37/2021

37/2021

Kenny and I were working in the studio a few days ago. I began to feel that feeling in the back of my neck — that’s where it rises — the feeling that there’s a sound, there’s a sound or texture that this needs ——— what is it, what is it, what is it?

I call it my mental art collection. Where all the references are. And from it, a few days ago, I pulled the sound I was looking for. Who would’ve thought that the cataloging of a guitar sound from a relatively obscure Rickie Lee Jones record from the mid 2000s would come in handy fifteen-some-odd years later when working on an EP of songs I’ve written with my son? My son, who was only a tiny, imaginary collection of blonde-haired, blue-eyed cells and sparks in a dream somewhere when I first heard that guitar sound?

The brain is fascinating. Why do we latch onto the things we do and not onto other things? Why didn’t I memorize some economic theory that would’ve helped me invest money rather than a guitar sound that does nothing but take up space in my grey matter? Why is it that I can store all of those references and nothing, I don’t know, more useful? I’ve asked myself this question a lot.

But as I found the sound I needed, and Kenny looked at me with wide eyes and said, “that’s it — that’s what it needs” I relaxed about it all a little and said to myself, “you know these things because they’re the things you need to know. And you know them because you have a proclivity for them and because of that, your path has been to use them. Relax, sister. You’re okay. These things hold value.”

I guess we know, or learn, the things we need to know to live the lives we choose. I wouldn’t hang out a shingle offering accounting services. But I can tell you what that weird sound is on the Portishead record you like ( a hammered dulcimer, most likely) or where “The Summer Day,” by Mary Oliver is in the collection, “Devotions,” (page 316).

For all my practicality, I am not a practical person. I like to think I am logical, but there’s a difference between the two. Whatever — we’re all magic in our own ways. 

May we maintain the freedom to remain weird and specific. 

I hope I do.

Sending love everywhere,

AM