Salut.

It seems like just yesterday that the new year began, and now in the blink of an eye we’re almost passed January. Somewhere along this forty-five-and-three-quarters-year journey I learned a funny trick, which was to calculate the amount of year that had elapsed in the form of a percetage, to wit: at around 4pm on January 4th, you’re 1% through the year. I think the psychological goal was to make the year pass more slowly, with each incremental unit of the percentage calculation being 3.65 units of the standard measurement of time (the day). While I’m not sure this exercise really succeeds at slowing the perception of time, it can be an interesting re-contextualization of one of the things we humans likely take most for granted: it’s passage.

​It’s possible I may have “run out” of 2023, like Johnny Topside before me, running out of drill fuel (ten points to Ravenclaw if you get the reference). Until then I’d been to-the-letter rote when it came to my “Watershed” posts. No matter what ill may have befallen the other blogs of the year, the last one, always written on December 31st, had never eluded me. It became a sort of annual ritual, considering, then summing up the year’s events, pushing my observations and thematic musings to the precipice of philosophic moralizing, then taking a step back, doing my best to remain genuine while not taking anything too seriously. After what must have been the better part of a decade of doing this, surely it had become habit.

So what was it that was different about 2023?

The very end of 2023 must be looked at in context of the rest of 2023. In that vein, December 31st 2023 proved itself no different from every other day of that year. And, in keeping with how I felt on every other day of that year, I woke up on December 31st with absolutely nothing to say. (Of course, critics of my blog might say: and that would be different from usual how?) But as the seconds ticked away and midnight gradually approached, I felt panic sneaking in. I tried to push through it, stepping back into writing-exercise territory, free associating, outlining, but nothing was forthcoming. Eventually, in the dying last minutes of 2023, I came to the conclusion that the best way to deal with this would be to just accept it.
​
5…4…3…2…1…

And that was it. The sky didn’t fall. The quantam didn’t solace. The earth didn’t swallow me up. Just as on November 8th 2016 (remember that day?), the sun would rise, the day would begin, and people would get up and continue on their lives as per usual. And so would I.
​
Our current society will tell you to structure your lives around externals. To live a life that’s “connected,” that’s “current,” indeed, that’s “confraternal,” (I *heart* thesaurus) you must obey the external cycles that are imposed on you. You have to tweet about a current event hitting the news cycle within 24 hours, or else you’re “not relevant,” you have to have a 2024 opinion about, I don’t know, anything, from the Kardashians (Cardassians?) to the cost of the latest NFT, otherwise you’re “obsolete.” You have to listen to the right dozen podcasts and have at least as many reddit threads, tiktok is the new instagram baby, and god help you if the only platform you are on is facebook.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-social media, mostly because I don’t think that it is the actual problem. It’s a tool, and I believe it serves a very useful purpose. Viral marketing has likely introduced some wonderful, community-centric businesses and organizations to the world at-large, and for that, social networking earns our thanks. It’s not the tool itself, but rather we who go down the rabbit hole of externals, with current society acting as our enabler. I’ve been down this road, retreating into the warm yet toxic embrace of outer-directedness, and while it took no small amount of clawing and scratching (and not the good kind #weeds) I was glad to finally find my way if not fully than at least mostly out.
 
The question then remains: how does a population, a “current society,” built on a foundation of obeying external cues, teach itself to think freely from them. I have an inkling that this is the society (among other things) that we are going to have to become in order to fully embody the next stage of our evolution. There’s a chance I’ll be devoting some of my own personal and professional blogosphere to examining this, thus I’ll be signing off soon, before this becomes a tome. I’ll leave you my very warmest of wishes for a continued happy and healthy start to 2024, as well as the thoughts that broke me out of my shell and got me to start writing again. I don’t think they’re anything super profound, but, hopefully, they’re helpful:

• Live by your cycle.
• Focus on what you are doing.
• Be the agent of your own life.

Travel safe. Talk soon.

This has been one of those years where it’s just never quite felt like the right time to post on this site. Personally, there’s always been something more pressing going on. Globally, the same; whether through cases of political scandal, civic heartlessness, or outright armed conflict, fear and alarm have gripped the world with stunning efficiency.
​
About halfway through the calendar year I considered writing a post about peace. Now, as anyone who even vaguely knows me knows, my relationship with the subject is ambivalent at best, though to be fair most of my nuclear wintering finds itself directed either at “that asshole Gandhi” or else at those pesky so-called “empires” of Austria and Venice (those were MY city-states!)—either way, in life, mercifully, I am generally more of a peace-monger.

As with eastern philosophy my understanding of peace begins with non-striving. Letting go of need or desire, it is said, frees one from one’s agenda. This allows one to see more clearly what really is, not what one wishes were there. It’s a freeing perspective, one that can lead to profound spiritual insight and powerful personal development. 
​
It also, in my humble opinion, rather misses the point of why we’re here. 

We, the sentient inhabitants of planet earth, I might posit, are not here merely to impartially bear witness to events as they unfold. This may be a means to a particularly worthwhile end (enlightenment…so I’m led to understand) but a means to an end still it is. Whether we observe it or not we are born into duality: light and dark; hot and cold; Marvel and DC, and so on. We have at our very fingertips the power of decision.

I’ve heard duality referred to as a false god. And overall I agree with this. The paradox of opposites may be solved with the cunning use of dialectics: “I love and accept all that I am, *and* I can improve.” Without this approach I may never have escaped the bedlam that was my existence prior to age forty-two. And yet, despite the clever appropriation of everyone’s favorite coordinating conjunction, I stand by my assertion that duality’s status as de facto metaphysical pariah can and ought to be repealed.

To say that duality is a false construct is like saying that human beings have no sex (mind out of the gutter, please, I’m talking biology). Metaphysical convictions from a number of schools of thought may understand this to be true on the “soul” level, but that does little good to an organism who depends upon meiosis to sustain the very life that allows it to contemplate such matters in the first place. Practically speaking, a metaphysics that embraces duality is much more useful to us than one that eschews it. How so?
​
It’s often touted that by zooming out from the duality of our daily lives, we get to a place called unity. Here we are at one with the universe and all is at peace because events take place not to, at, or before us but rather through the unbiased prism of our consciousness. But what this observation fails to reflect upon is that, if you stay in this state for long enough, you eventually have to go pee. 

Peace is not the absence of intent. Rather, it’s absolutely dependent on its executor making a very specific choice under varying and often uncertain circumstances. I know I have the tendency to drone on about how yoga isn’t the cure to the world’s ills. This time I’m taking a different route. Any practice that provides a participant with a safe space to bring their mind to somewhere that chooses lovingkindness over cruelty is good and well in my book. Just remember, just because I can pretzel my way into yoganidrasana, doesn’t mean I’m better than you.
​
I am not a pacifist because I am anti-war. I understand that in a dualistic metaphysics like the one to which we humans on earth belong, conflict is not only a sanctioned form of dispute resolution, but in many cases is a necessary one. (Or we could all make like bonobos and use sex as a means to negotiate our differences—feel free to take to the gutter, and, if need be, remain there for the remainder of this post.) That we have taken conflict and turned it into the hideous art form it is today is regrettable, but I have no qualms against its existence any more than I do the existence of inclement weather.

Nor am I a pacifist because I am a pushover. As a matter of fact it’s this part of duality that I have a problem with. While dualistic language with intelligence combines to create the likes of Plato, Kant, and Meister Eckhart, dualistic language without it quickly devolves into demagoguery, jingoism, and unrelenting stupidity. There’s a broken belief right now, one that no one seems either willing or able to challenge, that you’re either a military hawk, or a colluder. I reject this summarily, because it’s moronic. Being a chest-thumping loudmouth doesn’t give anyone a monopoly on strategic intervention. If there’s a bully, you bet I’ll intervene. I’ll speak gently, dulcetly, kindly even, lulling them into a false sense of safety as I quietly sew their ass cheeks together, feed them miralax, and wait for the results. 

We are souls living a human journey; the early 00s was rife with this kind of sentiment. In a post-9/11 world, we craved the oneness message, hungered for any philosophy that transcended the unstable and shockingly terrifying world we suddenly found ourselves living in. But it’s as though we all stopped at “we are souls” and forgot the second half, equally important, that we are all living a human journey. As such, we are prone to disagreeing, we are vulnerable to each having our agendas collide with those of our neighbors, no matter how noble our intentions. In this life, this human life, we are, in short, dualistic beings.

And as such we approach peace, not as the only truth available to us, but as one of many options, and because we choose it to be, we choose to focus our attention, we choose to train our consciousness on creating life and prosperity, not murder and destruction. This is our authority, our license to create the world, any world, that we envision—in a world where our lives are small but our words and actions reverberate through the cosmos, what have we but our convictions?

I am a peace-monger in humble ways: because I choose not to engage in a motor race with the car behind me who thought going the speed limit was too slow; for the simple act of giving a smile and a nod to the grocery clerk who made a well-intentioned but awkward attempt to connect. I am a peace-monger not because it is the right thing to do, but because it is my right to do it, my right to see the world I see, and make choices.

This is the world I see. This is the choice I make. Choose peace. 
​
Yes. That’s probably the kind of thing I would say, if I were to write a post about peace. Maybe another time, eh?

Travel safe. Talk soon.

Title Inspiration: Pipes of Peace (McCartney), Paul McCartney

We no longer live in a world where to be someone of renown means to have produced something of actual quality and value. I need to remind myself of this day after day, knowing that the only way one can change an existing system is if one accepts it in the first place. This is an important first step for any changemaker, possibly even more so than realizing that change occurs less by fighting against existing circumstances and more by creating ways and means that render them irrelevant.

There is a sharp divide between those who seek to do this (produce something of actual quality and value), often quietly and far in the background of major events, and the exalted influencers of today, those who revel in their ability to execute what they espy as exceptional (but that this writer sees more often as sophomoric), such as “playing the top ten songs on the radio using only four chords,” or “re-harmonizing the Beatles’ masterpiece ‘Hey Jude’.” One might argue that none of these bring benefit to humanity, and one might be right. These are activities that bring aggrandizement to the ego and self-image of their performer, and little else. I have very little time for this, which likely means I have very little time for 95% of the developed world’s Gross Creative Output aka GCP.

A thought experiment was once put forth to me by a friend of mine. A quick-witted entrepreneurial jack-of-all-trades hailing from Canada/the People’s Republic of China, he asked me and a few other friends who were over for drinks one evening to consider the dueling, conflicting goals of a) a writer, b) an editor, and c) a publisher. The writer, he said, if they’re being true to themselves, should only care about putting the story down in as authentic and accurate a way as possible. Once this is achieved, the writer in pure form will care about nothing else. 

The editor, on the other hand, if they’re being true to themselves, wants the book able to be enjoyed by as many eyes as possible. As such, they go through the text and make changes to meet this criteria, and in doing so, may in fact alter the book in a manner such as to move it away from the writer’s perfect version of the manuscript, thus creating conflict between the two individuals’ visions. 

The publisher, he went on to say, if they’re being true to themselves, wants to sell as many copies as possible—they don’t care how authentic the manuscript is, nor do they particularly care about the readers’ experience, so long as they can sell enough copies to have made the investment in the project worthwhile, so they create a spanking, shiny cover (which the editor might hate) and find celebrities (whom the writer might hate) to write praise for it on the opening pages. They get the writer on talk shows (which the writer, perhaps an introvert, hates doing), and they make available an audio book version (hiring a famous actor, and director, to interpret it, thus negating all the work that the editor did). 

These three goals are in direct conflict with one another, yet done in the correct order they create a synergy and a process via which an idea goes from nothing to success.

This is where the thought experiment ended, and, at that time (being around 2002), there was very little else to think about; in order to create art, one still needed to go through gatekeepers, publishers, record labels, distributors, and so forth. But then, somewhere in the mid-00s, seemingly out of nowhere the "Creator Economy" sparked into existence. People began to be able to simultaneously inhabit all three of the roles proposed by the thought experiment’s rudiments. You now not only had people who believed they had something to say, but who were furnished with the tools to create, from start to finish, content which would become the platform through which their ideas could reach the world. How marvelous!

Of course, as with anything, there are ups and downs.

For better or for worse, the old way, with its editors and publishers, was equipped with a built-in system of appraisal; at least two sets of eyes (and likely many more) other than the writer’s would read the manuscript and decide whether it was a worthwhile project to invest time and money into. On one hand, this might mean that many books (films, music, etc.) that were ahead of their time or in other ways risky might have been passed over, but on the other hand, these eyes could act as a sort of filtering system, only allowing through content with something (they believed was) meaningful and valuable to say.

Is the fact that this system of appraisal has all but disappeared a good or a bad thing? The question is mostly irrelevant; for creators and the audiences they reach, the new way is here. A massive democratization of creativity is upon us, and, sadly, in this writer’s estimation, humanity hasn’t much risen to the occasion. There’s more junk on the internet than there ever has been. Products like BandLab, while believing (and genuinely so, I believe) themselves to be bringing power to the masses, merely make making music a casual affair; taking the challenge out of the creation of art also strips the endeavor of its magic, and much of its meaning. 

So what is there left for the real craftspeople in this new frontier of ready-made, boil-in-the-bag ersatz creativity? I’d like to think that, for them, remembering that there was a time before machines started making chairs and tables and silverware, that these now-commodified goods were once produced painstakingly by passionate and proficient women and men. There will always be space for quality and value—remember this. Just because Ikea exists doesn’t mean that the hunger for beautiful and personal hand-made furniture has abated.

​We the conscious artisans of the world must hold on to this, this faith in higher humanity. We must not succumb to what the sellers of slick and synthetic would have us believe, that the success of their new reality should see us surrender to second-class citizenry in the creative landscape.

I end this year, this back-breaking year of love, labor, and deep loss, with a blessing. To quote (or rather paraphrase) the Jester himself:

To all you true creators: remember how special you are, and know how much you are supported. The counterfeiters and false prophets may reign for the moment, but soaring through the cosmos are the angels of the universe, crying out in passion and delight to remind us that we remain, forever, heaven blessed. Our song, the beautiful adventure that we set forth for the benefit of humanity, is fundamental, and unchanging. Remember this, always. 

Travel safe and talk soon.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, TO ALL, 2023.

Title Inspiration: Watershed (Saliers), Indigo Girls

Art is not easy. So many people think they are doing it every day. I’m not saying I know the difference between who are and who aren’t; to paraphrase John Cleese’s Pope Julius II, “I may not know a lot about art, but I know what I like.” In today’s anti-normative world, it’s truly impossible to say which one of a so-called pop artiste dressing herself up in bubble wrap, a rapping idiot-savant calling himself Jesus Christ, and a sixteen year old girl clothed in a tube top and little else singing “Sweet Child ‘o Mine” is art, and which isn’t (do any of them have to be?, is to me the obvious question).

Having this kind of discernment has, on the surface, very little use in today’s surface world. But I believe there is a purpose to being able to tell the difference between those in it for vainglory—Bruce Lee would refer to their journey as the Art of Self-Image Aggrandizement—and those who are in it for true excellence, and the truth that comes with it, for the sake of not merely making an impact on the world, but making a positive one, at least so far as their beliefs and conscience can guide them. I think what makes it easier to tell who’s doing what is to consider the concept of *effective art*.

What is this thing that I propose exists: effective art? I believe what makes effective art effective is that it touches us in a way that is significant. But what does this mean? Effective art (think of a song that still makes you cry even after you’ve heard a thousand times) creates a process through which the audience member not only passes but is also changed in a way that is both indelible and irreversible. Aristotle speaks of mimesis in the Poetics. Mimesis is a large part of this process. By employing the mimetic aspect of art, the artist may create a work that is somehow both broad-reaching enough to apply to all persons yet specific enough that one person will feel as though the work of art has been created just for them.

Because of this personal connection, the viewer will come to see themselves in the protagonist, and will share in their failures and their success. This brings us to the second part of the process, which is catharsis. Via the experience of the protagonist’s highs and lows, the viewer (or listener) experiences the artistic journey not only as the trials and tribulations of another person, but as part of one’s own story, and at the point of conclusion, the viewer (or listener) feels a very real sense of having been transfigured, cleansed, or else having experienced epiphany on a deep level. This is one of the ways the artist can employ their skill and acumen for the good, by creating and layering positive change (which, note, does not assume a “happy ending”) in the conclusions of their art. 
​

I find I can often tell between art that is created by the artists for themselves and art that is effective by locating where I experience what I often refer to as “the tingles.” When a work of art is high intensity, our autonomic reaction is to feel that intensity somewhere in our physical body. I’d wager that all of us have cried during certain movies, songs, theatrical performances, and many other expressions of art based on our preferences (visual art, dance, performance art). In my experience, art that truly touches the soul can be felt in (of all places) the sides of the arms, and the shoulders. Almost without fail, when I notice a tingling sensation there in my body, emotional catharsis is nearby, whether it manifests in the form of a deep cleansing breath, laughter, or crying.

In contrast, art created to serve the artist’s ego can be felt almost anywhere else. I’ve been confounded by this in the past, watching films or theatrical performances and feeling stirred yet also feeling a sense of emptiness and not knowing why (I’m looking at you, “Hancock” (2008)). I’ve felt my head swell in agony over a protagonist’s dramatic fall from grace. My heart has bled over a main character’s crippling anxiety. I’ve even cried watching a community be destroyed for hypocrisy and lack of oversight. But one common factor insists itself upon these three scenarios: I never felt anything in my shoulders, nor did I feel something in the sides of my arms. It seems so odd that this—the precise location of “the tingles”—be the determining factor. But, sure enough, when the dust of high emotion settled in each of these (and, certainly, many other) cases, I was left with a feeling of having witnessed something created not for the benefit of my edification, but instead for its own thirst and need for attention.

And herein lies the danger, and is why art can so easily by hijacked and turned from an activity that is intrinsically benevolent to one whose sole purpose is to fulfill a narcissistic personality’s need for self-image aggrandizement. I disagree with the (relatively recent) adage that “the head can be persuaded, but the heart is not so easily changed” (I think it’s from “Frozen” (2013) (he says, having seen it seven times)); it’s actually fairly easy to manipulate the heart, just look at how many toxic relationships remain unexamined due to family loyalty. There’s not really anything that can be done about this. As we perfect the expression of form e.g. the play, the song, the novel, the movie etc., it becomes easier for art pirates (to coin a phrase) to plunder these forms and mine them for their own selfish needs (see “United Passions” (2014)—actually, don’t.)

I would humbly put forward that awareness is the best weapon under these modern day circumstances. For me, a key component to a better life as an art consumer has been to be relentlessly conscious of the art I was consuming. I found when I was willing to question what was placed in front of me, I became far less willing to leap into the jaws of the predatory pseudo-art that found it way into my purview simply because its creators owned all the distribution outlets (now who might I be talking about? … I still like Frozen.) It’s certainly made me less hip—to this day I have never heard the radio offering known to many as “Uptown Funk,” in fact I’m not sure I’ve heard a new song since 2012, except for that Mendez/Cabello duet from a few years ago (to be fair I was just out of inpatient and was trying to find my roots among free humans by listening to *anything* that came on the radio) and something by Taylor Swift about how some people need to calm down—I actually like that one.

No, I’m not a doom and gloom, everything after 1986 sucks, kind of guy. There are always new, wonderful discoveries to be made as a consumer of art (the jewel that is “Ted Lasso” to name one.) I wonder if we’re not on the precipice of a new *slow art* movement, perhaps similar as to what happened at the transition from the 80s into the 90s, except, hopefully, a little wiser, and this time truly shedding the skin of artifice for a new kind of authenticity, where artistry and artisanship find their place again among the pantheon values of self-expression. For better or for worse I think the “influencer” is here to stay, at least for awhile, and it might be that all you need to do is film yourself eating cereal with hot sauce to be called a “creator” but to quote Keith Carradine: it don’t worry me. (Nashville (1975))

I do what I do the way I do it (this is a surely a quote). No amount of sanitized prefabricated mindless cookie-cutter entertainment can take away my love of creating art to help others. I was told at a young age by an uncle who would turn out to be one of the strongest influences of my early creative life that I should always remember to give back to society. At the time I was busy getting the crap kicked out of me by racist mobs in a Dickensian all-boys boarding school, but, thankfully, the words stuck with me. Art is the greatest blessing (shared; my wife, obviously) that I’ve received in my already pretty blessed life. It seems a natural choice to pass it along.

Some might still call me unsuccessful, and in some ways they’d be right. I have no community of crazed fans (yet/who cares, my wife would say), I have no mantelpiece full of trophies or awards (again, yet/who cares, she’d say, because she’s amazing). But in the past seventeen years, I’ve had the time and space, away from the joneses, away from the restless throng, to gruelingly put myself through the ropes; I’ve gained mastery over the fundamentals of harmony, counterpoint, lyricism, rhyme, wordplay, music production, storywriting, MIDI programming, arrangement, transcription, voice, performance, and many more areas of study that, in my opinion, form only the very basics of what it means to be an artist, a real creator. At least that’s what I think. And sure, maybe all of this is not a route to success. But I believe it to be a path to self-mastery, and, with that, a means to unlock the secret to wellbeing and abundance, in a world that truly needs it.

Travel safe. Talk soon. -AF

Title Inspiration: The Gambler (Schlitz), Kenny Rogers

One of the advantages of being unsuccessful is that very few people, if any, want a piece of you. I remember well my days of pseudo fame—you know, the kind of which everyone is said to experience fifteen minutes. I remember the unspoken imperative that you at all costs keep up with the Joneses, the incessant expectation that your itinerary be scheduled around this allstar compilation album audition or that appearance at so-and-so’s fashion awards run, rather than your actual needs as a human; all of this turned my young brush with celebritydom into an exercise of being chewed, swallowed, and spat out, time after time, at the best of times.

I remember being asked once, in my state of pseudo-ascendancy by a pseudo-gatekeeper, what I wished to be. Now, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. But I knew at the time that giving this answer would bear little fruit, so I turned to the closest and most genuine response that I felt would suffice, and said that what I wanted to do was write songs, I wanted to be a songwriter. We debated the subject for some time (meaning, he spoke and I listened, this is Asia after all), and eventually the conclusion was drawn that I would only be a songwriter when I wrote songs and got paid for doing it. That would be my one definition of success.

I carried this charge around with me in my young life as a musician. When I left the bright lights of Malaysia’s cultural capital in 2005, I also left behind a burgeoning career, a move that many friends, even close ones couldn’t comprehend. I didn’t have the guts to say it at the time, mostly because it felt laced with a sort of John Lennon-esque man-child helplessness that I had long sought to avoid. But the fact of the matter was, I left to be with someone, for love if you will, specifically the love of a kind and beautiful woman, wise beyond her years, who looked deep into my soul with all its charred scars and fetid wounds, and said: we can do this.

The years went by. I remember hitting thirty. Still, not a cent from anyone for the songs I was painstakingly writing in my home basement studio. Young puppies became pets in their prime, who became mature dogs, their love unflinching, their attention unwavering. I miss the ones we’ve lost to time, and cherish that moments I am spending with all of them, but especially the oldest ones, who despite our general avoidance of the subject we know are over the proverbial hill. Hairs turn grey, joints become more brittle. And need I mention the colonoscopies? (Well, I’m still just forty four, but I hear their approach like the tick-tock of a hungry crocodile hell-bent on horrors untold.)

So here I am, in my mid forties now, the amount of money I have been paid for my songwriting (or other musical work, for that matter) since I arrived on these shores unable to buy me lunch at the local deli. I live with my wife, who has remained married to me now for reasons unknown for seventeen years, on a decidedly unflashy New England farmstead with six dogs, three goats (one more on the way), two horses, and an open door to those dear to us. I’ve written, say, a hundred and five songs give or take, from orchestral works to acoustic ballads, some organized into sprawling rock operas and musicals, others barely a minute long, just enough to get a single idea across and hopefully elicit a smile.

<sidebar> Don’t ask how I live. The answer is not a soundbite. Separate from my wife’s professional and business successes, which are considerable, my financial situation is a stultifyingly tedious and rancidly complicated tale involving a patriarch who is richer than Trump (and possibly just as disagreeable), and a grandmother who died far too young. The bottom line is I find myself in a place where my day-to-day needs are more or less taken care of (more of less) </sidebar>

Still, it’s a far-cry from being Malaysia’s new “it”-boy who could write his ticket and command a six-figure salary for a month’s work (somehow, don’t ask me). And for my life’s circumstances, my interlocutor that day at lunch would surely insist that I am not to be considered a songwriter, because the cumulative offerings I have received for said activity are too paltry. Now, the lifelong student that I am likes to say silly things like, “What do we really know for certain? Can we be really sure of anything?” 

But in this instance, I’m pretty sure of myself when I say: you know, I don’t think he was right.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Title Inspiration: The Gambler (Schlitz), Kenny Rogers

​In 2010 I wrote a blog post titled Ten Years and Still Walking. “Strange feelings abound,” I wrote. I remember tremulously hitting “post” on only the second blog I’d ever written, wondering if I was an idiot for sharing my thoughts so, and specifically for having shared a demo of a piece “so early on in its development.” Twelve years later and I find myself knee-deep in the process of writing a fantasy ebook series, releasing a concept album, two singles, and a live EP all in the space of a year while surprisingly not  burning out, and Still Walking, which had fallen out of my direct purview for the better part of eight years, suddenly appears within the crosshairs in the form of the musical project Continuity. And thus, the question, “How did I write the song Still Walking?” What was the Concept, and how did it precipitate the process that would lead to the composition?

With Still Walking the Concept is musical. One cannot understand the underlying DNA of this song without being familiar with another two pieces. Still Walking is part of the greater work Continuity, a rock opera that explores mental illness and which is the thematic sequel to States of Matter, the first major piece I wrote, back in 2000. In States of Matter there is one song in particular that has generated a sort of musical meme that has permeated at least a few of songs that I have written. That song is Walking Away, and its (known) scions are the songs No Need to Hide (States of Matter), Light Up These Eyes (Ray of Sunshine), and finally, Still Walking (Continuity). 

With Still Walking, part of the song’s raison d’être was to be a link to its ancestor Walking Away. The respective characters in both songs are trying to convince themselves that they are strong enough to “walk,” be it away from a toxic relationship, or physically, having suffered a debilitating illness. To quote Walking Away, I started with a syncopated vi-I/3-IV chord motif. Along with the phrase, “I’m still walking,” this became the song’s underlying Concept. (Incidentaly, I also wanted to quote the song Rain from States of Matter, which I managed to do in the last line of the chorus plus in the background accompaniment in the bridge).

Once that was determined, the called-for complementary progression, which would be used in the verses, almost inevitably, had to be descending. I decided upon a descending bass line—1, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2—with corresponding harmonies, with a II7-V turnaround, using the “secondary dominant” (for the geeks out there—you’re in good company), for a little bit of extra tension to propel us into the chorus.

As I touched on previously, the bridge mirrors then entire harmonic universe of the other two sections, by being almost entirely ascending harmonically. It even contains a modulation, one whole-step upwards; after the contemplative introspection of the verses and choruses, the song felt as though it needed some lift. The downchorus returns us to a sense of uncertainty, with the final two choruses a defiant statement of self-belief in the face of overwhelming odds.

In many ways the lyrics of a song are the most difficult component of the songwriting process, in my experience because they are messy, emotion-bound, and while not everyone can claim to be a musical composer, everyone deep down kind of thinks they’re a writer (I should know, writing a fantasy ebook series with absolutely no qualifications to do so). Similar to Walking Away I wanted to keep the lyrical content of this song simple. That said, I’m a huge sucker for the jumble of internal and regular rhyming patterns, in this case ABCD, ABED, as such, in the second verse:

If I may say so myself, I was especially pleased with the internal “tapback” rhyme (A) of “eyes red,” and “gonna shed,” as well as the unnecessary, unintentional, but very satisfying rhyming of “eyes” with “skies.” Love it when a plan (or, maybe, sheer dumb luck?) comes together. Generally speaking, any thoughts I have about lyrics are humble ones. I don’t really have much by way of technical know-how to this process; it’s mostly a lot of probing and asking the song where it wants to take me. I do, however, use perfect rhyme, however, for example: (not from Walking Away)

It’s just a school I grew up in (from Carole King to Stephen Sondheim) and I find it way more challenging to do, and also way more satisfying (probably explains why I stopped listening to pop radio around 2011). I supposed I might recommend, lyricwise, staying connected with the emotional core of the character in the particular moment that the song is taking place. What are the chemicals (hormones, emotions, cognitions) in their body trying to make them do? What are their deep desires (doesn’t matter how dark)? And then relay them as accurately as possible. 
​
​:)

I’ll look forward to possibly doing more of these. I’ve got a whole mess of songs, each of whom came with its own version of this process. I hope you found this interesting and that it gave a little clue-in to what can often be considered a baffling if near impossible process. As you can see, with this entry, I included notated music as an aid to the various explanations. If you’d like to hear audio, or even see video, I could look into doing that for future entries. 

Many thanks. Travel safe and talk soon. 

Travel safe and talk soon!

​-AF

Wishing you all a HAPPY NEW YEAR 2022 :)

Title Inspiration: Watershed (Saliers), Indigo Girls

Not this guy. This guy knows plenty.
​

The last one is perhaps controversial: do you love yourself? Now. Here, I do not mean do you love the beauty within yourself and your connection with the heavenly force and the solemn, sad, splendid satisfaction that you feel from your own company and the inner knowledge of fullness and peace that you possess inherently. No, that’s awesome. Keep holding on to that. What I mean is: are you a self-loving twit? You know, like that guy on the charts, whose name is--OH damn, I almost slipped up and mentioned some celebrity by name—no, I’m not going to do that, it’s low-hanging fruit and it’s none of my business to judge people in particular, just, you know, the ugly qualities that some of them might inhabit en masse. 

So, you know, that would be the last tip I would humbly submit. Stanislavski, in my opinion, put it better than I could ever hack up, so I’ll quote him directly: "Love the art in yourself, and not yourself in the art." Put the art first. Always. That’s all I’m going to say; that’s all the needs saying, really.

I’m off to go write a song. Maybe one day I might record it. Maybe release it. Maybe I’ll do everything in line with what some of those influencers do. Create a social media campaign around it. Who knows? I feel a sense of freedom, a sense of openness, that I do what I do for the love of doing it. Thank you for being on this journey alongside me. 

Travel safe. Talk soon.

-AF

Title Inspiration: Anyone Who Had a Heart (Bacharach, David), Cilla Black