The Day The Music Died

No, I'm not going to go into a torturous Madonna-esque rendition of Don McLean's never-ending hit. (aside: Pretty Penny by Stone Temple Pilots is on the radio right now. I love this radio station.)

If musical talent is genetic, I was adopted. (however, the stunning physical likeness of my family would suggest otherwise) I have been fortunate enough to start working on an indie solo album of songs I've written over the past three years. I'm a very sentimental person and there's a story behind each song. That's why I am so unnerved at my incapibility to find the passion and fervour with which to infuse the vocals.

They feel stagnant, flat, commonplace. I conceived these lyrics from some of the most pressing times in my, albeit short but, troubled life. I feel like mocking myself here and quoting Ben Folds: "Ya'll don't know what it's like being [fe]male middle class and white." However, having a priviledged upbringing, does not necessarily come devoid of trials and tribulations-- illness, lost loves, death, torturous days and nights.

Something different has come over me lately. I don't think it's apathy, maybe it's forgiveness. Maybe I've forgiven and forgotten the past and therefore find it hard to relate to my own espousals of scorn and sorrow. Maybe the scars from the searing pain are too deep to recall, for now.

All I know is that the last time I was singing and listening to my own lyrics I thought: this will probably be my last recorded work. And with that thought, I felt like something in me died. Hopefully it's not dead but is still wick and has a life about it and just needs love and nurishment to grow... (ten points if you get that reference).