– by Zak Freed. Edited by Mylynda Nellermoe.
” as I go through each day, I make a point to document some of my own [tragedies]… and maybe theirs, should they also belong to me.”
I think about what it means to write a song sometimes, and then how for me to get into all of the different methods or reasons involved in the many processes would take a series of novels. Still, I think that the easiest concept for anyone to grasp out of, or to put towards a tune, is the often prevalent rule of tragedy. There can’t possibly be a more common type of a reoccurring event in any given person’s life than this unwritten guideline to most compositions – whether it’s realized or not – and so as I go through each day, I make a point to document some of my own… and maybe theirs, should they also belong to me.
It first takes something or someone bold enough to enliven my soul before any situation is able to dissolve into a dissatisfying mess of an idea. I love those instances where a day becomes everything about what was, what shouldn’t have happened and what could possibly be established again with some assertive wording. Where I would be without personal failures is a scary thought. I haven’t ever been able to fully understand and appreciate love, fun, or contentment on any level without burning some good things to the ground first. So, you know, why not select to do this every now and then?
For every tragic line from someone that shocked my heart, there was always an awful tale that came before it. The inspiration that gave birth to a song probably started off well; then it crashed, got drunk and recorded itself in a trance… sometime after that it crawled into your ears and laid down, naked and flat, to give you another perspective on your own, incredible stories. It truly is an awesome cycle what these songs we love and/or create can and will go through. Even the good-hearted adventures will have their gritty undertones that remind you of the compulsory trials you’ve got to wade through eventually… and like I said, there’s no enjoyment without those nuisances anyway.
In all of self-expression’s grievous tones and slight moments of joviality (which at times either occasion can be set through the sacrificing of treasures held close), I will always be able to sit down afterwards, drill out a handful of speculative and sometimes rhetorical minutes, and shed light on what may become of me. The power is always turned on, my guitars are always within reach, and a blank notepad is always open while a subtle, “Dear (insert name), you are always haunting me,” leads in to most opening and terribly formal letters. Where something like that is far from being unheard of, it’s also entirely unavoidable for my type. We have all had these heart-warming bits somewhere in our lives, or at least I would like to think that. What a shame for those of you who haven’t had a proverbial wrecking ball swing through your chest – which if you haven’t, then I doubt that you’re a human, and I’m not sure how you read – but what a feeling, and what incentive to sit down and write those times really do present to us. I figure that after saying that, my subconscious may act in collusion against itself at times to purposefully find those hapless endings – solely for the reason that I reflect back on them with sound. Some people call this self-destruction, but I call it a fools goldmine. I gain nothing, and they become immortalized through electrically taped headphones.
My favorite part about the creation of music is how distorted the original meaning and feeling behind a song can become. This brings to mind a game that I played in pre-school, where someone is given a line that they whisper into the ear of the person next to them… and so on subsequently around the room with everyone until, in most cases, “Spaghetti and meatballs” has turned into something like… “Swarthy mermaids”. Once you reached that point there were only a handful of people, or possibly just the original whisperer that knew how it started. Everyone else just gave it their best shot. So where most songs are meant for one’s personal defining to begin with, and where some are too straight-forward for any other interpretations to evolve; I still enjoy knowing that after something of mine leaves the cutting board, I’m the only one who truly knows why it ever did.
Incorporated styles will drive themselves in with some sort of aggressive outside force while I close my eyes over keyboards and let go of the day. That moment right there is probably more of what it’s all about than anything else.
You sit down, take a deep breath: then light a cigarette and run a hand through the hair to shake off some stress, take a sip and let your soul do the talking.