Difficult Music

Outtakes

Started writing something earlier this week, but got bogged down.

Wednesday: Blueshammer wants to reconvene, and I'm not sure I want to join them when they do. I learned a lot about stamina and feel playing with them, and I liked being The Drummer (the same way I liked being The Goalkeeper in my pee-wee soccer days), but in the end it came down to playing songs I didn’t like in places I didn’t like to people I definitely didn’t like. My creative self-esteem is very low at the moment. Everyone's doing better than I am. I feel like Pete Best, or John Rutsey. I also suspect that I can't write worth a damn (I’ll get a good belting for that remark, I know). I have no time, I have no space, I have no tools. I know these three things will all come together in short order, but it's been hard the last couple weeks.

I don't want to bail on Blueshammer because I know that part of me will regret it, the same way a part of me regrets leaving Stoke. Even though I hated the scrutiny of the recording studio, even though I can't listen to the CD without wincing at my performance, even though I had no musical goals, even though the thought of a career in music makes me ill, even though playing live fills me with dread (before the gig), embarrassment (during) and regret (afterwards), even though I had no time to devote to them, I still regret that I chose to walk away. When I left Stoke, I knew I'd be susceptible to certain esteem-damaging emotions, so I did my best to steer clear of situations that might generate them. I never went to see the band play for the longest time. When I did, I felt okay about it. I'd never seen Alick and Bruknow playing in a group that I wasn't in. It was kind of liberating just to sit back and watch the show. But now, with the longer they go on and the more they do, I'm getting the feeling that I most feared when I decided I'd have to leave: that they're better off without me.

Today: Whoa-oh-oh-oh. Self pity. I feel better now. There’s a chesterfield in the apartment (thanks to excellent friends Smash, JR, Acmac, and The Closer), there’s an ingot of fig neutrons wrapped in Cut-Rite inside my lunch bag, there’s a Sonic Youth show this weekend, there’s fresh air and promise all around. The melody of a song I started writing six months ago came into my head this morning. It’s not quite there yet, but the fact that I can remember it is an encouraging sign.

After I claimed to have the finest friends in the world yesterday, Smash and I had a brief debate over the ownership of such a claim. He said that he had the finest friends in the world, while I would have to settle for a close second. Because I estimate that we share 90% of the same friends, this is indeed a close-run thing. I’ll vouch for my exclusive 10%, and I’m sure he’ll extol the virtues of his. I’m sure a third-party observer would call it a draw.

In other news: Thanks to a certain jetbot, the belter now has a diary she’s proud to show the world. Look out.