Saturday, April 25, 2009


You come to me at midnight and say, 'It's dark in here.'
You know you robbed me of my sight, and light is what I fear
I tell you that I can not see but you persist in showing me
those bangles that I paid for long ago
And though my face is smiling I'm really feeling low
and though you say you're with me I know that it's not so

Salad Days - Procol Harum

Compression, depression, repression, -essions suck, man.

In order for others to hear the music I write on my MAC, it gets compressed into an mp3. For some reason when I do that, it seems what I wrote is slowing up in tempo. The compression is not translating properly, so now I have to bear that in mind and re-record the entirety of what took days to get into place at a faster tempo. Compression is a drag, but a necessary one.

Repression of how you really feel makes you smaller and slower too. It leads to depression, or maybe that’s what’s left after you exploded what you repressed, I don’t know anymore.

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I had a strange dream last night where I was arguing in support of Paul McCartney being just as meaningful as John Lennon in the songwriting department. I don’t know who I was arguing with, but their claim was that Paul was all fluff and John was about real meaning. How fucking retarded. I believe I've heard such ridiculousness in my waking life (Waking Life - great film), and probably got sucked into it with whomever started up such stupidity, but how odd to dream of such subject matter.

“Let It Be” was not fluff and it ripped off a song that wasn’t either - Procol Harum’s “Salad Days” which is awesome (yeah they had more than “Whiter Shade of Pale”, I can prove it), and Paul clearly agreed. At least one would think since he pinched the keyboard transitions.

“Hey Jude” was no puff piece either, and really, doesn’t it all depend on your definition of what is “meaningful”? Is it so only if you spark a revolution of sorts or can it be one love song that defined the shape of your favorite memory? Depends where ya are in life. On your deathbed you won’t give a fuck about gurus and governments, but the face that once looked at you with the utmost of affection will be the place your mind will want to take its last vacation. The silly love song is the fastest route to these memories, not some thematic, junkie rantings with kickass guitar solos. Those have their places, yeah, but again, it depends where ya are in life (smokey bars after you've just been dumped notwithstanding).

Feeling terrible about something doesn’t make it any more full of meaning than feeling good about it does. Emos everywhere will disagree, but why trouble them with such thoughts when they probably have some rather important self-cutting to do?

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