michael-dean-k/

Our last meal as pre-child adults was at Panera—something quick and light on the way to the hospital (plus she craved it)—and as we ordered our “pick twos” on a digital menu, I was struck by the beauty of a jazzy Christmas song that would have otherwise been extremely ordinary. It was “White Christmas” by Booker T and the M.G.s. My guess is that the stakes of an extraordinary moment—in this case, one of anticipation—can totally rewire musical taste (or preference in anything, really). Works that we attribute meaning to sometimes have nothing to do with objective qualities of the art, but in the circumstance in which you experience it. 

My wife and I joke that when the obstetricians ask her, “what is your pain management strategy?” she’s going to say “Led Zeppelin,” which cues me to blast “Immigrant Song” at 100% through her BOSE speakers. In all my baby-book reading, when they’ve mentioned “music” during labor, I imagine soothing, meditative music—like Enya or flukes—to calm the screaming mother; but maybe the other direction is more productive? The experience is so intense that Zen garden music could potentially feel toyish and tone deaf to the experience at hand. If you’re experiencing the extremes of pain, it might help to have blaring technical instrumentation in your ear, to moan in harmony with Robert Plant. I mean, the whole strategy is to distract your mind from pain by focusing on specific things, and it does in fact require 100% of your bandwidth to really listen to Bonham fills of Page riffs. She wants me to make her a hard rock playlist.

On the new Geese album: I’m definitely a fan of the vocals, melodies, instrumentation, layering, song structures—basically everything except the lyrics. I wondered if after multiple listens, they would eventually click. Individual lines have, but none of them are coherent as a song. They’re generally vague, cryptic, and dramatic, kind of like some of Thom Yorke’s lyrics, which work if I’m in a particular mood and willing to interpret and make my own meaning from it. Subject-wise though, pretty hard to relate to (bombs, avoiding taxes, suicide, Maria’s bones?). FWIW, I do like the sailor/car lyric lol, but not the rest of the song.

It is commonly reported that ideas come to people in the shower; sometimes, musical operas comes to me when I shower: imagine a 7-part rock opera, a single riff in different tempos and tones, where part 6 is some Jim Morrison dialogue from “The End,” where the drummer has eighth notes on the ride and is doing jazz fills on tom with his left hand, the bassist is in the pocket, guitar is 12th fret and up playing non-sense at volume 1 with a wah pedal, and there’s dialogue like: “Aeschylus, my son, did you find 17 gummies under your pillow?” “Yes, father.” “Aeschylus, did you know those were all intended for the gummy fairy?” “Yes, father.” “And you ate them?” “Yes, father.” “And you saw the mystery?” “Yes, father.” “Aeshcylus, my son, you know what happens when children see the mystery?” (instrumental freakout ensues) and by this point I am naked and thrashing and have completely forgotten about soap.

Tempted to get a vinyl player because it would be a form of analog media my daughter could engage with. The core feature is not sound quality (the typical justification), but the fact that each album is an object, and a young mind can associate media with physical things. You can also, display your favorites on a wall, as a constant reminder of the ones you like.

I should make a case in r/GratefulDead that “St. Stephen” might be heavily inspired by the death of Neal Cassady.

Robert Hunter, their lyricist, confessed not knowing of the Christian “St. Stephen” until after the lyrics were shared with the band. So it’s not literal. Also, Neal died earlier in the same year (February 1968) that the song was first played (June 1968). The middle of the song is abstractly about death, but all the surrounding verses paint a portrait of Neal that, after reading 5 years of his letters, is now unseeable. Hunter knew Cassady well. Cassady was Weir’s roommate. Cassady was a “sacrificial muse” for much of that generation, so it’s conceivable. True inspiration or not, it will forever change the way I hear these lyrics.

• verse-1: He steals a roses (Neal stole many things, like 500 cars), and “wherever he goes the people all complain.” The verse doesn't explictly say St. Stephen was a thief, but he “had a rose,” he “goes in and out of the garden,” (as a theft might), and everyone is annoyed.
• v2: “Stephen would answer if he only knew how” relates to how, in Neal’s letters to Kerouac and Ginsberg, both masterful writers, he would excessively express how he couldn’t put words to his feelings.
• v3: About death.
• Bridge: “Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow” taps into Neal’s speed. On the road has the line, “the road ran straight as an arrow.” Also, “what a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned” ties to his range of chaos. “Several seasons with their treasons” refers to his shifting moods, and how he would predictably betray people (Carolyn, Kerouac) in search of something new.
• v4: “Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills, One man gathers what another man spills,” Neal spilled everything, and Kerouac/Ginsberg saw immense value in what Neal thought was worthless confession.
• v5: “Saint Stephen will remain, All he’s lost he shall regain,” maybe talks to the enduring influence of his spirit. And then “been here so long he’s got to calling it home,” speaks to his nomadism. (This is prob the weakest link).
• v6: “Can you answer? Yes I can, But what would be the answer to the answer man?” speaks to their desperation, follow-up letters when their friend hadn’t answered them.

There was a particular moment last night in Fire on the Mountain that felt authentic to the spirit of the Grateful Dead. I think Dead & Co. is generally guilty of ego-driven power solos, where they go in a circle and just take turns riffing over a backing track that is “in the pocket.” But there was this moment where you could tell John & Trey were intensely focusing on each other, and they were harmonizing and playing into each other. Less about “here’s the genius coming form my head,” and more like, you’re locked in to the other one, adding to them, and even seeing ahead of them, and dancing back and forth. In the best moments of the original Dead, the whole band locked into a telepathic hivemind, totally unpredictable. High risk, but magic when it works.

I heard "Lost in My Mind" by The Head and the Heart and said they sounded like “CVS-brand Fleet Foxes” to my wife. She chuckled. We were in Kohl’s. Maybe in another context I’d appreciate the band, but there is something about department souls that kills the soul of music.

The tinny EQ plays a role, but I guess pop’s original sin is something like its ability to be “CVS-ready.” I couldn’t imagine Fela Kuti or jazz or Brian Eno when shopping for deals. There’s something about chorus structure and harmony that leads to something that is ultimately listenable.

I wonder if a good filter for a song is to have at least a 15-second segment that is “unlistenable” to the person who approves shopping playlists. Consider Karma Police, maybe Radiohead’s hookiest song; it gets disqualified by the noise/effects in the last 20 seconds. No one wants to shop to the sound of a broken computer.

I realize that—for basically all the years I’ve considered myself a “songwriter” (18?)—I may have neglected the most obvious part of the craft: songs are for someone. It’s a whole different thing to actually present a song to someone, in person, probably on an acoustic guitar. That’s not what I mean. I mean that lyrics might only come out as authentic when there’s a real person on the other end of them. I’m sure it’s possible to write lyrics from an abstract, archetypal, or linguistic origin—but that’s how I typically start and I’m almost never excited by them.

Instead, I’ve been liking the prompt, “here’s the uncomfortable thing I want to say to X.” In terms of generating potential images and phrases, there’s a whole well of real experience to draw from. Perhaps the reason I’ve never approached this is because there’s a sense of dread, cringe, or risk in considering that this very person might somehow find the song and make the connection. The chances of that are low, and with some minor smoke and mirrors (the Beatles switched genders all the time) you can make sure no one ever knows what a song’s really about. By translating some of the specific into the general, they’ll see themselves in the song too (maybe good lyrics are a two-way mirror). And even if they catch you (1) half the songs might be good songs anyway, and (2) maybe a confrontation could actually help a relationship? There could be lessons from memoir writing in here.

As I’m listening to Ryan Sambol’s “A Friend of the Show,” I find myself interpreting the lyrics and trying to understand his life in rural Texas, and I wonder if the tethering of song to real stakes is what makes lyrics most alive.

Maybe the demotivating angle of all this is that no one has any time to stop everything they’re doing and listen to the lyrics of a song with their undivided attention. The rate of listeners:listeners is probably 100:1. Mostly everything turns to background music. But if I were to make an eventual expansion from essay writing to songwriting, and distribute songs through Substack, I get the sense there would be a higher ratio of people who read between the lines.

If I really wanted to have a lyric-driven songwriting project (sometime in the next 0-5 years), I’d have to (1) make sure words are coherent in the mix—I can’t understand 40% of what Ryan Sambol says, (2) make sure Spotify tracks have lyrics uploaded, and (3) make music videos with lyric captions (Jesse Wells style).