Cool definition of political correctness which I saw today: “Political correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.” 🙂
I love being around genius people – those who show dedication, brilliance and passion in all they do, for whom no challenge is too great. Mostly they live and die unrecognised and unappreciated for their work. Doesn’t matter if it’s a street-sweeper extraordinaire, a mad professor in a laboratory or an artist who doesn’t need mescaline because s/he’s already there. My mind bounces off them like sky-dust in a tornado
Celibate solitude. It’s the only way. Splendid ice-olation. (I won’t go astray) here in my cave with a pen in my hand. For ages I’ve lived like a crab in the sand. Hermit-hearted. Eagle-eyed. Misunderstood. Hurts inside. At least no one listens each time I cry…
There are far too many venue owners who expect musicians to play for just a meal and some drinks. That is disrespectful and exploitative. If they asked someone to come to their place and build a wall or mend some pipes they would have no problem paying the going rate. They wouldn’t dream of saying “Here’s your lunch; that makes us even”. A lot of work goes into a music performance. That work is worthy of remuneration.
I’ve been reading about the Troubadour movements of the 12th/13th centuries. That’s what we need today. Lots of troubadours. Everywhere. Lovers of language who are not afraid to be outspoken and who know how precious it is to preserve the depth of words in song (or we’ll become like the manipulated “NewSpeak” society of Orwell’s “1984”). The pen – as a world-changing weapon – is infinitely mightier than the sword!
“No one lives his life. Disguised since childhood, haphazardly assembled from voices and
fears and little pleasures, we come of age as masks. Our true face never speaks. Somewhere there must be storehouses where all these lives are laid away like suits of armor or old carriages or clothes hanging limply on the walls. Maybe all paths lead there, to the repository of unlived things.”
If we never use the gift of our art to change the world [or its people] then our art will become shallower rather than deeper. If we, as artists, never change then our art will tarnish rather than shine. We are change agents who must change with time. We are avatars who live on the edge of the envelope which others want to push in their dreams. We are dreamweavers of the avant-garde casting our thread wide and far…
Before the Muse and all who love her, I hereby solemnly declare that I will never compromise my art in any way:
* I will never write according to someone else’s “formula” or another’s “recipe” for what constitutes “a great song”
* I will never write solely in order to gain popularity
* I will only sing from my heart what my heart cannot keep to itself
* I will never set out to write a “hit”, knowing well that mostpeople apparently cannot distinguish a song from the heart from a turd in the street
* I will never shorten my songs so they conform to a “soundbite” mentality and become less than what I have to say. I will trust in the Muse and her lovers to show me how not to be unnecessarily verbose and how to avoid gratuitousness in song
* I will never follow the direction of the prevailing wind but will go where the Muse directs me
* I will forever believe in the unshaken, unquenchable, unmitigated, unadulterated, bubbled-up, volcanic cry from the individual heart as the essence of the song
* I will willingly learn from others but I will never be a clone or a protégé
* I will only listen to the advice of those who themselves have vowed before the Muse never to compromise their art and never to be blown by the winds of popularity
I swear all this before the Muse on Saint Valentine’s Day today. May she desert me forever if I compromise one iota.