not sleeping anymore

this time

two years ago I wrote a song about letting go. it was significant for 2 reasons. 1) I did actually let go. I heard my voice for the first time and lost all composure at the sound, and 2) I did actually let go. I wrote my own answers to the questions that kept me up at night.
I played it one night (without composure) for a guitarist I happened to be in love with, at the time. he listened with his eyes closed and when I was finished he told me that my song needed drums.
All your songs need drums he had said. I spent days staring at my metronome and practicing (with tight composure) my foot tapping.


a song takes on new meaning when it’s been dissected into parts. It never comes back together quite the same way. Kind of like deciphering an optical illusion, once you pick out the old lady’s face- you can never look at that picture again without seeing it. (broken social scene is accelerating, in this slow, smooth way.) I wish I could explain what it feels like,
but I don’t have the terminology to articulate.


a few weeks ago, in an un-crowded bar, I heard this band play. it was spontaneous—
the music that is, not me in the audience. the drummer played as though he had time completely pinned down. certain sounds and cymbals subdivided, sharing the song on their own terms. they tapped me on the shoulder once, and questioned my understanding. my former conceptions about their supporting roles are still waiting for callbacks.

this time, drums were the most interesting part. they made up for whatever was missing.
and drums are not at all like interesting guitar; which usually consumes the foreground, blurring the band into a scenic landscape. drums spread out temporally and spatially until the walls are pressed. they demand attention through subtle anticipation. his drumming provoked the other instruments, it seemed to be pushing and pulling and increasing tension on bone so that it could get at something deeper. his drumming was interactive, it played chase with guitar—
chess with bass.
it was always there.

it shook me up.

I felt pulled in and pushed around and briefly taken—
like maybe my heart was beating differently, in this context.
like my pulse wasn’t stuck as much
in awkward pauses.


now I’m thinking about my songs with drums, but disappointment has completely dulled their sound. and while disappointment is busy disappointing itself, I'm uninspired. It seems like something is missing. I worry that people in my audience will think it too.

But I’ve never played with a drummer
and I’ve never had drums in my songs.
and yet,
now I miss something I never had.

I miss something I’ve never even had.

posted by d @ 3:31 PM