a foothold that an outsider - one who’s first hearing the tune - might get a small laugh out of, a friendly beckoning into the music’s internal logic. Play it on its face, no matter how strange, and eventually it all becomes the coin of the realm anyway.
I could order up a bit of crumpet, take a few of those spectacular boner pills, wife won’t be back until Sunday anyway. That’ll make you hit those Little Richard screams! But last time I nearly had to be hospitalized - I certainly wouldn’t make a 7pm dinner. Why do we have to eat so late? I’m 76, for God’s sake.
