When my draw don't draw.
When my swerve don't swerve.
When I can't make contact.
Think I lost all my nerve.
Keep taking it back.
Keep making that turn.
Keep your hands in tight.
More you play, the more you learn.
If you wanna blow your top.
If you wanna go whack.
If you wanna snap a club.
Ain't worth a heart attack.
EADE
These pixels don't mean anything. Greetings and signoffs, edits and mixing. All contrived. Even the paper pushing papers, the grumps and the lumps, zany-eyed in nostalgic hypnosis. All technology from here on out is awful, they print on a printing machine.
Fresh wit turned old and haggard, lying to themselves. Envy of things beyond, two hundred years beyond, things no one now alive will ever see, hear, or taste. Likely, humans will instigate other natural senses through technology. Much of our current brain lies dormant. All that's gonna change.
No telling what they'll be hooked up to in 2226, even bluetooth will be out of date. Telepathy is probable. Exposure of thought will make the world lonelier, but safer. Thinking will be rare. Humans will have an automatic setting, sleeping will become a sport.
**Co-Write, JR Russell
Left me again, this time she took the dogs.
Last time she left, I spent 3 weeks in an awful fog.
She wouldn't even pick up my calls.
Left me again, this time she took the dogs.
Gonna miss those dogs she took away from me.
Won't miss her much, we could never agree.
Kinda nice really, prolly just let it be.
Gonna miss those dogs she took away from me.
I miss their howling.
I miss their chowing.
I miss their wagging.
Won't miss her nagging.
Women, they gonna come, they gonna go.
What's in their minds no man will ever know.
What makes them turn so cold?
Women, they gonna come, they gonna go.
Left me again, this time she took the dogs.
Never would guessed it, she really has some gall.
Something makes me think it's against the law.
Left me again, this time she took the dogs.
FCGx2
FC
FCG
AmCx4
The melt tune was essentially in the bag, as was blister, as was strange, as was teenage werewolf, as was down under, as was picasso, as was caress, and as was minnesoter by the dandy Dandy Warhols. Essentially. Eight tunes in all, a tight set, prolly 45 minutes of music to refine and shine and make whole. Workshopping, woodshedding, callouses and apathy, fighting through. To the other side of hate, where performance art glows.
We didn't create any of these tunes, but we will perform them to Pablo Picasso Project perfection. An undetected sound from out there to in here. It will all make sense in the end. There will be no encores, everything is an encore in a supergroup. Our processes are tested, the music is right, the hang is tight, it's Wednesday night.
Space is top of mind, adding drums and microphones and obsession and success is another level of commitment. Any band can wear out a welcome anywhere, it's to be expected. Even Hunter S. Thompson needed his peace, more than most know from my research. Space, space, space. The folks need space, as do the punks.
Bloated egos and lack of humor is expected. Air gets in the brains, we float on temporary highs. Suck a little helium for some cheap laughs, it always works. But the thinning layer of skin will burst, eventually. It always does.
Maybe it'll burst in a booming, cracking pop. Or, a pin prick and deflate slowly and obviously. Like death in a way. Neither way is good, but the float is ending, slow or fast. Egos must die, and will.
Humbling will come. In a heap, by some sort of biological means. The brain runs this ship, like Eastwood said. Don't let the old man in, man. Keep your wit.
The song list was out there, out there out there. Amos made sure we had communication and coordination. He was running with it, chords, lyrics, ideas, his Zappa Minor Scholar street cred was really showing up. Wednesday night it was, at the Hunter S. Thompson sound room in Frisco, 6-9, hard stop, let's see what we have here. The Pablo Picasso Project was ready for noise, we have a live performance sometime, somewhere before November 18th, evidently.
I was beat when Amos picked me up for our first practice session. After 27 holes of extreme heat golf, I had this woozy feeling and the sinking doom of unpreparedness. Hadn't practiced once, just a quick glance at the tunes, but I had recently acquired a 1964 Gibson J-45, and figured I could wing it or fake it or just add some little extras. Supergroups are the best, somebody gonna bring something almost always. Everybody gets to coast a bit, like a ride or a dream.
Ugly Matt was there when we arrived. A guitar making, guitar playing, vagabond from L.A., he could do anything and was prepared to rock, punk, pop, or bang. He was ready for something he told me on a garage break, something to sink his teeth into, timing has its own timing, ya know. We nailed down 5 tunes easy and without internal angst, Amos was finding our way through, leading from the back, flexible and booming, "Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole!" The third take was a masterpiece, wish I had it on tape.
Inspired by the late 70s punk scene and lit by a nagging call to music making and band association, Amos set his course. And ours. Some sort of execution mandate and mysterious ability to form a thing. Written down and visioned, willed into existence. Proposed and agreed to, declared and acknowledged, a done deal.
Every mountain needs a pass, every bird needs wings, and every band needs a bandleader. A foul-mouthed, demanding, sweating, spitting tyrant. He was none of those things. His initial recruitment focused on the leftover husks of the Men From Nantucket, a guitar constructor of wild talent, a young bass prodigy, and a list of possible drummers. So backwards and unconventional, upfront and invading, outlandish and gutty.
Any band with an ounce of a drop of a chance to do anything groovy or spastic or clean or dirty must have a name. Amos immediately voted to dust off Some Dude Named Amos, his cover band of the late teens and early 20s, like voting mattered in a band. Already been done, no do overs in music, no Jefferson Airplane becoming Starship crap. Mork Square, the lead guitarist, offered Metallic Salmon, Forever In Cream Jeans, and others; I offered up Eye Crust, Squizz, and Pee Cans. No telling where this whacko band of limping, brain demolished, blind, and deaf bandits land, probably be a big flop, but maybe not, we got bassist Ace Square.