I was listening to a podcast this afternoon; one that has featured, over the last few months, songs from an only-just-released album from an old friend of mine. My friend’s featured song today was one I used to play with my friend years ago.
This particular song was very, for lack of a better descriptive term, ‘singer-songwritery.’ In that the terrible equation that must be considered — ‘narrative’ vs. ‘melody’ — ‘narrative’ comes out on top in a unanimous decision.
I’ve never been Mr. Melody. You would think that a tin ear for melody would be a real spoiler for a go-nowhere career in the lowest depths of performing, but it doesn’t really matter that much. (No one’s listening that closely.) Nevertheless, I gave it the old college try. I tried to cook up some on-time Don Rich-ish hook to hang on this singer-songwritery putty glob of dream logic, if only to keep the decidedly useless rhythm section on task for this particular song. (Not that they were really listening, either.)
My friend gave me a real blast of shit for what I did come with, thanks for asking. So I had a good larf this afternoon when I gave my friend’s only-just-released version of his song a closer second listen and discovered that the Nashville hired hands didn’t come up with anything different from me, Mr. Mediocre, all those years ago.
Musicians. JEEBUS. If they aren’t buttering you up to get something out of you, they’re high-handing you, treating you like a provincial rube dumb-ass.