TomFlannery.com

Been struggling with a song called “Another True Believer”. Think I finally got it right last night. Time will tell. Such a simple little song, but it kept squirming out of my grasp. Like trying to pick up water with your hands.

Been a tough few days in the neighborhood. We all lost a wonderful piece of our lives, and it hurts individually and collectively. Sometimes you just wish you could turn back the clock. But time hits you like a train. Anyway, work is the refuge, as a friend once said. I believe that to be true. I’m trying to lose myself in mine.

Over the last few weeks I’ve also stitched together a rough first draft of the play for high school students I’ve been asked to write. I need to type it up, as right now it’s all scribbled in longhand all over a legal pad. Hopefully there’s some coherence buried in there.

Have a new lyric I’m going to try to lay down today. A few more ideas. I’m putting my Jimmy through the ringer. But he’s a kid. He can take it.

Anyway, don’t take anything for granted. It could all be taken away. Do what you do, and do it to the best of your ability. And if you can do it today, don’t wait until tomorrow.

In a bit…

–tf

Five songs are done. Cut them during my lunch hour today.

Now the sprint to the end. Jimmy has already been through a lot. I see more clouds on his horizon.

In a bit…

–tf

It’s a mystery to me
The game commences
For the usual fee
Plus expenses

—Mark Knopfler

Decided to write all the songs first…..then record them in one session. Jimmy is proving to be one messed up kid.

Folks continue to disappoint in large doses, either from overactive egos, a lack of common courtesy, or just because they don’t give a shit. There’s a meanness in this world for sure…..but based on what I’m trying to do, all this is sort of a silver lining. Jimmy feels that he can’t trust anybody. Parents, siblings, girls, friends…..they’ve all let him down. What he’s left with is artificial. Stimulants. Fantasy. Cynicism. Only himself to rely on, but still feeling, deep down, that he’s only got himself to blame as well.

What shall he do? That’s what the songs need to answer.

In a bit…

–tf

The work commences. Lots of ideas. A song and a half into it. Things will all coalesce in time. That’s the plan anyway. I suppose they could fall apart too, but what’s the fun in a journey if you already know how it’s gonna turn out?

I’m writing about this kid in my head. My “Jimmy” (no, he’s not a Mod or from the Bay area…give me some credit for originality) is an adolescent who’s inner workings resemble a spider web. He wants to stand out, but before he  can do that he needs to fit in. And this he can’t seem to do. Throw in the seemingly unobtainable girl, a constant shortage of spending $$, and a weakness for certain liquids and chemicals, and you’ve got a hormonal clenched fist heading towards a brick wall. His only hope is to wait out the storm. And then….well….not much changes, except expectations. And maybe that’s enough.

But to get there? How do you get there?

I’ve thought a lot about this, and I really think the only long-time cure for adolescence is not being one anymore. Drugs, sex, and rock and roll work, but only temporarily. Even the best kind of each lasts….what…..a few hours? Or a few minutes maybe.

In a bit…

–tf

Ok….so who says you can’t reach a bit?

I’m going to write a solo-acoustic “Quadraphenia”. Well, not really. But Townshend’s opus is gonna serve as my inspiration as I sit down today and begin sketching out plans for a 10 song cycle dealing with teen angst and all the…well….angst….that being a teen brings on. Of course I’m no longer a teen, but I’m pretty sure I used to be, and at 40+ I’ve got enough left-over dread to light up a football stadium.

I’m going to do this with a whisper, not a scream, so being a rock and roll star will have to wait. And I’m going to do it alone, so joining that street gang that gets all the girls will have to wait too.

The best part about musical solitude is being alone. My ego I can deal with. It’s the expanded belfry’s of others that leaves the bitter taste.

In a bit…

–tf

Fear ain’t the problem. Panic is.

In a bit…

-tf

Well, the new record is gonna have to go on hold….at least for a while. I just can’t afford it right now. This recession is killing me, and the thought of having to stare at the clock and do financial math on my fingers while overdubbing guitar bits is too depressing to contemplate. It would appear I’m destined to make solo acoustic recordings from my basement until further notice. When cash and music mix, what generally follows is either shit music or bankruptcy. And I’m not willing to create the former or go through the latter.

At times like this you’re on razor’s edge, so you’re also more conscious of who your friends are and who you thought they were…..and more prone to be grateful and pissed off, respectively. Some will be there, some won’t. Some will follow through on promises, some won’t. Some will at least have the decency to pay your scheme’s lip service, while others will consider you unworthy to sup with. And so you move on, being helped along the dusty road by a few, and wanting to scream “fuck off” over your shoulder to the rest. But you don’t do that. Scream I mean. At least most of the time. It does feel good to obliterate a bridge every once in a while though. It keeps the fear up.

I’ve got confidence in my ability (most of the time anyway) because I work my ass off. I’ve not gotten far, but that doesn’t make me unique. What does is that I’ve never once considered not doing this. Not writing songs would be like saying I’m no longer going to sleep. Writing isn’t even a luxury anymore. It’s mandatory for good health.

It is a solitary business though. Trust others at your peril. You can assume that if you build it, they will come….but be prepared to get run over by a farming tractor in the process. Most likely, they will not come. You have to go to them, which is the part I’ve always been lousy at. I initially thought that the web and digital music might level the playing field….but instead it’s just made it too large to sensibly navigate at all without an unlimited supply of bandwidth, patience, and little red pills.

So now what? I have no clue really. I’ve got a few ideas but none I’m willing to stay up late for….which probably means they’re not very good ideas to start with. Maybe I’ll just scrap everything I have and write and record 10 pop songs. Maybe I’ll morph back into a Woody Guthrie wannabe. Maybe I’ll write a rock-opera about the Gallagher brothers. Maybe I’ll go join the circus. Who knows. Idleness is not an option though.

In a bit…

–tf

It’s supposed to be easier than this. But it never seems to get easier. I guess the struggle is what I’m supposed to be enjoying, but I’m getting a bit old for tossing rolled up pieces of paper off the walls and grumbling curses under my breath. I’m totally focused, but bereft of ideas. Or I have topics galore, but can’t keep from being distracted by that piece of lint on the red carpet. My hair isn’t falling out but it’s going grey, and the more I talk the less people seem to understand what the hell I’ve driving at.  I want to take chances, but I’m too timid to push all the way through. I want to simplify things but I’m desperately afraid of boredom. So what can I do? Has anybody ever been here?

I may just scrap everything and start again. Or maybe not. Nobody expects anything, but I’m terrified of failing regardless. Why?

I need loud music with a good melody and a crushingly interesting book. I need a good long sleep. I need to decide whether to turn right or left out of the driveway before I start worrying about the first fork in the road. And lastly, I need to choose what I want to be when I grow up.

So how’s that for the friday afternoon confessional eh? No priest required, which is good ’cause most of them guys creep me out.

In a bit…

–tf

Nothing to report yesterday, as I spent much of my time scrunched over yellow legal pads desperately trying to be creative. Moments of inspiration, and moments of sheer despair. More of the latter I’m afraid, but that’s the way writing goes. I was so pre-occupied I forgot about the President’s health care speech last night, so I missed that bat-shit republican from South Carolina screaming in the middle of it, pulling our nation further down into the surreal trough in the eyes of the rest of the civilized world….who must continue to shake their heads in amazement that loud fat rich white guys are allowed to hijack a plan for the greatest nation on earth to provide basic health care needs to its most neglected citizens…..many of them poor children. And the media plays along like willing executioners. Gee….what do you think the lead story was this morning? It would be funny if it weren’t ultimately so destructive to human beings.

Anyway…..that’s enough of that. Trying to get a first draft of this play done, and it’s been a struggle. But today I grabbed a copy of the new Deadstring Brothers record, which certainly has the potential to make my day. Have also been listening to Brendan Benson’s 4 records over the last few weeks. Pop songs don’t get much better. If I can’t have Noel Gallagher, I’ll take Brendan Benson.

Music can break your heart. But it can save your sorry ass too. My writing hand needs the equivalent of a sugar rush today, so onward we go. Eventually, I need to pick the guitar up again. It seems sad.

In a bit…

–tf

Writing today. Or trying to. Prose actually. Damn deadlines. But without them, I’d get nothing done. Ever try to put your head into the cranium of a 15 year old? I don’t suggest it unless you’re being paid. And even then, don’t just think twice. Think about a dozen times. It may have you reaching for the Seconals before mother nature says it’s time. And while it’s not true that all early teens are damaged, a large percentage of them surely are. Tread with caution. And if you think you know how they think by thinking back to how you used to think, think again. The previous sentence may seem confusing but it’s really not. It should make perfect sense to any who have any.

Labor Day finally put to bed. That means summer can be put out of it’s misery and fall and football can commence with vigor. So what if it’s 80 some degrees today with vapor rising from the road? We can’t let insignificant details like a lingering steam bath bring us hot weather haters down. It’s fall dammit. Let the leaves fall where they may…..and change all sorts of colors beforehand. And let us watch in horrified fascination as Charlie Weis’s waistline grows larger than a hula-hoop…..as his team of poorly coached highly recruited under-achievers get stomped like fire-ants by every top 25 team they play all year. It should be great fun. It’s like going to the same person’s funeral 5 or 6 times a year.

300 more words to go.

In a bit…

–tf