TomFlannery.com

Taking a break in the action….sitting here listening to an old Mike Scott solo record called “Still Burning” and contemplating what comes next. Scott’s music is a good soundtrack for this sort of rumination, because the man staggers to and fro like a drunken man on a sidewalk. You never know if you’re gonna get something genius like “Fisherman’s Blues” or some bloated overproduced pile of gargantuan 80-ish shite with overbearing and even cultish religious overtones. But you’re always gonna get something different, and that’s more than you can say for most. So I’ve always been in Scott’s corner, even though it can get kinda snug there.

Besides, what’s the use of pondering your future in silence? That’s the height of boredom. And it can get scary too. Nothing like the sound of your own breathing to make you feel insignificant in the overall scheme of things. You can tell that Scott ain’t the kind to spend his time kicking his own ass, and that’s the type of guy I want to hang with, if only because opposites attract. That plus anybody who can write songs as good as “Fisherman’s Blues” and “This is the Sea” may still be scrounging for the rent (such is the lunacy of the music “business”), but ain’t ever gonna be insignificant again. Music lives longer than landlords. Thank your deity of choice for that.

So, there it is. Whatever any of this means. I’ve got good intentions nearly every time, but I do tend to allow myself to be battered…..like a Kansas weather vane. What I need to do is hunker down in the barn until the wind passes, then emerge and work like hell before a new storm starts forming on the horizon.

Easier said than done. Especially with the Waterboys bouncing around in my head…..a head that’s full of half-formed ideas and fully-formed air pockets.

In a bit…

–tf

Grabbed the new record from Chris Richards and the Subtractions. Power pop trio out of Detroit. It’ll cure what ails you…..even if you’re not sure what that is. Also picked up the latest from Michael Carpenter, which is one of those jangly gems that nobody but sleep-deprived late night web crawlers ever hears about. I’m becoming insanely jealous of guys who can write these songs. My head has been swiveling like an office chair and my foot-tapping is wearing grooves in my floor. I guess this is the definition of infectious. And it all comes down to a guy and a girl. I mean….what else is there to sing about really? Ship wrecks and stuff like that, but they generally aren’t toe-tappers.

So whadda you think about that? Life’s too short to not immerse yourself in such medicinal things.

Happy New Year to anyone who ever pounded on a guitar, or had fun listening to someone else do same.

In a bit…

–tf

I’ve started to play again. Haven’t reached for the pen and paper yet, but at least I’m strumming G, C, and D chords again….along with trying to get my voice into the same area code as the pitch that’s called for.  When I put the guitar aside, it’s my voice that inevitably suffers the most.

So what to do? Listen, that’s what. So I pull out my BoDean records and go through them all, which is kinda like sitting in the back of a very interesting lecture on what rock and roll was, sometimes still can be, and should be going forward. It may sound like I’m expecting too much from two fairly anonymous and criminally underappreciated dudes from Waukesha, Wisconsin, but when a large part of your life consists of a Gibson jumbo acoustic and dollar-store pen and legal pads, inspiration ain’t gonna come from the usual suspects.

It’s back to basics time. Melody. Harmony. Rhythm. Fucking competence. Short stories. Love lost….and maybe even found. Playing music for the same reason you breathe. Because you have to. And you don’t want to turn blue. Literally….and figuratively too.

I don’t care what happens. I care what I do amidst the chaos. I don’t care what I sell. I care about what I’d buy. I’m getting too old keep up with the gray hair. I just want to write about what brought it on in the first place.

Growing old but never growing up in the key. Nobody who grows old can play rock and roll. It is a young man’s game. But old age is a state of mind, which is why the BoDeans continue to be the signpost along the road that I’m always searching for when I start to grow weary. Like a blinking vacancy sign along a seemingly never-ending stretch of drab highway.

In a bit…

–tf

It’s odd not being able to sleep. You find yourself doing the strangest things. Last night at 3:45am I was downloading copies of Tom Petty’s “Damn the Torpedoes” and “Southern Accents”. I love Petty, but the timing was a bit strange in retrospect. I mean….it could have waited until (later in the) morning surely.

Tired of writing music at the moment. My latest record meant a lot to me but not much to anybody else apparently, so that’s sorta demoralizing. I’ve placed the guitar in storage for the time being, and just sit and listen now. I’ll only know if things have sunk in when I start writing again.

Sleep is underrated if you’re not getting any, and overrated if you get 8 hours.

And just a Tom Petty thought. I’ve always distrusted people who keep the same hair-style their entire lives. They remind me too much of Jackson Browne, and Jackson Browne always kinda gave me the creeps. Petty is a legit hall-of-famer for sure, but the 70s must have put the zap on his head somehow. Why else would somebody intentionally want to continue looking like the blond Iggy Pop?

In a bit…

tf

Gonna make a power-pop record.

Acoustic of course, as I don’t have 2 nickels to rub together.

Gotta find me some hooks. Gotta change my guitar strings (from medium to light….what the hell). Gotta start scribbling and humming to myself. Gotta channel my inner Brendan Benson.

When to start? Maybe in January. When I’m done I may take up knitting. It pays more.

In a bit…

–tf

Getting real itchy now. Thinking of barreling forward and just making another record. Maybe one of those “and now for something completely different” records. All songs about pelicans or maybe songs with no major chords in them or 10 songs that each contain the same mount of words. Perhaps a concept album about my duel man-crush on Noel Gallagher and Brendan Benson.

So you see, there’s never a shortage of ideas. Just time. And not sleeping can take care of much of the latter. And it’s amazing how your latest record not selling gets you thinking about making a new one. It’s the best record I’ve ever made. Not much I can do about it. Maybe I’ll become famous when I’m dead and Pete Townshend’s Ghost will be the subject of a book by Greil Marcus. Hell, if “Apple Suckling Tree” was deemed genius, I can’t be that far behind.

Now, where are those pills?

In a bit…

–tf

New record is done. I’m proud of it. Nobody really gives a shite.

Now what? I’m bored.

In a bit…

–tf

I’m pretty proud of the darn thing. Cut the last song this morning…and it’s out there for the world now. I hope it does something to or for ya.

Time to sleep for a week. Then maybe write some more songs. Fun innit?

In a bit…

–tf

Ten songs. Complete. Cut. I’m done.

Except I’m not. I’ve decided it needs 11.

I’ve got a song called “The Hidden” that I tried once before and could never get a handle of. Now something is telling me that this is the one to end the record.

Except it’s not really a song yet. It’s just a fragment. A whisper. Maybe it needs to stay that way. It might be the best way to kiss Jimmy goodbye. Leave questions. Leave room for escape…..or total rupture. Finality sucks.

I need to think on it more.

In a bit…

–tf

I’ll be out of town for a few days. Got to get the music back in my head. If all goes well I’ll be able to finalize the CD by next week. Maybe getting out of dodge is just what I need. Some late planes and lost bags and confiscated mouthwash and wondering why to get where I’m going I have to go through Detroit. Getting nabbed for extra screening at the airport because I’m traveling alone and have a vaguely sinister middle-eastern type beard. Cab drivers who don’t speak English and need directions from you and seem mad that you have the temerity to ask them to take you anywhere. Room service and insomnia and plenty of late-night reading in a place where everybody talks kinda funny but still manages to be way more polite than the average Scrantonian, which admittedly isn’t that hard but still comes as a shock to a jaded Easterner from the slums. $2.50 Diet Cokes out of the 4th floor vending machine…..the one next to the ice maker that has been leaking for 4 years. And of course nightly video chats with my kids on Skype…..one of the few good things to ever come out of the internet…..the other being music you can…er…borrow.

I’ll have my legal pads and hopefully something will come to me as I sit and wonder how we can put men on the moon but not fly 500 miles without being delayed 4 hours and told at least 3 times that using your cell phone or Ipod might cause the plane to crash. If that’s the case, shouldn’t they be more concerned with screening for cell phones and Ipods than Scope and Crest?

It’s gonna be around 70 degrees today and tomorrow so I was hasty in saying summer was gone. It will never go away. I’m going to sweat and cut grass forever and dream of snow and skull caps.

In a bit…

–tf