“Blame” - a song about reclamation
Written in a Day’s Inn just outside of Marfa, TX
Story Pairing
I often use the Priceline app when I am on the road and need a quick hotel. They do this thing where you get express deals, and idk how it makes sense, but I can sometimes get hotels for $50 or less. Are they nice? No. Do I check for bugs and limited my contact with surfaces? Yes. But so far they’ve all been decent enough. I try and avoid hotels, but sometimes it’s either too hot for me, or too cold for my guitar, so we bite the bullet.
This song I wrote in the Day’s Inn I mentioned. A hotel that I got for $42!! It even came with a breakfast. If I can I’d like to describe this breakfast to you. I always get pumped for free food, so I went into the breakfast building with pretty high hopes. Try and let my words transport you to another place and time.
(Also you don’t have to read all this, I just feel like pretending to be a writer this morning).
“The sun is persistent this morning. It’s not a fan that it has to work and I have yet to start, so it’s putting a little extra attention towards the crack in the dusty curtains of my hotel room. Those cracks always seem to line up with sleeping eyes. Today is no exception. Fine. You win this round sun. I find that morning routines when shared are filler text and I will avoid the crutch, rest assured though, a routine took place. I open the door of the motel to let my eager manager get a full look at me. The jealously seems to dissipate a bit once I’ve left the cave. The parking lot got some of the residual focus and crossing it’s like getting a taste of what the hallways in hell would be like. My destination is the breakfast building. I see the doors through squinting eyes asking me to use the ones around the corner as these convenient and obvious ones are broken. We are off to a great start. New doors located. Opened (they stick a bit). Air conditioning, so we meet again. The door closes at the same time my eyes adjust to the dark. That sound of warped metal on metal chiming my entrance to the trough. That’s the only thing that this breakfast bar could be called. There’s a neat stack of styrofoam plates at the start of the counter and that’s where the law and order ends. Going down the line and introducing myself to this morning’s players, I’ve never felt more overdressed and put together in my life. Im wearing pants on their 3rd day shift, standing in front of a bowl of fruit that seems to have volunteered to test grenades. They worked. The remnants of fruit are standing at varying levels of attention in varying locations. I unfold a stubborn shirt sleeve as I stare at the cereal section of this masterpiece. The three chambers holding bulk grain amalgamations are mostly empty as the majority of their inhabitants have decided to commingle on the counter where they’ve teamed up with milk and seem to be on a bowl strike. Happier to spread out in a single layer all the way to (and beyond) the confines of the chipped linoleum counter. The sweat stain on my hat refuses to even look at the waffle station. I glance for him and it looks more like a place where waffles are experimented on and harvested for their organs than a station of creation. I cover my hats eyes again as we pass the mini fridge holding the more “delicate” products. There is no way either of us could stomach the inmates that have found themselves inside that damp humming and clunking prison. We are getting to the end as I wipe my startled brow with a stiff, salty bandana. Just to the side of the juice machine, whirring with the lies it’s eager to dispense, there is a single old basket with the only partner at this soiree that I can comfortable ask to dance. A pre-packaged Quaker Oats granola bar. Its armor and strategic high ground in this battlefield have spared it from the carnage. I’m happy to provide evacuation, and we get to know each other as my dusty boots hurry us back along the path that got us here. Back to the safety of room 15, where now only a thin silver lined wrapper remains from my journey. It finds its new home in the deformed black plastic trash can that is working on becoming thinner with every door open. Refueled I reach for my guitar.”
Watch out Stephen King, and new horror writer is nipping at your heels!
Anyway, Day’s Inn breakfast’s suck. I did extend my morning checkout to 11:30am thought so I could finish up this song. Then I went and had lunch at a taco spot in Fort Stockton, TX.
This song is another from the songwriting group I am in. The word was “Blame” and I just felt that would end up inspiring a lot of serious/sad leaning songs so I wanted to flip that script a bit and turn an often negative word into something more uplifting. I like to think the word was appreciative of it too, getting to hang out with a new cast of characters probably felt good.
Song Structure
I feel pretty pretentious typing out these chords (and not overly confident that I am getting them right, but I think so).
Chords:
Verse - F6 / C9 / C9 / F6 / Am / D9 / Bb6 / C9 / F6
Chorus - Am / D9 / Bb6 / F6 / Am / D9 / Bb6 / C9
Voice Memos
Notebook Page
Oct 2024
Lyrics
Tell me who’s to blame for all that smiling
Who it is that chased away the frown
Got so used to seeing you so down down down
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
I'd like to tell them thank you from the bottom of my heart
To let them know the treasure that they found
All the work they’re doing, well it’s a work of art
And I hope that they are sticking around
Tell me who's to blame for all that dancing
How'd you get to kicking up your feet
When we saw you last, you were crying on the street
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Solo
I'd like to tell them thank you from the bottom of my heart
To let them know the treasure that they found
All the work they’re doing, well it’s a work of art
And I hope that they are sticking around
Tell me who's to blame for all that singing
Someone out there finally gave you a song
Now there’s a special something we can't help but sing along
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Now there’s a special something we can't help but sing along
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame
Who’s to blame