You would think I would be a natural for this. I like to write, I like to
talk, I like to share what I'm doing. Shouldn't I be one more person
jumping on the blogwagon, dishing out steady doses of myself and my life for
popular consumption? Aren't I a prime candidate?
The problem isn't the ME element, the narcissistic nature of the
enterprise--I'm a songwriter for god's sake. I've happily spewed out my
exploits and inner working for many years, and whatever embarrassments or
misgivings these revelations may have eventually caused, by the time it hit
me I felt somewhat removed from the person who wrote them. "What an idiot
that guy was-the new me would never do something like that". (To this day,
no words I've ever sung embarrass me as much as the British accent I sang
them in throughout my twenties. Blame it on Bowie.)
So what is my inhibition about blogging? I think it's because I feel
compelled to hold my tongue; I'm inhibited because I feel inhibited. I'd
love to go off about the corpulent agent who repeatedly books a roster of
his cronies while completely blowing off-never a returned phone call or
email over months-those outside his comfortable (and yawningly mediocre)
circle. I'd love to gripe about the club that complains they "lost money"
the night I played, for free, because I didn't draw enough people, when it's
clear the only people in their grumpy-staff-and-overpriced-food little dump
were there because of me. I'd love to complain about... okay, I'd let's
just say I'd love to complain.
The usual line is that no one likes a complainer, but I'm not sure that's
true. Politicians hire pricey research firms to learn what ticks off Joe
Sixpack-- so they can mirror this outrage from the podium. Our most popular
comedians don't tell jokes--they stand up and loudly bitch about all the
things we quietly bitch about, and we all guffaw in solidarity. And if we
don't like complainers, how on earth has Andy Rooney survived all these
years? (Andy Rooney is the professional curmudgeon on 60 Minutes, an
important show that no one under forty watches--another complaint.)
Does anyone know what "hoisted by his own petard" really means? (What's a
petard? What's doing the hoisting? And it is okay to use someone else's
petard?) Anyway, despite the weirdness of the expression, I think we all
get it. It means when someone is his own worst enemy--shooting himself in
the foot, at point-blank range, while it's still in his mouth. I know about
this. I've done this. I've made enemies. I've been an idiot. (I would
like to think my burning bridges-period ended with my British-accent period,
but perhaps I am deluding myself.)
Anyway, I will try to avoid too much petard-hoisting on this, my new blog.
I will do my best to say kind and positive things about the world around me
and all the delightful people in it. I will try not to alienate any of my
fellow musicians and industry professionals. I will be positive,
informative, and funny. I will not complain.
I fear I am deluding myself.
You would think I'd be a natural for this. I like to write, I like to talk, I like to share what I'm doing. Shouldn't I be one more person jumping on the blogwagon, dishing out steady doses of myself and my life for popular consumption? Aren't I a prime candidate?
The problem isn't the ME element, the narcissistic nature of the enterprise--I'm a songwriter for god's sake. I've happily spewed out my exploits and inner working for many years, and whatever embarrassments or misgivings these revelations may have eventually caused, by the time it hit me I felt somewhat removed from the person who wrote them. "What a fool that guy was! The new me would never do something like that". (To this day,no words I've ever sung embarrass me as much as the British accent I sang them in throughout my twenties. Blame it on Bowie.)
So what is my inhibition about blogging? I think it's because I feel compelled to hold my tongue; I'm inhibited because I feel inhibited. I'd love to go off about the corpulent agent who repeatedly books a roster of his cronies while completely blowing off--never a returned phone call or email over months--those outside his comfortable (and yawningly mediocre) circle. I'd love talk about the club that says they "lost money" the night I played, for free, because I didn't draw enough people, when it's clear the only people in their grumpy-staff-and-overpriced-food little dump were there because of me. I'd love to complain about... okay, I'd let's just say I'd love to complain.
The usual line is that no one likes a complainer, but I'm not sure that's true. Politicians hire pricey research firms to learn what ticks off Joe Sixpack-- so they can then ape this outrage from the podium. Our most popular comedians don't tell jokes--they stand up and loudly bitch about all the things we quietly bitch about, and we all guffaw in solidarity. And if we don't like complainers, how on earth has Andy Rooney survived all these years? (Andy Rooney is the professional curmudgeon on 60 Minutes, an important show that no one under forty watches--another complaint.)
Does anyone know what "hoisted by his own petard" really means? (What's a petard? What's doing the hoisting? And it is okay to use someone else's petard?) Anyway, despite the weirdness of the expression, I think we all get it. It means when someone is his own worst enemy--shooting himself in the foot, at point-blank range, while it's still in his mouth. I know about this. I've done this. I've made enemies. I've been an idiot. (I would like to think my burning bridges-period ended with my British-accent period, but perhaps I'm deluding myself.)
Anyway, I will try to avoid too much petard-hoisting on this, my new blog. I will do my best to say kind and positive things about the world around me and all its delightful inhabitants. I will try not to alienate any of my fellow musicians and industry professionals. I will be positive,informative, and funny. I will not complain.