three friends

i've come to realize my own idea of my musical, lyrical and vocal influences is somewhat distorted. sure, there are things i want to influence me because i think they're cool. and then there are those that just do. today i finished writing a song that, for the first time in a while, satisfies me in all the above respects. and have been reacquainted to these guys in the process:

the blues
once upon a jolly good time i wanted to be jack bruce. i used to feel the bluesiness propagate through my entire body like a warm quiver when i sang. then i got on my high horse of exquisite poetry and never again came up with a tune i'd wanna sing. i thought deep lyrics just didn't go with the blues. that's only correct to an extent that amounts to nothing in my pursuit of a voice all my own. and hell, look at jethro tull. no. look at jimi effin' hendrix.

the bible
i ain't no christian rocker chick. more like the catholic goody two-shoes turned porn star. but i ain't no crucifix defiling tori amos either. i just always find myself making analogies with the bible. if i do think it the book of books, it's because it has so many brilliant metaphors and parables. for me to use in songs. like such as go in peace [on saviours gone to pieces], blame it on the snake [my very own twist on genesis], rengashi [japanese for renga poets, which is a sort of brueghel's icarus to a landscape of jesus talk]. and somewhere in there, like duh, the absolutely irresistible pillar-of-salt thing. [i promise these songs exist.]

the buckley
i totally forgot. and that's what true influence is all about. it permeates your very artistic core and stays with you long after you've stopped obsessing about that particular songster. years after you last had them in your playlist at all. good lord, yes. today, those bluesy and theological vibes brought him back to me: jeff buckley, he whom i emulate unwittingly in my every croon and wail. the regina spektors and thom yorkes i added later are really just shadows on his water.

ani difranco

i found it.

it was a dreamy summer's day in 2006, the lush greenness of which i haven't known since. in googling my then obsession regina spektor, i came across one ani difranco. this clip is what smote me, the alpha and omega of my ani difranco. it was on youtube. bitches removed it soon after - to my fidgeting, cussing and forever unappeased dread, as the album versions don't hold a candle to these. last night a failed embedding of it sent my precious sidebar briefly but distressfully amiss - my most gleeful, warmest thanks to vidivodo regardless.

around 21 i realized three things. one: i'll never play guitar that well - therefore will never be that prolific - and that's good. two: i can no longer stand making my lyrics so damn obvious it's embarrassing - and why, when there is metaphor *mind-shattering orgasm* - and that's also good. always is. [note: i do not compromise my poetry. they were just embarrassing.] three: so much of ani, from the do-it-yourself mojo to being bi to being so american, just isn't in me - so maybe she's not it - and that's... that.

but she was once my god of all songs [see, i've a thing for deification]. the one who really got me - not my method, my fucking feelings. not my neurotic hairsplitter feelings [for which i already had fiona apple], my human being feelings. all of life's facets and the more there is to it. quite possibly the most balanced ratio of intellectual, perceptive and poetic vs. heartfelt, intimate and direct; so too, of big words vs. fucks and shits.

oh, and ani:

i just write about what i should have done
i just sing what i wish i could say
and hope somewhere some woman hears my music
and it helps her through her day

nicely put. and don't we all. and yes it does.

the ghost story

it was 4:30 a.m. this morning and my attempts to stay up through the following hours were failing miserably. as i gave in to sleep and my limbs grew numb, the thought of inertia creeps suddenly popped up. and along with it, a hunger for massive attack i hadn't felt in years.

though i'm reluctant to put them in the hall of infamy for one record i couldn't get enough of at 18, it's time to reacknowledge it: "mezzanine" provided the oldest relevant brick in the foundation of what my songwriting is today. and by grace of liz fraser, i may have had my first glimpse into celtic coolness. the coolness. indeed, i owe these guys more than i'd have thought in my female-vocalists-and-seventies-prog bubble, had it not hit me unexpectedly. that something i call electro-spleen; that phlegmatic yet groovy, cynical yet mystical tone. while today i turn to the likes of radiohead or bjork for guidance in deliberating and fashioning said tone, massive attack made it feel natural - like it was in my blood and voice. that is, before i'd begun constructing my blood and voice. back when music to me was my parents' cassettes and cds from high school buddy tudor. back when music to me was a gift i didn't take for granted. back when music to me was sound, not trend awareness.

there's a feeling of being the younger kid who believes the ghost story and shudders under the covers, rather than the elder kid who makes it up and makes it believable. a feeling i laid in lavender once i started taking my songwriting as a battle plan. a feeling that waned as it started taking more and more to challenge me as a listener. to reach the high "mezzanine" used to give me, i now need the most insanely intricate havoc yezda urfa can wreak. the awe is gone. but there is gratitude still.

on showpersonship

[gee, does my boyfriend have to be in the pic?]

he who sweetly fills the sandwich is alex kapranos of franz ferdinand. the picture dates back to july 3rd, same day as the klaxons anecdote. the man was all too effectively concealing his identity with those sunglasses, checking out ab4, one of the veteran prides and joys of our indie rock scene. why am i behind the camera and not in front of it? well. you see. i'm not a fan. there are enough real fans queuing to pounce on him and i've done enough rockstar bootlicking in my day to last me a lifetime of jaded concert-going.

who knew a short three hours later, struck by the inescapable virus of wow-that-band-i-saw-on-mtv[2]-is-really-on-that-stage-and-boy-is-the-frontman-hot, i'd make it my #1 life goal to produce industrial amounts of drool and scream myself deaf? yes, i fell hard and fast into franz ferdinand fandom. or rather: frantically, obliviously and irresponsibly in lust with the cavorting kapranos. i, as the whole crowd [girls and boys]. and if his grin of wild satisfaction was anything to go by, the idea was to make the whole crowd [boys and girls] fall frantically, obliviously and irresponsibly in lust.

strangely enough, the next morning i didn't wish i'd posed with the bloke or rush to download franz ferdinand's discography. i just drank my coffee quietly and, in between pleasurable flashbacks, took to questioning my showmanship. showwomanship, you know. showpersonship. am i, as joanna puts it, a sensitive bore? a poetic bonerkiller? could i ever be a true entertainer? make a festival crowd go rabid? could a woman do that unless she were katy perry? would i do that as a woman? i might feel objectified. could i do that as a woman? i sure hope so.

go kapranos.

now seriously

i was shirking chores, doing what's truly important. giving birth. or rather midwifing, if i am to be more exact about the merits of my craft, this here piece of wisdom:

[...]
they're still playing on the sinking ship
*
and postmodernism once reared
its ugly head
and pounded art till art bled
and now they both lie dead
while their offspring, inbred
grows untended and unfed
[insert fitting adjective] like visions of an acid trip

deformed, i was going to say. or malformed. or ill-formed. or something to do with form gone bad, 'cause that's the downside to postmodernism and lacking in genetic diversity. but hey, i've never done acid. at twenty-two. sad but true. boo hoo hoo. so how do i know what i'm saying? what if it makes you see the most flawless ballerinas draped in lettuce riding art nouveau furniture come to life? but i wasn't about to drop the trip rhyme that had so kindly been sent to me from idealand [i know what i do or don't want to drop]. and i wasn't dropping acid either: weed - too meh, hard drugs - too nope.

so i thought, why not call friend x. who's done acid and ask them how it is. maybe i can find a word that both describes an inbred baby and an acid trip. which would be ideal and is possible. it's why i love words. they make bite-sized ideals possible. and then it dawned on me.

now seriously: i've had a revelation. and it may make some go "duh!", but that's what makes it a revelation. and one that has suddenly and prodigiously cured and cleansed my songwriting mind of sick questions like: "am i a snob?", "am i stuck up?", "am i following blindly where joanna newsom's taking it too far?", "is she taking it too far?", "will i get laughed at if i'm funny?", "am i belittling my music if i crack a joke?". it was getting to me, 'cause my lyrical persona had used to be quite the ham and at some point she became jerky. pun unexpected but intended nonetheless. by its own inner dynamics. it's why i love words.

said revelation in bold so i never forget:
i should never take mySELF too seriously, but always treat my WORK with uncompromisingly if ludicrously thorough seriousness. jamie will be proud. now i'm going to call that friend.

p.s.:
that's what i'm talking about, pink floyd. when you go naming your song "san [and not saint] tropez". that's what i'm saying, regina. when you go naming your song "bon [and not bonne] idée". and thinking you'll get away with it. 'cause it's so hard to look it, pardon my french, the hèque up.

and that's where my writing songs in japanese comes in. in the zone where dictionaries aren't any real help very often.

but no, seriously.