“Silly Song” - a song about purpose
Ah, the power of a song. I write them for myself as much as others. And if my mom is watching this video, don’t worry, I’m ok :)
Can we say together, “mood lighting”?
Backstory
April 2019… what was going on in my head at the time? To be honest I can’t really remember the specifics but I remember the general set of actions that brought this song about. I decided to dust this one off and make a musing because I was just having a conversation around the scenario that sparked this song.
I am going to paint a little picture with words now, but I ask you go in to it without hands full of pity or judgement. It’s a glimpse into the less than glamorous side a gigging musician but I am sharing because it’s part of the song, not because I need or want anything, just the fact that you are curious enough about songwriting to be reading this is all I could ever ask for…
Clears his throat..
Once upon a time a local musician, let’s call him.. “Ten”, was playing a show. The location was a venue that wanted live music so that they could have something to post on socials, and maybe drum up some extra business through SEO, we will call this place “Priorities”. Ten was playing his songs, so sure of himself, his ego and pride purring with excitement at sharing a new batch of creations. One was shared, some polite stirring in the crowd, two was shared, the crowd is settling into their personal conversations now, three was shared, Ten is now alone with himself slopping sound into the chaotic mix that is a Friday night. The only time he can tug some attention back his way is to tell an exaggerated story or play a song the crowd grew up listening to over and over and over… a bit of familiarity and comfort to scratch that true music lovers itch.
After an evening of motions, Ten is quietly packing up gear. A drunken voice tickles the back of his neck “Can you play Johnny Cash?” Ten smiles and politely gestures at the guitar case, now full and clasped, and the lack of assembled equipment. “Not tonight brother, next time for sure”. “Ah shit” is the yeasty reply “Well good luck”. A long pitiful stare at the still visible tip jar ends with a mangled dollar bill being added to it’s contents, then departure. The final packing motions complete, and a quick visit to the bar to settle up, and Ten is on his way home.
The car ride doesn’t need more noise, so silence is invited in and he drives home with just the slight ringing of the night in his ears. The window get’s rolled down when the ringing starts to gain too much confidence. As he get’s closer to home the $30 or so he got that night in tips seems to be trying to claw it’s way from the bottom of his pocket and play captain of this ship. The local watering hole seems to be that 30’s desired destination, so the car gladly abides and Ten finds himself sitting next to a few quiet regulars at the dimly lit dive down the way. Here his pocket of money will get him a good bit more than he would have at Priorites, so he settles into the haze. After his 30 is gone and his credit card joined in on the fun, it’s closing time, and home is the last place that will take him. His car, with thousands of dollars of gear, feels like living on the edge and spending a night in a dark parking lot in a questionable neighborhood, so Ten walks.
The walk is uneventful and that can be glanced over, just know that very few sure steps found their way to the path taken. Ah, home again. From the outside the house could be abandoned, no lights were on during the day when Ten left, so that is how he finds it now. After spending a bit more time than usual getting the doors open, he turns on a lonely light, pours a glass of water, and sits quietly in a chair at a 6 person dining room table contemplating life choices. Between gulps, shoes come off and pockets get emptied on to the table. His watch shows 3am. His “house guitar” in the corner can hear his thoughts, senses the lonesome routine, and asks forcefully to be picked up. An “out of tune” C cord is plucked. A song is ready to take the quiet’s place.
How did I do? Was a point made? Was a point even desired? It’s rambling at best, but that is where this song came from. I can only speak for myself, but these nights happen. Would I call them the norm? No. I wouldn’t be so in love with this job if that was the case, but I would be lying if I said they didn’t happen. No matter how many people love you one night, you can always find it’s opposite, that’s the nature of balance.
For me I have pushed many things aside to make room for more music to enter, other potential careers, relationships, opportunities unrelated, and have made music at the expense of myself. All that said and done, it’s what I feel called to do. To walk a sometimes lonely trail, listening and remembering, creating and sharing. It certainly isn’t for everyone, and I have found that out in both forgettable and difficult ways.
To my fellow makers, movers, lovers, and adventurers out there, I say thank you. I know the quiet empty nights feel beyond oppressive in the moment, but I also know the value of what you are adding to our collective existence. No matter how small, or how silly, it matters. Cheers.
Writing Process
I love me a C shape fingerpicking song. Plus it has this jovial feel no matter the subject of the song. Since this tune has some depressing content, I wanted to counter that will a light feel on the guitar. (A side note, that is one of my favorite things about old folk music. Players only got so fancy on guitar, so it’s a lot of basic cowboy cords with lyrics that punch you in the stomach. Just a reminder it’s not about the flash, it’s about the truth).
At one point I had a completely different chorus pattern vocally, but I was hanging with Dan Monea of Hey Monea with the intentions of recording this song (it’s basically done, I’ve just been dragging my feet for what, three years?), and he challenged me to differentiate the chorus a bit. That is where we found that starting up a little higher in the register really gave it that separation and I think added to the pleading nature of the chorus.
Notebook Page.
April, 2019
Lyrics
Sings a silly song and quickly goes to hiding
Words can't smell liquor, clinging to his breath
They don't know the difference from a bedroom or an alley
Singing silly songs is when he feels the best
Stories about sunshine, well they warm his drooping shoulders
Heavy from the burdens, sitting just below
Gazes in to heaven where he claims the clouds are parting
Hopes the pearly gates sit somewhere down his road
He wishes he was better, he cries when he's alone
Heart feels empty, his head feels wrong
Sits and thinks of dying, but a single light clicks on
With shaking hands he writes a silly song
Parks down on a gravel lot, a mile from his house
Likes the way the walking sobers up his mind
Closes all the doors so the space don't seems so empty
Turns the pictures towards the wall, he can't look em in the eyes
He wishes he was better, he cries when he's alone
Heart feels empty, his head feels wrong
Sits and thinks of dying, but a single light clicks on
With shaking hands he writes a silly song
Another show is over, he takes his crumpled 20s
Enough to convince that bottle to come along
Shakes the hands of couples, who listened with one eye open
All they wanted was another silly song
He wishes he was better, he cries when he's alone
Heart feels empty, his head feels wrong
Sits and thinks of dying, but a single light clicks on
With shaking hands he writes
Barks worse than it's bite
He might sleep through the night
With shaking hands he writes a silly song