Listen, Or I’ll Forget You: A Constructive Disadvantage

by Zak Freed

There was always something there…  and in such a way that where even the everyday, common and predictable operations from her would introduce some sort of endearing liveliness into my corpse with more soul than an entire legion of angels could ever hope to imbue me with, even in their most assertive moments of trying.

Inspiration would saturate me on all fronts from every dynamistic movement made and I always knew exactly where it came from; her stories consistently meshed right into mine – with a flow heavier than the worst of any woman on earth – and I could taste that disgusting tension from miles away, like a hypersensitive apocalypse of a storm approaching the quaint shore at my side. A constant stream of lightning bolts striking while proper modes and theories behind them would melt around a spontaneously picked tempo, leaving my heart to vomit all over the gritty tape that was spinning in the background. What beauty! What luscious waves of light! She swallowed me whole and knew that she had.

“This one’s for you” was a phrase that would often ride the current into most tunes, splashing about with the extraordinarily influential vibe that was always present behind it. The whiskey in my left hand would shape provocative motions in sight of the cigarette in my right while I’d make myself very openly dedicated to arranging emotional points for the siren… the focus, the muse:

A lambent and sometimes leather-clad blackbird creature of sorts that would slither up the back of my chair to nest itself into my shoulder for optimal control over the movements of my upper limbs around whatever instrument happened to be in my lap at the time. She would chirp bad news into my ear more than often, but always had words of hope to follow up with, you know… and I’d hate to think of anything bad ever befalling her, but I don’t think that she’s able to get hurt. Even still, she would let me know of the protection that sounds, in general, would provide her with – and how necessary they really were.

With everything said, there are still so many things that I wish she would have spoken up more about; good or bad. What a shame, to have to ask the “What if?” questions after such invigorating experiences have already been digested.

2011 Dailies: February, Selected Works by Zunk B-Sides

You’ve almost done it all, though – somehow – and you’ll do it all again in a different way here pretty soon. Keep sinking your teeth into me… continue to let me know what it is to feel so dreadfully cursed  from your spells that I can’t even think straight. Let me understand, without a word said, that I’m still able to stab you in the chest while you do the same to me for nothing more than the gruesome, comedic value that will sonorously circumvent it.

Melodious Doctrine

by Zak Freed. Edited by Mylynda Nellermoe.

I’ve learned a lot about life and methods that drive it from the homeless. I remember living in Indianapolis for a couple of years, where I first found my love for sharing unfortunate stories. I’d take the bus from E. 33^rd downtown to go loiter around outside of Circle Center, where it was always a pretty musical area in the open air and at all times of the year. Sax players, bagpipe guy, my doppelganger banging out tomorrow’s IDM beats on drywall buckets, and plenty of other down-lucked performers who had plenty to say were definitely a better date than most local bars. Where it’s cheaper to put your favorite whiskey into an empty two liter bottle of coke when you go out; what I loved and learned the most from my friends was that they had lost everything. There were no belongings, their families were gone and they had no one to confide in…but they still had their instruments and in those moments they were always thankful for that, while I was just the same.

 A lot of people take something as simple as music for granted, and why not? It’s everywhere, it’s not going anywhere, you aren’t going to ever lose it; but there is a different love for it with those of us that depend on it. We live for it, and will die in its absence. It’s not background noise, it isn’t a time-waster, and it’s not just something we’re involved with because we think it’s cool, either. I would gladly give up anything in this world in a heartbeat, and I would sooner explode myself than not be able to write and also listen to the vibes and happenings of other kindred spirits.

 Most points of life in almost all forms of artists are sharpened by their ability to install that “just letting go” philosophy into their heads. Nothing is held in, and it sure as hell shouldn’t ever be watered down. This process is followed through not just by alcohol alone, but also by the fact that carving out your guts to thoroughly explain something can just feel good. I think that in most songs out there, the artist will have absolutely had someone in mind that they wanted to have heard it first: Friends, lovers, haters… whoever it might be. So when you not only have this starting point that’s totally devoid of distractions and false advertisements, and you hone that in on someone in particular, you will always give a personal and truthful meaning to what you’re doing.

 No matter what you play when something like this sets you in motion, or how good you are or are not at what you do; it will always result in pure, realistic sound.

 Just like that message you sent to someone that afterwards you wished you hadn’t, I find myself with piles of songs that are exactly the same thing. I enjoy communicating this way for a couple of reasons:

 The first is that the person I’ve composed something for may not ever hear it, which in the case of a mood-change would definitely be a plus. Otherwise, for everything I’ve said above, I enjoy that something so personal can have the potential be defined in so many other ways by unintended listeners. I’ll keep on talking to the world, useless phrases or not, because I won’t shut up.

2011 Dailies: Jan. 16th – Jan. 22nd by Zunk

Melodious Doctrine

– 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.

2011 Dailies: Jan. 9th – Jan. 15th by Zunk