Blog For The Weary

Oh man was it hell in 2000 when my dream took an ubershit upside the cold, stark bricks of Reality. I know that's the connective tissue of this bligggg but that's why it's mine. I'm still trying to understand it, the scary potency of it like when you get dosed and you're in the middle of a jai alai game.

The first thing was the simple empty sadness of energy wasted. I would often jerk awake at night after a vision of some wonderful thing I'd walked away from for The Dream or some unbelievable, sinew-rending sacrifice I'd made. It seemed as if years upon years upon years had been needlessly sacrificed earnestly, quixotically, needlessly. Fuck, it didn't seem like it.

The next thing was akin to heroin withdrawal or a really sad breakup. The part where you're just trying to put one foot in front of another or make it through another breath. It was that intense. It was like having the person closest to you in the world die. Yeah, it was. Dude, we're talking about an 18-year fucking lunge here. I would drag ass to the rehearsal space and put The Police on over the PA and play bass along to it. Just tryin' to build up some time in there. Just trying to shove more pastrami between the Slices of Sadness in the Grief Sandwich.

And that was the first time I aged. I was like 34 and I could tell I was aging. That was when I started aging. The skin of the face glowing less, the body revealing some of its long stresses. Cuts healing slower and scarring more. The surprise of feeling bad after a minute at a dead run. Not that I'm not a toned, dashing and chiselled rogue; I'm just a Starting-The-Long-Slow- Roll-Down-The-Other-Side one.

Then what was it? Let me think. Oh, yeah- then I started thinking about things like the girl in the opening band in Tahoe in '98 and how she said I had a "golden glow around me" and I felt like I had let her down. That bugged me because it was an awesome thing to say and it got me through a mile or two. Hearing shit like that is what lets you believe it a little bit and you have to in that game. You have to believe that.

Then it was the confidence. That took a jarring and unexpected blow to the lower vena cava. The difference between a loser and a beautiful loser is small and decisive.

Very productive time musically, I have to say, all in all, once the first shock waves of horror had dissapated. I dove into classical orchestration and scoring and wrote some boss string quartets and listened to a lot of Bartok and Schubert chamber stuff. I rather had to. I had to do something like that. It was a lot of fun, like building a model when you're a kid.

And when I realized it was like building a model when I was a kid, that got me thinking about how I never once would have regretted the time spent building a useless bunch of plastic when I was a kid. It was the doing of the fuckin' thing. It was all in the doing. And when I remembered what a thing of sensual and self-absorbed indulgence it is to just build some fuckin' thing for fun, I started to see the light.

Because that's what you do when you're a kid. You don't dig a fucking dirt pile so you can maybe get a Grammy or a ten spot. You just dig a motherfucking dirt pile. Feels good. Wet and redoolient in olfactorily intensity.

And when you dig a cocksuckin' dirt pile for the digging, you tend to get a better dirt pile. And we're all put here for something, even if it is just to die unnoted in a pediatric ward in Bangladesh in 1967.

And that's when I got Religion, just like that. That's when th' sun burst through like in one of those Monty Python animations and it all became clear. It became clear that the 90 percent of my energy that I'd devoted to getting seen and getting on the air had just been wanting to add itself to the 10 that was writing and creating music so that it would be really good, really airtight and distinctive and worthwhile.

Because that's what it's all about. People can always hear your music. You got the intestinal fortitude you can get just about any gig once. And the intestinal fortitude comes from having indisputably good music. And people can buy it or you can give it to them. And if it's really good and distinctive people will like it. That's all it takes. We've all heard some suckoff music, you know?

There's no point in suckoff music. There's no point in bad dirt piles. There's no point in crappy models that look like ass. Some day I'm going to write something so beautiful and elemental that dogs and cats will get up on their hind feet and do The Scrunge when they hear it. Wars will end and long-trapped testes will descend to a great hue and cry.

Either that or I'll croak. We'll see, huh? We'll just have to god damn fucking see.


Blogger fgfdsg said...

Hang On Bobby, your music is already beautiful and has made my little part of the world better for having experienced it.

I can't speak for heroin withdrawl, but now i'm getting over my two operations and coming off 15 months of constant medication of a drug called Rivotril. I'm having terrible insomnia, lying in bed all night watching the numbers change on the clock, and audio / visual hallucinations. It's weird to see things out of the corner of your eye that aren't there, and my body is just *cravvving* the medication, so i'm blogging like a madman at the moment to try and keep my sense of humour up about life.

Your songs really help keep away the darkness when I can lose myself in something so beautiful. That's a true gift to be able to give someone.

I'm also realising just how drugged out I was. I've been sleepwalking for 15 months and it's like i'm looking around and seeing everything for the first time again. Picked up the guitar yesterday and my fingers just *flew* over the strings and it was like i could almost play again.

And you know what the funniest thing is? The withdrawals i'm having from not writing music is far, far worse.

Build the biggest pile of dirt you can find mate.

6:33 AM  
Blogger The Viscount LaCarte said...

Nice slice Bobby.

You already know this, but the trick of retrospective perspective is to shift the reason from fame to flame. You are a musician. Musician's live music. Compose it. Arrange it. Record it. Perform it. Hear it in your head when you are at a traffic light and some machine at the roadside is idleing to a pattern - ratta tat a tat-tat / ratta tat a tat-tat and you start rocking in your car hearing the bass part you'd play.

You did it then. You do it now.

7:35 AM  
Anonymous the brentmeister general said...

Get a move on, Bobby. These testes have gotta descend someday
*arranges underpants*

qxsda - like Asda, but the checkout queues are shorter

5:19 PM  
Blogger Kevin Wolf said...

I suddenly find that I'm thinking about some of the same things and in the same way as Bobby Lightfoot. And that's good.

Plenty o' bad around already.

pxriip - Damn! Split my pants!

7:21 AM  
Blogger Employee of the Month said...

Enjoy the refreshing lemon-lime taste of iumkic.

Sorry, I have nothing to add.

10:15 AM  
Blogger Soundsurfr said...

You know that part in "Finding Nemo" when they're really down deep and they see that light and get all gushy over it? And behind the light is a set of jaws on one of the ugliest mutherfugging carnivores you can imagine and they're just big enough to crush your entire body with one nasty snap? That's what you end up seeing in front of you when you stop building the dirt piles cause they're fun and start building them for somebody's wet dream. One of those lights with the jaws behind it.

Been there. Got blinded by the light and scratched by the jaws and I'm still here to tell the story. But I'll never go down that deep again, man. There's only muck rakers and bottom dwellers down there.

Only one reason to write - cause you can't not write. Only one reason to play - cause you can't not play.

Stay away from the light, Bobby.

And stay away from that Behrenger shit.

2:15 PM  

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