Tagged: guitar

Broken Compass

I’ve been spending the last few days boxing up my things as I’m moving house soon. It’s a soul destroying task, and as you’d expect, I’ve been distracting myself with other things, like songwriting.

Here’s what I came up with.

A song about the directionless melancholy of the individual.

You said you’d wait for me
I said I’d get there on my own,
But not before I knew exactly where to go

But now it seems to me
My compass spins without control
And every star winks out and I am left alone

And every road I walk is just another
Blind shot in the dark,
No route, no maps, no goals

I’ve followed in the footsteps of the many
Great and good, but no;
This is not me.

And so I find myself
About a million miles from home
And still no closer to the place I need to go.

Are you still waiting there?
Will you come and meet me on the road?
The burning bridges show exactly where to go

And every road I walk is just another
Blind shot in the dark,
No route, no maps, no goals

And yet I cut my own path to whatever
Place I want to go,
Cause I am free!

I’m free.

Solitary havens mark my passage through the dark;
All abandoned, but not forgotten, there I left my mark.

Forever I shall wander now, it’s too late to start again
But for what it’s worth just know I’ll always be your friend.

It’s about time

Well it’s valentine’s day, so I decided to write a depressing song. True to form, I fuck it up twice while playing it.

Clouds scar the blue sky
And I miss you
But you’re never coming home
You left it behind
And you’re gone
But not forgotten

Chorus
Oh, Remember those days
When we fought the world
And damned be the consequences
And sure, so sure we’d win
We never thought our world could fall apart

Time heals all wounds
I still miss you
As I look around my home
These things I don’t need
and perhaps
you had it right

It’s time to leave
Too long I’ve let myself rot
I know that I won’t see you again
But I just have to go

I think of the people I’ve left…
Maybe they’ll miss me
But I’m never going home

Miracles

You’d be hard pushed to find a shitter band than Insane Clown Posse. Their particular brand of offensive sub-par misogynistic rap-core seems to attract retarded fans by the score, who dress up as clowns and assert that “nobody understands them”.

“Jugglos”, they call themselves. Well, we do actually understand you. I know it seems weird, but we understand really well, you see, we just think you’re all massive twats.

Anyway, today I was feeling a little creative, so I took an ICP song (well, I say “song”, I don’t really know what it should be called), “Miracles”, and transformed it from a crappy rap-core song into a traditional folk dirge. I tried to make it moving and epic, but as I was pushed for time it’s a little rough around the edges. Still, the people who’ve heard it seem to think it’s good, and have suggested I make some more.

What do you guys think?

And all the problems of the world won’t be solved by this guitar

The weather over the bank holiday weekend has been superb. The sort of weather that you really need to wear sunscreen in. Here in the UK we sort of forget about that – sunscreen is for when you go abroad, right? Well, take it from me, it pays to wear sunscreen.

On Sunday I decided to take my guitar out and try to raise some cash. Last time I went out busking, I got moved on by a disgruntled park warden.

“I can’t have you collecting money here, bruv”

“I’m not. people keep dropping it near my case.”

“But if I let you do it, then there’ll be loads of musicians in here soon.”

“Of course, that would be TERRIBLE, right?”

“Sorry, bruv”

So I decided to pitch on the other side of town, outside the library. Now, the town library is situated right next to one of the town centre’s car parks, and also right next to the ASDA supermarket. So I was reasonably assured of a steady stream of people thereabouts. In truth, I was waiting for the library to open so that I could come and update my blog, but it was closed over the bank holiday.

So anyway, there I sat in the morning sun, playing a folk rendition of The Clash’s “English Civil War”. I know buskers are supposed to play happy feel-good pop songs, but I don’t know any. So I carried on playing, and a few coins fell into my case. I carried on, playing a variety of songs . They were mostly punk songs converted to acoustic folk, such as The Misfits’ “Dig Up Her Bones”, or Much The Same’s “New Years”.

Now, I was half expecting people to ask me to play a happy tune. But they didn’t. They sat, listening, and then dropped some coins, thanked me and went on their way. One old woman had no money to give me, so she gave me a handful of sweets. One man heard me playing as he was getting into his car, stopped, got out again and came over before literally emptying his wallet into my case. And then the Latvians came.

Here in the UK we have a lot of eastern European immigrants. They’re mostly a good lot, hard working, although they tend to keep themselves to themselves. A group of them came over and greeted me. Told me I had a great voice, and that I could make a fortune playing the streets in Latvia.

“Cheap houses, cheap food, cheap beer!” they exclaimed.

“But not cheap women, right?”

“My friend, you buy them a drink, they are yours!” they laughed. I even cracked a smile at that one. Maybe in the summer I might plan a trip over there.

Eventually, one of the Latvians came over and explained to me that he was a photographer. A fashion photographer, to be specific. He wanted to take photos of me. Not entirely sure why – I’ve never considered myself to be fashionable. Regardless, he gave me his business card and asked me to get in touch.

Later on, I saw a woman sitting and watching me. She’d been there a while, just listening. After I played “Long Forgotten Sons” by Rise Against, she came over, thanked me and left. She had a tortured expression on her face. I often wonder what demons these people are wrestling with. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that there are others out there struggling against themselves. A sort of terrible unbidden solidarity. It left me feeling almost uneasy and yet stronger somehow. An odd feeling indeed.

Eventually I decided to collect my takings (£22, some sweets and a business card), and go get myself a coffee. When I got in the coffee shop I noticed that I had burned on my arms. But not evenly. My strumming arm was burned on top. My other arm was burned underneath. It looks ridiculous, and it still hurts.

So what have I learned from this exercise? Firstly, that sad songs can be popular. Secondly that apparently I’m quite a good singer. Thirdly that the streets of Latvia are lined with gold.

Oh and most importantly, wear sunscreen.