I've been listening to a lot of music recently. Probably more than usual. Lots of old tunes; some rediscovered, some new to my ears. Lots of new music, too. All of which made me re-think what i'm doing musicwise.
I've been struggling and weighing-up a lot over the last few months; trying to work out exactly how i feel about it all, trying to work out why i write. Is it 'worth' anything? Is it 'worthy' of anything? I've only ever written for me; to me, the songs i write are a kind of diary; a map to an emotional past. A kind of therapy.
I think a well-crafted song, a well written line, can drag you right back "then & there"; to an ephemeral moment from decades ago. Like a scent or taste... it only takes one molecule, one note to transport us...
I've been painfully aware of how little I've been recording or writing recently. So am booking some studio time v soon, with the firm intention of finally finishing "the album". (Corny, I know. But this dog will not leave me alone.) There was a time when I worked to afford studio time or equipment. Now it seems work barely affords me the energy or time to spend on the music. How can that be right?
When I first started recording (oh dear, a very long time ago), it was with my best friend. We'd make a night of it, swapping stories, telling jokes, dissecting the latest offerings from whatever band was bothering the cover of that week's NME. Discussing ideas, or arguing about whether the bloke who produced that album would have been able to save this album, how this engineer went on to produce that album because of this guy, etc. We'd automatically fall silent, mid conversation, knowing that we both wanted to hear that lick, that chorus, that glorious bassline, that unbelieveable mistake again, then fall back laughing, discussing, learning, sharing...
Back then, we were neighbours. He lived in the flat beneath the one I was sharing with my then girlfriend. He had a tiny old tascam 4-track tape recorder, mysterious vinyl and a few guitars, including a very nice Epiphone semi-acoustic. I had my gorgeous black fender acoustic...
We'd spend the first hour or so of the evening debating what we were going to record. Generally, we took it in turns, one of his this time, one of mine next time round. Whoever's turn it was, that guy would 'audition' songs for the other - playing them on the acoustic 'til one was agreed on.
Occasionally we did very, very carefully selected cover versions. Often we argued these matters out; if you had an idea or choice to put forward, you'd better be able to quantify and qualify it; we were incredibly hard on eachother and ourselves in all our musical choices and decisions. But it was all fun, and we learned more about ourselves and eachother from each song we sang or heard, and from every conversation we had...
We both had different skills. There were things we both loved in music and things we hated. Most of these we agreed on. Passionately. One of the things I always admired about my friend was the way he always seemed to manage to maintain a cool overview of the night's proceedings. Whereas I'd be jumping up and down getting so, so excited as another layer gently fell into place, revealing slightly more of the final picture; he'd stop and assess the situation, as if taking a step back from and out of a wall-encompassing hunting scene. That was the difference between us (and probably still is); he would be standing back, calmly measuring our progress; while i ran, rabid and frantic, from the dogs in our pictures...
We seemed to have great respect and appreciation for eachother and for the songs we wrote and shared. Although we never actually wrote anything together, we would play live together from time to time. Either helping eachother out at gigs, or having the time of our lives playing gigs & belting out the cheesiest of setlists - covers, harmonies, free beer, girls winking, beery-eyed from the corner of the bar, as we sang (wincing at this next confession) and on occasion, singing harmonies, back to back, into the same mic, finding new, if sometimes ironic joys, to play the corniest of songs, with two guitars, two mics, all the beer you can handle and your best friend at your side... Hell, we even got a dressing room at one gig.
"...the past is so beautiful, the future, like a captive snow..." (as someone once sang).
....so, pan forward 12/13 years later. Time has passed, things have happened, relationships have ended, new ones begun, children have been born, lives have begun and ended. Sad to say, we rarely get the chance to speak these days, but when we do, we always fall back into talking - and laughing - about "the old days" (doesn't everyone?); the gigs, the songs, the recording sessions, the peculiarly-close-closeness that comes from making music with another person. We've shared a lot of history together. Things have happened between and around us, that would tear other friendships asunder, but somehow that connection is there, and stays; whether we like it or not.
When we do talk, we always talk about how great the harmonies were. (Damn. It always comes back to the harmonies. I'm feeling *so* Phil Everly right now.) How we seemed to tap into something new, something different, something greater, other, than either or both of us. It seemed to flow...
Everything must flow.
I know he's in the studio, recording an album this summer, and we've talked about how he'll let me know dates, I'll take time off work, go down there for a few days and we'll do our thing. I've told him I'm booking some studio time this summer and he'll have to come up to London for the dates. There are songs that I wrote during that period, that he heard before anyone else. Songs we recorded together on that 4-track all those years ago. I only know those songs with his harmonies. We have no choice in some things...
Typing these last few words, I can suddenly hear Neil Young singing. And it makes perfect sense...
"can we get it together, can we still stand side by side?
can we make it last, like a musical ride?"
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