Of Songs, New and Old...

The new strings shine with a wild brilliance, reflecting the light from my little desk lamp. I'm impressed with the tones, the brass aftertaste, metallic and raw, and new... though I do not possess the wire cutters needed to trim the excess at the top, so after the last note I play, they wave and bob and resonate with metallic echoes. They also are not exactly keeping in tune, though this will pass. I did manage to purchase a sleek, black, little guitar tuner, a little gift to myself, as I try to fill my time with more creative endeavors.

I haven't picked up the guitar for what seems like months, a lot of months to be honest. Many, upon many moons...

My voice, ugh! The last time I can remember attempting to sing for anyone, was for myself, a month or so ago. I had borrowed her car to go to the store, and had brought some cd's along, and I found myself pumping the volume, and singing as loud I could. My voice cracked, and groaned, though I pushed on anyway, feeling somehow empowered while driving the machine to the Mejier. I did not care if I was "that guy" in his automobile, singing at the top of his lungs. In fact, I always rather enjoy spying people doing whatever it is that they do while they command their machines along the road.

...


Before that, we used to sing at The Bar most every Monday night. Karaoke Mondays, which back in the hey day, shortly before I moved to Chicago five years ago, was the biggest and best bar night in town. My "last" karaoke night in town was perhaps one of the biggest events of that year, well, at least for me, as people actually lifted me and a friend up over their shoulders and paraded us through the bar. Supposedly, I slurred my way through "My Way" very poorly, and later that evening somehow made out with a bonafide lesbian. Though, as I was prone to at the time, remember none of these events, mainly because I drank entirely too much that night.

I'd like to think that due to my moving away, the peoples lost interest, though this was the case, but not exactly due to my leaving. After moving back to this town, I found the karaoke had gone through some changes, changes in management, equipment and patronage. I was glad to see that the drink specials remained roughly the same, price-wise. But still, it was not enough.

Even before the machine broke thus rendering most songs unreadable, and then broke entirely, thus canceling Karaoke for the rest of time eternal, we had found ourselves going less and less. The song selection also left something to be desired, namely more songs to sing than the standard weekly rotation most of us regulars had. Other people just decided to stop going around the same time. Suddenly we would find ourselves in a nearly empty bar, singing only to each other. That was not enough to keep us entertained anymore, even though we used to hope for that kind of access.

Funny thought: Why is it people get so pissed when you happen to sing "their" song. One lady would always get pissed at me when I sang "Just What I Needed," by the Cars. "That's my song, asshole!" Like, wow, I had no idea you wrote that. Why do people express ownership of these songs? I'd like to think I'm just borrowing it for the evening. Not to mention, there's quite a few other songs out there. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person who thought of singing this tune before. I just happened to turn it in before you, no one else picked it, and I did have some favor with the Karaoke MC, because I happen to attend this event regularly. And, its a kick ass song, but I digress.

...

I started to play the old songs, all of the covers I know, my old quest to become the first Mountain Goats tribute band. After some digging around in my brain, I found most of them still there, partially intact, and after some stuttering, stopping and starting, I squeaked out a few of them.

My callouses are gone, however, and the pads of my fingers are somewhat in pain at the moment.

But its a familiar sting, one I recall with great pride, when I first found myself playing guitar as an awkward teenager, and discovered that the tips of my fingers were growing excess skin in order to facilitate my new hobby.

(um, rereading that line I just typed, well, kinda could be construed as something else, but never mind that.)

...

And the bombs keep dropping.

Phone call from a friend down south, things are not well, her relationship... kaboom! Very similar situations to my recent adventures...

sigh.

I'm going to attempt to a write a song for her, for today. That is my goal.

If my fingers will allow me to form the chords, if my voice can produce the tones, if my brain can formulate the words.