B-Sides from the Dojo
None of these is a "hidden gem"; they're more like hidden gravel. But they have moments (brief, decent moments); it's mostly me singing and strumming to the beat of mediocrity. These:
Magic Trick (February 19, 2009)
I always thought this one had potential. It just needed some revising. A couple lines I don't like; a couple lines I do. Some moments that work; some moments that don't. And then it's over. Kind of quickly. I wrote and recorded this version on Valentine's morning, 2009. But I wasn't dating anyone. So when I was done, I just turned my computer off and... I don't know. Received condolences? Whatever. I exported it a few days later. I do like the theme. It's about a poor boy trying to show a girl he loves her, figuring out the meaningful bits of poverty he can give her. The gestures are cheap but they're not worthless. Trash and a magic trick. And hopefully it makes her happy. Who cares. Someday I'll redo it. Lum and I actually started a new version a few years ago and never finished. I think all I have to do is sing it (if I can find the tracks; I haven't heard it in years). The one line that's definitely staying in the new version: i'll melt my crayons into clay so i can build your house; i'll lift my pen to the page to letter our vows. Those were the first lines I wrote. And they remain the only unimprovable part of the song (I think). It's what I'll start with on the next version. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
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Tilt (February 5, 2009)
I wrote and recorded this one on the same day as Paper Sun. I got out of sofa (bed) that morning knowing I'd do Tilt, but I hadn't planned on recording anything else. After spending half the day programming the beat and trying to lay down the accompanying tracks within that beat, so minor-keyed and hyper-structured, Paper Sun was just my cool down song. Sort of an afterthought. I wanted to play something off time and major-key jangly. Just to steady my mood. An hour after writing the first note, the first line, the recording was done. I didn't intend it to be a finished draft. When I hit the record button, I didn't even have the ending worked out yet. From about 2:00 onward, it's half improvised. I was just testing out the idea and I didn't think I was going to make it that far. But I did. And that's the last time I ever played it. It's been almost eight years; at this point, I don't even remember how to play it. I'm sure I could figure it out. There are only a few different chord structures I play on pretty much all of my songs. Just listen (carefully) to Morning Song, Pipe Dream, and Start with Me; they're the same song. Yeah, the words and their melodies are different, but the instrumentation is practically identical. I think Paper Sun, Chance, and End with Me are probably the same song too. So I'm sure I could figure out how to play it in about twenty seconds. I just haven't bothered. But if I were to bother, and were to bother rerecording, I'm sure I'd revise an awful lot. And I hope I'd play it better (about every eighth second, I bumped the wrong string). For a cheap demo though (recorded only for the purpose of documenting the idea), it turned out okay. I still think Paper Sun was the best song I recorded that day. Tilt, on the other hand, which I spent most of the day working on, didn't quite work. There was too much effort; it was too deliberate. The whole song just felt self-conscious. It's like a Facebook selfie where the picture is taken 20 times until the angles and lighting are at their most flattering... but by the twentieth shot, the smile has grown tired, and it's being held in place by determination alone. Yeah, the lighting is fine, but the emotion is counterfeit. That's what I don't like about Tilt. I do like the beat though. I should redo it, recycle that part and scrap the rest. Maybe keep one line: i'll tread this fire to dim the spark so the light can pass from dark to dark tonight. Other than the beat and that one line, I'd start over. I'd rewrite everything. I doubt I will. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
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Open River (May 25, 2014)
It's just two tracks. One mic on guitar, one on vocals. And I don't really like the sound of either. I guess the guitar is okay, but the vocals kind of suck. And they're not worth redoing because the melody is hardly rocking anyone's world. Or rocking their moons. Or even an astroid. A couple decent lines, but that's it. "All the heart poems you choose give nothing away." That was all right. The rest just sort of fills space. Like vegetables on a dinner plate. Open River is five helpings of cauliflower. And nothing else. It's a musical meal for a dieting vegan. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
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This Way to the Minnows (August 5, 2011)
It was about a girl, as practically all songs (and roughly half of all civilization) is. Tucker Max said it both best (I think first) and worst (with profound sexism), but there's some truth to it (unsettling though that truth may be). I paraphrase (and expand):
Man's effort to impress his sexual counterpart is the foundation of culture, of the arts, of civil society. Monuments are never built for monuments' sake; heroic deeds are never an exercise in heroism. Whether you're a musician, a warlord, an architect... it doesn't matter. The symphonies, sieges, and ziggurats were all foreplay of a kind. Sure, many of life's greatest masterpieces were inspired by faith in the supernatural. But, if we're being honest, the rest (which is to say, most) of humanity's finest creations -- its palaces, sculptures, and novels -- were built, carved, and written with the primary goal of bedding wenches. (Occasionally the intention may have been to impress a single fertile wench -- impress her straight to the bedchamber -- but one can be confident the ultimate reward sought in all of these endeavors was a reproductive one.) Pining and lusting biology is the rebar of every skyscraper.
In the twenty-first century, motivations are more confused (scarcely more complex) and women are contributing just as many monuments to the sexual sweepstakes. But everyone knows where this all began. Your house, your car, your clothes. Your half-caff, sugar-free, venti, caramel soy latte with cream (and "two pumps", whatever that means). Exactly 100% of the inspiration for Starbucks was fornication. I know this because the three men who started it were not monks (I Googled them). Whether they understood their motivations doesn't matter; the goal was copulatory, aimed at wenches of the American 70s. And I'm sure it worked.
In my case, the target of my labors was a Hayley. And my castle, my Starbucks, my opus was a seriously unimpressive song. It didn't end in a climax and it won't be logged in the artistic annals of Western culture. I didn't even let anyone hear the song for years. I recorded it in 2011 and this is the first time I've posted it publicly. (That doesn't contradict any of the biology that motivated its creation; it just means I trained for battle but on the day of the siege, I was too scared to show up.)
The song itself is boring here and there, but it had its moments. If I were to rewrite it now, it'd be a bit different. But I do like the intro guitar; it just doesn't sound good in this recording. I still play it all the time though. Not the digital file, but in real life. Like on my guitar, using my hands. Sometimes I'll sing slightly different lyrics; I don't still sing that same girl's name. But I do leave most of the lines intact. Partly because I still like them. Except the parts where there are multiple vocal melodies going at once (I don't know why I do that; I always think it sounds good in the moment but I've never once liked the way it sounded a month later). Having multiple vocal melodies makes it difficult to coherently keep track of what's being sung where, but it's something like this:
oh, this season is a sweetheart of the sorrow / her garden grows / and oh, tomorrow will be the best thing i've ever had / devoured in change / i said your name / Hayley, la la la / i'll catch up with you / Hayley, la la la / don't you wait up / we'll make it last / i killed this evening's reaper so the fevers that fall will break / then you know i'll know your taste / come with me / we'll find our way / though when i try / that's when i find there's a new king and i'm the new prince of the nothing / and now they think i don't have anything / but HVM, i'll give you something / i'll save my last breath up for you / it's all for you / we'll make this last / this afternoon's still rushing all the minnows to her arms / where i'll be and you are / Hayley, la la la / don't you wait up / i know your wrists and i know your voice / denied, this boy might always miss / so come become mine and save me a kiss / i've got starshine for my headlights and miles in my pockets / when i stitch in the bullets they won't find what i've hidden here / you know i'll stitch them all inside / then love stay because the walls won't hold outside / you know tonight i'm gonna keep you here somehow / and love i'll try although my verse won't keep your eyes / so please love stay because these walls won't hold outside / these flowers that smile today tomorrow die / and the vast empires of minnows depart / as i gather up the wine the stars all lay down / and they aim me toward the minnows and my quiet grave / where i'll rest my old heart / i'd hide it here forever but her dead hand is reaching out / tonight, tonight, tonight / oh my, tomorrow we'll run away / counting our steps in days / and tomorrow we'll run away / and count up our steps in days / now i know all of the air won't turn outside / but if tonight we make this last / and our garden grows and grows / and i could be who you cry out for / i would stay through yesterdays and yesterlaters, yesteralways, yesternevers / i would stay / i'd be a scream away / but now this air tonight holds my plane / don't you breathe it in / because when the flight comes for me, if i leave, it will never be the same / so wait up tonight / anyway that you choose me i would stay / and be home / i'd be home. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
Man's effort to impress his sexual counterpart is the foundation of culture, of the arts, of civil society. Monuments are never built for monuments' sake; heroic deeds are never an exercise in heroism. Whether you're a musician, a warlord, an architect... it doesn't matter. The symphonies, sieges, and ziggurats were all foreplay of a kind. Sure, many of life's greatest masterpieces were inspired by faith in the supernatural. But, if we're being honest, the rest (which is to say, most) of humanity's finest creations -- its palaces, sculptures, and novels -- were built, carved, and written with the primary goal of bedding wenches. (Occasionally the intention may have been to impress a single fertile wench -- impress her straight to the bedchamber -- but one can be confident the ultimate reward sought in all of these endeavors was a reproductive one.) Pining and lusting biology is the rebar of every skyscraper.
In the twenty-first century, motivations are more confused (scarcely more complex) and women are contributing just as many monuments to the sexual sweepstakes. But everyone knows where this all began. Your house, your car, your clothes. Your half-caff, sugar-free, venti, caramel soy latte with cream (and "two pumps", whatever that means). Exactly 100% of the inspiration for Starbucks was fornication. I know this because the three men who started it were not monks (I Googled them). Whether they understood their motivations doesn't matter; the goal was copulatory, aimed at wenches of the American 70s. And I'm sure it worked.
In my case, the target of my labors was a Hayley. And my castle, my Starbucks, my opus was a seriously unimpressive song. It didn't end in a climax and it won't be logged in the artistic annals of Western culture. I didn't even let anyone hear the song for years. I recorded it in 2011 and this is the first time I've posted it publicly. (That doesn't contradict any of the biology that motivated its creation; it just means I trained for battle but on the day of the siege, I was too scared to show up.)
The song itself is boring here and there, but it had its moments. If I were to rewrite it now, it'd be a bit different. But I do like the intro guitar; it just doesn't sound good in this recording. I still play it all the time though. Not the digital file, but in real life. Like on my guitar, using my hands. Sometimes I'll sing slightly different lyrics; I don't still sing that same girl's name. But I do leave most of the lines intact. Partly because I still like them. Except the parts where there are multiple vocal melodies going at once (I don't know why I do that; I always think it sounds good in the moment but I've never once liked the way it sounded a month later). Having multiple vocal melodies makes it difficult to coherently keep track of what's being sung where, but it's something like this:
oh, this season is a sweetheart of the sorrow / her garden grows / and oh, tomorrow will be the best thing i've ever had / devoured in change / i said your name / Hayley, la la la / i'll catch up with you / Hayley, la la la / don't you wait up / we'll make it last / i killed this evening's reaper so the fevers that fall will break / then you know i'll know your taste / come with me / we'll find our way / though when i try / that's when i find there's a new king and i'm the new prince of the nothing / and now they think i don't have anything / but HVM, i'll give you something / i'll save my last breath up for you / it's all for you / we'll make this last / this afternoon's still rushing all the minnows to her arms / where i'll be and you are / Hayley, la la la / don't you wait up / i know your wrists and i know your voice / denied, this boy might always miss / so come become mine and save me a kiss / i've got starshine for my headlights and miles in my pockets / when i stitch in the bullets they won't find what i've hidden here / you know i'll stitch them all inside / then love stay because the walls won't hold outside / you know tonight i'm gonna keep you here somehow / and love i'll try although my verse won't keep your eyes / so please love stay because these walls won't hold outside / these flowers that smile today tomorrow die / and the vast empires of minnows depart / as i gather up the wine the stars all lay down / and they aim me toward the minnows and my quiet grave / where i'll rest my old heart / i'd hide it here forever but her dead hand is reaching out / tonight, tonight, tonight / oh my, tomorrow we'll run away / counting our steps in days / and tomorrow we'll run away / and count up our steps in days / now i know all of the air won't turn outside / but if tonight we make this last / and our garden grows and grows / and i could be who you cry out for / i would stay through yesterdays and yesterlaters, yesteralways, yesternevers / i would stay / i'd be a scream away / but now this air tonight holds my plane / don't you breathe it in / because when the flight comes for me, if i leave, it will never be the same / so wait up tonight / anyway that you choose me i would stay / and be home / i'd be home. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
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New American Anthem (November 29, 2007)
This song is mostly terrible. But it has one thing that works: the riff. I still love that intro riff. I came up with it on an airplane headed to Cameroon. If Black Sabbath had traded some of their skill for aggression, some of their catchiness for brute metal, and all of their recording equipment for a cheap Gateway with pirated Sonar and a $50 USB mic...
My goal: take Crazy Train and make it angrier. I think it still works... just the riff. My original demo for this song was acoustic though. And other than the riff, all of the instrumentation was different. I played it for Lum. He shared my "Angry Train" vision. And my lyrical theme (anti-war, anti-neocon, anti-everything). So Lum plugged his own guitar in and recorded nearly all of the instrumentation (all of the good parts), I scribbled the final draft of the lyrics on a paper towel, and then I sang it. And I sing off key pretty much the whole time. I mean, it's really bad. But there's almost a charm in it. I was so full of passion, silly as it was. I seemed to really mean those words. This was nearly a decade ago. I roll my eyes at it now. And I distrust anyone who expresses any amount of commitment to any political position (bumper stickers, Facebook posts, encouragement for others to "get out there and vote!").
Today (as a thirty-six-year-old professor), if I met my younger, unemployed, more combustible self, I would find him to be a pointless (and probably obnoxious) bore, wasting all that vigor on "passion", which will never cover a mortgage, never put kids through college, and seldom entertain an audience. The craft is what works; it's all that matters in the end. It's practicing scales, it's studying, it's rehearsal. Passion is just misdirected work ethic (I think... but I'm just thinking it now, so I could be wrong). Anyway, when I wrote this song, I was "passionate." And pissed at life. But a lot more than passion and pissiness is required to create a good song... as evidenced by New American Anthem (evidenced by how bad it is, of course).
What the song is about is reasonable though. When I was eight, I became friends with Justin Eyerly. I would go to his house after school and we would play Metroid (which had amazing music for MIDI; I've never written anything that good). Eventually our relationship deteriorated into one of friendly acquaintance. The last time I saw Justin was in 2003. At the time, my brother played in a band called Perfume and they were playing a show at a bar in Portland. The kind of bar that smells like urine. Justin and I were there together watching the show. In 2004, Justin was shipped off to Baghdad. That's where he died. It was June 4th. On June 13th, there was a memorial service in Portland. My brother and I went. Ted Kulongoski (former Governor of Oregon) gave the eulogy. One of them, anyway. This is what Ted said: "Justin comes home to us today a hero!" I found it incredibly insulting. He just said it to elicit cheers. Justin didn't come home at all. A bomb killed him. He blew up. There is no body. But he "comes home to us today a hero!" It just made me angry. People were dying and nobody was acknowledging that honestly. Justin's totally empty coffin contained a hero? Where? "Euphemism, euphemism, flag waving, go troops!" That's all I heard.
The Statesman Journal is Salem's major newspaper. It printed a short article about Justin when he died. The day I took it off my wall and put it in a box is the day I decided to write the song (starting with the Cameroonian plane riff). But it's a shitty song (again, excepting the monster intro riff, which I'll always like far more than it deserves). The band Filter wrote Justin a better song, released it in 2008. It's called Soldiers of Misfortune. I think they dedicated the album to him too. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
My goal: take Crazy Train and make it angrier. I think it still works... just the riff. My original demo for this song was acoustic though. And other than the riff, all of the instrumentation was different. I played it for Lum. He shared my "Angry Train" vision. And my lyrical theme (anti-war, anti-neocon, anti-everything). So Lum plugged his own guitar in and recorded nearly all of the instrumentation (all of the good parts), I scribbled the final draft of the lyrics on a paper towel, and then I sang it. And I sing off key pretty much the whole time. I mean, it's really bad. But there's almost a charm in it. I was so full of passion, silly as it was. I seemed to really mean those words. This was nearly a decade ago. I roll my eyes at it now. And I distrust anyone who expresses any amount of commitment to any political position (bumper stickers, Facebook posts, encouragement for others to "get out there and vote!").
Today (as a thirty-six-year-old professor), if I met my younger, unemployed, more combustible self, I would find him to be a pointless (and probably obnoxious) bore, wasting all that vigor on "passion", which will never cover a mortgage, never put kids through college, and seldom entertain an audience. The craft is what works; it's all that matters in the end. It's practicing scales, it's studying, it's rehearsal. Passion is just misdirected work ethic (I think... but I'm just thinking it now, so I could be wrong). Anyway, when I wrote this song, I was "passionate." And pissed at life. But a lot more than passion and pissiness is required to create a good song... as evidenced by New American Anthem (evidenced by how bad it is, of course).
What the song is about is reasonable though. When I was eight, I became friends with Justin Eyerly. I would go to his house after school and we would play Metroid (which had amazing music for MIDI; I've never written anything that good). Eventually our relationship deteriorated into one of friendly acquaintance. The last time I saw Justin was in 2003. At the time, my brother played in a band called Perfume and they were playing a show at a bar in Portland. The kind of bar that smells like urine. Justin and I were there together watching the show. In 2004, Justin was shipped off to Baghdad. That's where he died. It was June 4th. On June 13th, there was a memorial service in Portland. My brother and I went. Ted Kulongoski (former Governor of Oregon) gave the eulogy. One of them, anyway. This is what Ted said: "Justin comes home to us today a hero!" I found it incredibly insulting. He just said it to elicit cheers. Justin didn't come home at all. A bomb killed him. He blew up. There is no body. But he "comes home to us today a hero!" It just made me angry. People were dying and nobody was acknowledging that honestly. Justin's totally empty coffin contained a hero? Where? "Euphemism, euphemism, flag waving, go troops!" That's all I heard.
The Statesman Journal is Salem's major newspaper. It printed a short article about Justin when he died. The day I took it off my wall and put it in a box is the day I decided to write the song (starting with the Cameroonian plane riff). But it's a shitty song (again, excepting the monster intro riff, which I'll always like far more than it deserves). The band Filter wrote Justin a better song, released it in 2008. It's called Soldiers of Misfortune. I think they dedicated the album to him too. --cdj, Dec. 18, 2016
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When I'm You (third attempt) (October 26, 2012)
My first two attempts at playing this song are on the "Drafts" page. I spent about an hour writing it and one second after finishing, recorded it on an Olympus handheld voice memo recorder. That was draft one. It was okay. So I hit record again. That was draft two. It was a little better. I hit record again. Draft three (this one). It was better for a minute... but then, somewhere near the end, I just couldn't figure out what key it was. Line after line (beginning with "here is no place to be"), I couldn't get my voice to meet it. So this was my last attempt to play it. Ever. I've never played it since. I remember how to play it (I'm air guitaring it right now... and it sounds good). Maybe someday I'll do a real version. It needs drums and bass. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
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Noctura Gumshoe (Christmas, 2010)
This song is not good. I do like it though, kind of. My brother and I wrote it on Christmas Eve and recorded it on Christmas Day, 2010. What makes me like it isn't the actual song, obviously (again, it's not good). And it's not the recording or the lyrics or anything audible or songy. It's the experience. It's a recording of the first time my brother and I ever really jammed together. It's garbage, sure, but it's sentimental garbage. And all the lyrics are total nonsense. I was just trying to come up with syllables that met the music: the sounds of the vowels, the cadence of the consonants, etc. But I kind of liked bits of that gibberish at the end: you'll know if i'm gone the way how i said i'd go / and though we were just crooks that feed off hearts / it feels so long ago when i look back at the schemes that we had done / i know you could see / i'm the radio sun at ease / in my gumshoe palace dream / i'll drag my breath through every verse i sing / and in all this i am free / but now the speed of years in restless sleep will become centuries / as the curfew bells surrender all our dreams / in time i'm gone / forever crossing this state line / but i fell asleep with the bedroom light on / when i finally wake up i'll find you've gone / now i leave the switch of the corner light on / when i sleep i flicker the beams for you. I'm not saying the lyrics are good. They're not. But gibberish penned in a couple minutes doesn't always work. Musically (not lyrically) it seemed to work here. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
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Parallels (March 21, 2010)
I wrote this one for the daughter of an ex-girlfriend. Her wrists were a mess but she was a great kid. Seriously great kid (with seriously messy wrists). Smart, athletic, funny, but burdened with a thirteen-year-old's popularity. Winning the social lottery at that age is always tragic; it always ends unhappily. I don't think any child can escape that environment without lasting harm. And Katie (that was her name, presumably still is) was accumulating a lot of it. Some parts were fun. We'd run around Salem and I'd watch for police while taking pictures of her getting into misdemeanory mischief so she could fulfill the quota expected by her middle school peers.
Katie was actually a student at my old middle school. And I went to her parent-teacher conference. (I was twenty-nine; she was thirteen; it was a little bit awkward). Many of my old teachers were still there, including the one who tried to expel me (and succeeded in expelling my friend for what we did together). This exact teacher -- older but not softened by those years -- was attempting to expel Katie at the time. I obviously saw my younger self and, absurd though it sounds, the hardships of popularity, in Katie. Thus the name of the song (and why I cared so much for her). I was a disaster and I made it out okay. She can too. That's what the song is about.
The quality of it is bad though. It sounds like I recorded it by playing a cassette tape into a karaoke mic. It's just a bunch of midrange sonic mushiness. And I don't play it or sing it very well. Especially my singing. Katie meant something to me and I was a little bit emotional while I was recording, which made my voice shittier than it normally is. And shortly after this song (i.e., five months later) my "teenage dream" line was hijacked by Katy Perry (album title, song title, chorus line of that hit song, etc.). It's not as though the original coinage was mine, but now it would forever sound as though I plagiarized a gigantic pop hit. Sometime between this song and Katy Perry's stuff, Katie's mom and I broke up... badly. (I actually found out about my breakup through Katie. She sent me a very sweet email: "I like you so much better than my mom's new boyfriend." Um... what? I realize I was 3,000 miles away, but... I was under the impression we were still together. I didn't tell Katie that. I just said "thanks.") Anyway, some of the lyrics did work... and a couple moments of their melodies did too. This:
her eyes shined like glitter in love/ i watched the metal dance and shimmer as her world sped apart / the whole time counting it off in lines dripped down the sink / i feel her shadow reach in and spin the thread of fate / the phantom resurrected born of seasons in grace / now you can play the vandal and i'll watch for police / then i can play the singer who turns it into grief / and we'll stagger out links of a memory as the sirens scream outside / but if you're trading in your soul for the sympathy, then the wraith is in the bells it's and ready when you are / if it takes all night, love / i met a daughter / born of a thousand dreams / but i know they were fit to pass when i find her arm drained white with slices up and down / if i am losing touch, will you reach me / i feel it in the dark / they'll come to take my place / her rib cage jails sadness as we tremble and change / but i will hold the camera and you can play the thief / and i can play the singer that turns it into grief / then we'll stagger out links of a memory / and cast this hurt aside / but we come to find you lost and though it feels the same / the dust over this spell is ready when you are to let me in / love, you're a part of me / i know the marks were meant to last / too young to find you locked inside a teenage dream / but if you ever need me here, i'll be ready when you are / now i know you wanted it all / but you look up and the stars won't realign / they shine down bright but don't know we exist / and it's so damn hard to watch you turn into this / as tortured thoughts come alive / they're etched into her skin but her heart is still untouched / and the age of innocence isn't lost until this feeling begins / then the sweetest child is never a child again / and i know you wore it all just like an ornament of pain / but i know you want to change and i believe in you. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
Katie was actually a student at my old middle school. And I went to her parent-teacher conference. (I was twenty-nine; she was thirteen; it was a little bit awkward). Many of my old teachers were still there, including the one who tried to expel me (and succeeded in expelling my friend for what we did together). This exact teacher -- older but not softened by those years -- was attempting to expel Katie at the time. I obviously saw my younger self and, absurd though it sounds, the hardships of popularity, in Katie. Thus the name of the song (and why I cared so much for her). I was a disaster and I made it out okay. She can too. That's what the song is about.
The quality of it is bad though. It sounds like I recorded it by playing a cassette tape into a karaoke mic. It's just a bunch of midrange sonic mushiness. And I don't play it or sing it very well. Especially my singing. Katie meant something to me and I was a little bit emotional while I was recording, which made my voice shittier than it normally is. And shortly after this song (i.e., five months later) my "teenage dream" line was hijacked by Katy Perry (album title, song title, chorus line of that hit song, etc.). It's not as though the original coinage was mine, but now it would forever sound as though I plagiarized a gigantic pop hit. Sometime between this song and Katy Perry's stuff, Katie's mom and I broke up... badly. (I actually found out about my breakup through Katie. She sent me a very sweet email: "I like you so much better than my mom's new boyfriend." Um... what? I realize I was 3,000 miles away, but... I was under the impression we were still together. I didn't tell Katie that. I just said "thanks.") Anyway, some of the lyrics did work... and a couple moments of their melodies did too. This:
her eyes shined like glitter in love/ i watched the metal dance and shimmer as her world sped apart / the whole time counting it off in lines dripped down the sink / i feel her shadow reach in and spin the thread of fate / the phantom resurrected born of seasons in grace / now you can play the vandal and i'll watch for police / then i can play the singer who turns it into grief / and we'll stagger out links of a memory as the sirens scream outside / but if you're trading in your soul for the sympathy, then the wraith is in the bells it's and ready when you are / if it takes all night, love / i met a daughter / born of a thousand dreams / but i know they were fit to pass when i find her arm drained white with slices up and down / if i am losing touch, will you reach me / i feel it in the dark / they'll come to take my place / her rib cage jails sadness as we tremble and change / but i will hold the camera and you can play the thief / and i can play the singer that turns it into grief / then we'll stagger out links of a memory / and cast this hurt aside / but we come to find you lost and though it feels the same / the dust over this spell is ready when you are to let me in / love, you're a part of me / i know the marks were meant to last / too young to find you locked inside a teenage dream / but if you ever need me here, i'll be ready when you are / now i know you wanted it all / but you look up and the stars won't realign / they shine down bright but don't know we exist / and it's so damn hard to watch you turn into this / as tortured thoughts come alive / they're etched into her skin but her heart is still untouched / and the age of innocence isn't lost until this feeling begins / then the sweetest child is never a child again / and i know you wore it all just like an ornament of pain / but i know you want to change and i believe in you. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
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22 Months (October 6, 2009)
That same ex (see above) had another daughter. This one was 22 months old. That was seven years ago though. Today, she's a real, live child who does things like participate. I guess. I haven't seen her in a long time. But I understand how biology works. I'm sure she's not still a tiny baby. But before today (i.e., seven years ago), when she was a tiny baby, this was a melody I used to play for her. And she would dance to it. I was just fumbling around on guitar one morning, strumming whatever, and then Bella started dancing to that whatever. When I'd change those chords, she'd stop dancing and demand that I return to them (not with clear, articulate language skills, but with pointing, crying, and an expression that communicated crushing disappointment with what I had chosen to play instead). For weeks, those chords were the only melody I was allowed to play. It wasn't a particularly exciting chord sequence, but I never got bored of it because it was so cute watching Bella dance. But I did decide to record it. I was very, very drunk when I did. Very drunk. You can tell. Mostly in my singing. That's not a sober person slurring into the mic. But there were a couple lines (drunkenly sung though they were) that I've always liked: i chased all the dreams of the honeybees that i never could have seen without you / now when i'm sad i know this honey's here with me; this love is mine to keep since i found you. Bella was obviously the "honey" that was there with me. That and the jellyfish line ("this ocean's ankle deep but the jellyfish can coil up around you"). If I ever redid the song (I won't, but if I did), I'd keep those bits and probably discard the rest. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
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The Demon Won Setsubun (September 29, 2012)
In a way, this is the best song I've ever written. I mean, I like Aparts and Latelys. And I like Start with Me. Those are the only two songs that have ever turned out exactly how I wanted them to. The Demon Won Setsubun did not. It turned out exactly nothing like I wanted it to. And that's what makes it my best. The demon's growling is me singing. And the instrumentation is just my guitar and harmonica. No tricks, no effects. No compression, no equalizer. Nothing. Everything (guitar, harmonica, and vocals) just straight into a mic and left exactly as is. The song I was trying to record was called Setsubun and it was very poppy, very friendly, ridiculously playful. Lum (one of my dojo partners) had already moved to Japan. I thought he'd find Setsubun cute, with all its Japanesey playfulness. Something to lift his spirits for a moment. So I exported it and sent it to him. "What the fuck did you send me?", he asked. "Um... Did I sing the Japanese parts badly or something?" I asked that a little bit self-conscious about anything I'd be sending him in the future. "What Japanese parts? What the fuck is it?" I listened. What the fuck did I send him? Apparently, in exporting it, something went (very) wrong. I had recorded it at one speed and exported it at another. Or something. Definitely something happened. I explained to Lum what the song was. Lum's response: "Clearly the demon won Setsubun." That became the song's title. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
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Halloween (October 8, 2007)
Not as good as The Demon Won Setsubun. But Lum and I had a lot of fun making this one. We did the whole thing together. Our working title was "The Great Pumpkin." And our goal was to write the best holiday song ever, about any holiday anything (spirit, etc.), including all that "one horse open sleigh" stuff. We failed, obviously. But, we definitely wrote the best holiday song ever that's over six minutes long, includes classic literature references, and was written by unknown musicians in the Pacific Northwest in October of 2007. We definitely won that division. And we took a lot of pictures as we were recording. --cdj, Dec. 19, 2016
[Halloween Picture Page 1] __ [Halloween Picture Page 2]
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COckTails AND Rifles (February 5, 2009)
The title has such stupid capitalization (the way sixteen-year-olds wrote everything in 1994) because I had a mishap with caps lock the first time I typed it. And since then, I've just copied and pasted it everywhere. I wrote this "song" (can it be called a song?) on an S-Mart receipt while sitting at the El Dorado traffic light on March Lane (Stockton). It's only five lines, but I wrote all of them in this moment, just humming, mumbling, and scribbling against the steering wheel. So the stuff about waiting at the green light... that's what I was doing (exactly) as I was writing it; the light went from red to green and I was still sitting there, scrawling away. And everyone behind me was honking. The words are a bit more narrative than lyrical, I guess (just describing that moment), but I've always liked the last two lines (which are basically the same line): times like these keep people armed with cocktails and rifles all their lives / and times like these keep them armed with cocktails and rifles all their lives. I assumed those angry honkers would be coping with the inconvenience of my mid-traffic songwriting by way of alcohol or homicide. Because I made it home safely, it must have been alcohol.
Home was Adda's mom's house. That's where I was staying at the time. I eventually made it back, bulletless, fell asleep, woke up the next morning, pulled the receipt out of my pocket, picked up my guitar, came up with a melody to suit the vocals, and recorded it. It took about twenty minutes. The song was finished before breakfast. And then I did Tilt until late in the afternoon. And then I did Paper Sun in an hour. It was a productive day, but none of the products were all that good. I guess it's the way I feel about "prolific" writers. It always seems to be a euphemism for "lacking talent." If you could write a good book (To Kill a Mocking Bird, Confederacy of Dunces, The Picture of Dorian Gray), you'd just do that... and go be celebrated for the next century or two. But you can't. So you write sixty books. Or, to put it in different terms, if you could marry Elizabeth Hurley, Katheryn Winnick, or Winnie Cooper, you would. But you're having trouble securing a great wife, so you move to Utah. February 5, 2009 was the Salt Lake City of my musicianship. --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
Home was Adda's mom's house. That's where I was staying at the time. I eventually made it back, bulletless, fell asleep, woke up the next morning, pulled the receipt out of my pocket, picked up my guitar, came up with a melody to suit the vocals, and recorded it. It took about twenty minutes. The song was finished before breakfast. And then I did Tilt until late in the afternoon. And then I did Paper Sun in an hour. It was a productive day, but none of the products were all that good. I guess it's the way I feel about "prolific" writers. It always seems to be a euphemism for "lacking talent." If you could write a good book (To Kill a Mocking Bird, Confederacy of Dunces, The Picture of Dorian Gray), you'd just do that... and go be celebrated for the next century or two. But you can't. So you write sixty books. Or, to put it in different terms, if you could marry Elizabeth Hurley, Katheryn Winnick, or Winnie Cooper, you would. But you're having trouble securing a great wife, so you move to Utah. February 5, 2009 was the Salt Lake City of my musicianship. --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
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Inconvenience, Miyagi dub (September 23, 2011)
I was watching Karate Kid 2 when I came up with this melody. I have a hard time watching movies if I'm not simultaneously accomplishing something else. A movie can never be the primary activity for me; it can only function as the score for some other activity. (This makes theaters a little bit painful. Unless I'm there with a date and I can hold her hand while using my other hand to spell notes out on her arm, one letter at a time, for two hours. I've found dates don't enjoy my company at the theater. My only solution: sneak in rum. That medicates me into a sort of dazed tolerance. Like those tigers that get shot up with narcotics so children can pet them without being killed. That's the only way I can watch a movie for the movie's sake.) Anyway, as Mr. Miyagi was imparting his little wisdoms on Daniel Larusso, I was plucking away on my guitar, coming up with the song. I already had the general melody down; I was just working out the structure and words. I played it over and over, each time coming up with a few more lyrics (about the same Hayley of Minnows). When I had something close to a complete version, I recorded it. I don't think I was all that far into the movie, but I didn't bother to stop it, open my recording software, and do a real version. I just used a handheld Olympus voice memo recorder... because it was sitting on my nightstand, which meant I could reach it without getting up. I couldn't pause the movie without getting up. So I didn't... because I didn't plan on keeping this recording. I was just documenting the idea. That way, when I eventually got around to recording a real version, I'd remember how it went. In retrospect, my laziness is what made this song. It's such a sweet and silly (but totally fitting) bit of background noise to have in it. Hayley was an off-limits romantic interest. She had (and still has) a boyfriend of a bunch of years. I'd hate myself if I disrupted that. So the dialog that was captured in the recording was just too serendipitous, all that "passion before principle" stuff. I had never seen the movie before and wasn't paying attention to it as I was recording, so the first time I heard those lines was when I listened to my song. And I found it so touching and fitting. Although it might be obnoxious and distracting to everyone else. By "everyone else", I mean "no one" (I'm probably the only person who has ever listened to it). Either way, as I listen now, for the first time in over five years, I realize almost all of it stayed in the final version, including one of my favorite lyrics I've written for any song: i understand loss when it takes me apart and i overstate love when i'm losing my charm. Maybe I'll write my next song to Karate Kid 3, see if the recipe for generating quick, sentimental lyrics can be replicated. --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
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Inconvenience, chorus test (September 25, 2011)
Same song as above, two days later. I was just recording more ideas for the song that eventually became The Inconvenience of Courting a Beautiful Girl. That's not what I was calling these demos at the time though. Usually, if I'm writing a love song, its working title is Here is Where I Keep You. I've had at least ten songs hold that name for a period. Zero songs have ended with it. I don't know why. I guess Here is Where I Keep You is the equivalent of "fetus" to me. After it is officially born, entering the world, it's given a different name. Its birth certificate doesn't continue to say "fetus." And it never returns to that name. It'd be weird if a Beth or a Kevin decided to start going by fetus again, as in: "You know, that's what they used to call me in the old days. It just feels right. It feels like the real me. Mary Lou Francis was my slave name." Or what if the fetus was just never given a new name? The birth happens. Birthdays happen. Death. "Fetus" the whole time. Inconvenience, like most of my other love songs, during its fetal development, was called Here is Where I Keep You. And then it was born.
Almost all of the Miyagi dub made it into the final version. I didn't salvage as much from this draft. Maybe I should have. The "however you call me, I'll sleep through the ring" part seems better than anything I did keep; I'm not sure why I let it go. Were I to rewrite Inconvenience (a fourth version), I'd make it about two minutes shorter and use that melody. I won't. Too much work. But that's what I would do. And I do hope someone else does. I hope someone else takes it, cobbles together the good parts, and makes it his or her own (sprinkles in some novel bits).
Now that I'm listening to this (also for the first time in years), I do like the intro lines. I seem to have purged that whole section... but I kind of like it. This part: i know how this life starts / i know how it ends / i'll save up for something we never begin / thread in the heart strings / spun out instead / their empty forevers kept under my bed / now i'm shaping a new breath to call you a friend // the winter inside me can't quiet this heart... Anyway, after this version, I put the song away for a bit. And then 11/11/2011 came. And I wanted to commemorate the day with something. So I combined my two versions of Inconvenience and made a final draft. --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
Almost all of the Miyagi dub made it into the final version. I didn't salvage as much from this draft. Maybe I should have. The "however you call me, I'll sleep through the ring" part seems better than anything I did keep; I'm not sure why I let it go. Were I to rewrite Inconvenience (a fourth version), I'd make it about two minutes shorter and use that melody. I won't. Too much work. But that's what I would do. And I do hope someone else does. I hope someone else takes it, cobbles together the good parts, and makes it his or her own (sprinkles in some novel bits).
Now that I'm listening to this (also for the first time in years), I do like the intro lines. I seem to have purged that whole section... but I kind of like it. This part: i know how this life starts / i know how it ends / i'll save up for something we never begin / thread in the heart strings / spun out instead / their empty forevers kept under my bed / now i'm shaping a new breath to call you a friend // the winter inside me can't quiet this heart... Anyway, after this version, I put the song away for a bit. And then 11/11/2011 came. And I wanted to commemorate the day with something. So I combined my two versions of Inconvenience and made a final draft. --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
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On the First Day (October 6, 2009)
I wrote and recorded this song in one day while drunk. I was at Julie and Melinda Abendroth's house (Julie being Melinda's mom). They were out of town, Julie at an auto show, Melinda at a cabin. It was just me (and their dogs) in a giant, empty house. And so I got drunk, took Julie's guitar out of its case, and wrote and recorded this song. You can tell it's the voice of a drunk person; I'm on the verge of hiccuping the entire time. And it was done into a cheap microphone on a slow, terrible computer. I'm pretty sure the song isn't good, but I've always liked it. Just the guitar parts. I doubt it's the tinniest bit pretty or sentimental when heard by objective ears, but I'll never be able to listen objectively. My fondness for the sound and the melody is completely clouded by nostalgia. And it can never be unclouded. This was the first song I ever wrote and recorded on Julie's guitar... which I now own, but I still -- and always will -- refer to it as Julie's guitar. There's no physical thing I've ever cherished more. If my apartment were burning down, and live bodies needed rescuing, it's possible I'd bring Julie's guitar to safety first. It's actually probable that I would, so I hope I'm never faced with that choice. And it's not because I'm a monster; it's because Julie is one of the most important people ever to happen to me. She came into my life in the fall of 2002. She died on January 5, 2011. And I've never missed anything more. I'm not sure if a person is capable of missing another person more; if so, we're a deeply flawed species. There's nothing healthy or productive about this sort of unexpiring emotion. In a couple weeks, it will have been six years and the feeling hasn't begun to atrophy.
I met Julie during my first semester as a student at Willamette University. She was at least 6'2" (I know she rounded down when reporting her height), somewhere in her thirties, in amazing physical shape, and gorgeous. Much better looking in person than in photographs. Photographs didn't have her voice, its timbre, something in its pacing, the brilliant thoughts and words it delivered. In real life, she looked (and sort of spoke) like a gentle-but-imposing elvish priestess from Lord of the Rings. And every halloween, she'd dress up accordingly. It was usually some obscure character from The Silmarillion or something. Not because she was seeking hipster-like obscurity, but because it was the most fitting character to some situation on campus (or whatever... I'm sure Julie could have outdone Stephen Colbert on Tolkien trivia).
I would have never become an adult, let alone a professor, without Julie. Part of her influence happened in the classroom. I took several courses from her during my undergrad (research methods, biomechanics, and motor learning), she shepherded me through those years, and we grew very close. I looked up to her both physically (her corporeal bulk towered over me) and academically (she was ridiculously brilliant). And, while looking down to me (physically, academically, emotionally) she put up with all my foibles in a way that made me believe she was not putting up with them, but actually enjoying my company and my tedious attempts at contributing to the conversation.
When I graduated, I hadn't yet thought about what to do next. I approached academics like a beginner plays billiards. You aim for the easiest shot, sink that ball, and then begin considering your next move. I had no plan, no goals, and no next shot lined up. Julie, noticing my position, suggested I do my master's at University of the Pacific. "Okay, sure." So she made some phone calls. When she hung up her phone, I had an assistantship lined up. Free tuition for two years and a very modest salary. I started, learned a lot, and graduated without losing touch with Julie. But I completed my master's degree in the same billiardsy way that I did my undergrad: with poor planning. I lined up no subsequent move; I just sank the easy shot and then noticed where the rest of the balls lay. But this time, Julie wasn't as involved in my life. So I spent a couple months at my parents' house, I spent a few months sleeping on peoples' sofas, I spent far too long at an ex-girlfriend's house. I was hired at and fired from a few embarrassing jobs. I paid for most of my food and alcohol by selling a domain name (myprotein.com) for $7k. And I grew ridiculous (and decreasingly employable). So I asked Julie for help.
Of course Julie came to my rescue. She immediately had me move in with her and Melinda and she took over my academic planning. Yeah, I'd been out of the game for a couple years, but with Julie's help, there were still some shots on the table. First on the agenda: identify a Ph.D. program. "I'm taking you to ACSM." That's the biggest Health and Exercise Science conference of the year. And it was a month or so away (May 27-30, 2009). "Um... Julie, it's like $200 to get in." "Oh, it'll be fine", she assured me.
The end of May came. We drove, arrived, checked in at our hotel, dropped off our bags, walked to the convention center, and then Julie said "wait here a second." She went inside. A minute later, she returned, smiling, and put a name badge around my neck. It said "Justin Callahan, Vicon, Centennial, CO" on it. I gave Julie a curious look. She answered my look: "I'm sure they'll print him a new one if he shows up." Fair enough. Julie and I went inside.
She walked me straight to the message board, where schools had postings of doctoral student assistantships. We picked out three possible programs: Oregon State University, University of Florida, and University of Connecticut. She took me out to dinner with the Florida faculty (and joined us), took me to a bar where the Oregon State party was (and joined us), and had me call the UConn people and set up an interview (...and told me what to say on that call). I plagiarized her words exactly. The next step with UConn: in-person meeting. That happened the next day. And Julie told me what to say there too. Again, I plagiarized Julie in that meeting. It went well. I had picked out my next school. UConn is where I wanted to go. But I didn't want to have to compete for my acceptance. So I returned to the message board and took down every UConn advertisement. (I left the Florida and Oregon State ones intact.)
When we got back to Julie's house in Salem, I had a plan. That corrected my self-esteem, which had been drooping pretty severely, being twenty-eight years old with no job or prospect of a dignified future. After ACSM, with a new plan in place (and renewed self-esteem), Julie, Melinda, and I spent the rest of the summer playing. Still today, at age thirty-six, I look back on that summer as my favorite. And I don't know that it could ever be replaced by a better one. Not just because it corrected the direction of my life; it was the company. It didn't even matter what we did; what meant so much to me was the time I got to spend with Julie and Melinda. Though what we did was nice too. We'd cook (mostly Melinda would; she's amazing in a kitchen), we'd go running, listen to some Jack Johnson, wander around at the farmer's market downtown, play music (Melinda would practice her flute; Julie and I would play guitar together), eat one of Melinda's pies (outrageous talent there), and then we'd watch some show or movie. Sometimes during the movies, I'd sit on a beanbag next to the sofa and draw a picture in its fabric. Just with my hand; I didn't graffiti their furniture. You know how you can do upstrokes on the fabric to darken the shade of it and do downstrokes to erase it? During the shows and movies, I would sometimes upstroke drawings into the side of their sofa. (I posted pictures of one of those drawings below; Julie's guitar is in those pictures.) And my favorite part of my favorite summer: Melinda read me the Harry Potter series. While we were on the second book, we pitched a tent in the living room and she read it to me from inside. Sitting in that tent in the Abendroth's living room, as Melinda read The Chamber of Secrets is one of my favorite memories of life. If I were sentenced to live that day over and over, I would a) never grow bored of it, and b) probably have the happiest life of any creature who has ever lived.
A couple months later, I was officially admitted to UConn for my Ph.D. I stayed in Oregon through Christmas, and then left for Connecticut on January 1, 2010. The next Christmas, after finishing my first year in the program, I came back to Oregon for a couple weeks. I spent some of that time with Julie and Melinda (including the day before I left). On the fifth, while sitting in a plane on the runway of some midwestern connecting airport, I got a text from Melinda. For a few seconds, I stared blankly at my phone. Then I hurried to the lavatory, closed myself inside, and called her. I tried (and mostly managed) to keep my composure. As soon as we got off the phone, I wept uncontrollably for a week. I still cry when I think about Julie (including right now).
I was so early in my education when she died. I used to complain to her about all of the stresses of being a student. And she always had the perfect response. She had the exact amount of empathy I needed to feel validated, the exact amount of encouragement necessary for me to overcome whatever the struggle was, and the exact amount of humor to give me a sense of proportion about the whole episode. She understood the challenges of being a student so clearly. And I know she understood the challenges of being a professor, but I'll never get to complain to her about that. And I can't think of anything I want more than to have that conversation. Just once (as long as it could last about ten hours). I'll be fine without it -- my career is going well -- but my career (and, more importantly, my life) would be far finer with a few of those Abendrothian profundities.
Okay, back to the song. Someday, I do want to re-sing it. I like some of the original lines, but, again, I wrote and recorded them while drunk. It's just a bunch of gibberishy off-key mumbling. If I can find the original audio file, I may rewrite the words (and their melody) to be about Julie and Melinda, and the last summer the three of us spent together.
Since this song, I've probably written and recorded fifty other songs on Julie's guitar. And I still haven't changed the strings. They're these aging elixirs, but they still sound perfect to me. Because they're the exact strings Julie used to play. It's like when a husband finds his aging wife as beautiful as she was on their wedding day. Obviously she's not. She's fifty-two. She was twenty-five when they got married. Objectively, she's not nearly as attractive. Not even close to nearly. But the husband's emotional response is not lying. Similarly, my emotional response to Julie's strings isn't lying either. How could the sound be anything but perfect? They're the exact strings Julie's hands used to pluck and strum. The notes are unimprovable.
I'm sure I'll change them someday. I'm just not ready yet. When the day comes, I'll need Melinda to do it with me. She is -- and will forever be -- my sister. And I'll need my little sis there with me on the day we unstring and restring Julie's guitar. And I'll insist that we do something special with them. Not bury them though. That's not special. That's just weird. What I'll insist: We melt them down and reshape them into an elvish ring. And Melinda should keep the ring. She inherited Julie's elvishness (elvinitude?); she is the rightful heir of the ring, forged in the fires of... sentimentality I guess. Okay, that's all. Julie, Melinda: I love you. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
I met Julie during my first semester as a student at Willamette University. She was at least 6'2" (I know she rounded down when reporting her height), somewhere in her thirties, in amazing physical shape, and gorgeous. Much better looking in person than in photographs. Photographs didn't have her voice, its timbre, something in its pacing, the brilliant thoughts and words it delivered. In real life, she looked (and sort of spoke) like a gentle-but-imposing elvish priestess from Lord of the Rings. And every halloween, she'd dress up accordingly. It was usually some obscure character from The Silmarillion or something. Not because she was seeking hipster-like obscurity, but because it was the most fitting character to some situation on campus (or whatever... I'm sure Julie could have outdone Stephen Colbert on Tolkien trivia).
I would have never become an adult, let alone a professor, without Julie. Part of her influence happened in the classroom. I took several courses from her during my undergrad (research methods, biomechanics, and motor learning), she shepherded me through those years, and we grew very close. I looked up to her both physically (her corporeal bulk towered over me) and academically (she was ridiculously brilliant). And, while looking down to me (physically, academically, emotionally) she put up with all my foibles in a way that made me believe she was not putting up with them, but actually enjoying my company and my tedious attempts at contributing to the conversation.
When I graduated, I hadn't yet thought about what to do next. I approached academics like a beginner plays billiards. You aim for the easiest shot, sink that ball, and then begin considering your next move. I had no plan, no goals, and no next shot lined up. Julie, noticing my position, suggested I do my master's at University of the Pacific. "Okay, sure." So she made some phone calls. When she hung up her phone, I had an assistantship lined up. Free tuition for two years and a very modest salary. I started, learned a lot, and graduated without losing touch with Julie. But I completed my master's degree in the same billiardsy way that I did my undergrad: with poor planning. I lined up no subsequent move; I just sank the easy shot and then noticed where the rest of the balls lay. But this time, Julie wasn't as involved in my life. So I spent a couple months at my parents' house, I spent a few months sleeping on peoples' sofas, I spent far too long at an ex-girlfriend's house. I was hired at and fired from a few embarrassing jobs. I paid for most of my food and alcohol by selling a domain name (myprotein.com) for $7k. And I grew ridiculous (and decreasingly employable). So I asked Julie for help.
Of course Julie came to my rescue. She immediately had me move in with her and Melinda and she took over my academic planning. Yeah, I'd been out of the game for a couple years, but with Julie's help, there were still some shots on the table. First on the agenda: identify a Ph.D. program. "I'm taking you to ACSM." That's the biggest Health and Exercise Science conference of the year. And it was a month or so away (May 27-30, 2009). "Um... Julie, it's like $200 to get in." "Oh, it'll be fine", she assured me.
The end of May came. We drove, arrived, checked in at our hotel, dropped off our bags, walked to the convention center, and then Julie said "wait here a second." She went inside. A minute later, she returned, smiling, and put a name badge around my neck. It said "Justin Callahan, Vicon, Centennial, CO" on it. I gave Julie a curious look. She answered my look: "I'm sure they'll print him a new one if he shows up." Fair enough. Julie and I went inside.
She walked me straight to the message board, where schools had postings of doctoral student assistantships. We picked out three possible programs: Oregon State University, University of Florida, and University of Connecticut. She took me out to dinner with the Florida faculty (and joined us), took me to a bar where the Oregon State party was (and joined us), and had me call the UConn people and set up an interview (...and told me what to say on that call). I plagiarized her words exactly. The next step with UConn: in-person meeting. That happened the next day. And Julie told me what to say there too. Again, I plagiarized Julie in that meeting. It went well. I had picked out my next school. UConn is where I wanted to go. But I didn't want to have to compete for my acceptance. So I returned to the message board and took down every UConn advertisement. (I left the Florida and Oregon State ones intact.)
When we got back to Julie's house in Salem, I had a plan. That corrected my self-esteem, which had been drooping pretty severely, being twenty-eight years old with no job or prospect of a dignified future. After ACSM, with a new plan in place (and renewed self-esteem), Julie, Melinda, and I spent the rest of the summer playing. Still today, at age thirty-six, I look back on that summer as my favorite. And I don't know that it could ever be replaced by a better one. Not just because it corrected the direction of my life; it was the company. It didn't even matter what we did; what meant so much to me was the time I got to spend with Julie and Melinda. Though what we did was nice too. We'd cook (mostly Melinda would; she's amazing in a kitchen), we'd go running, listen to some Jack Johnson, wander around at the farmer's market downtown, play music (Melinda would practice her flute; Julie and I would play guitar together), eat one of Melinda's pies (outrageous talent there), and then we'd watch some show or movie. Sometimes during the movies, I'd sit on a beanbag next to the sofa and draw a picture in its fabric. Just with my hand; I didn't graffiti their furniture. You know how you can do upstrokes on the fabric to darken the shade of it and do downstrokes to erase it? During the shows and movies, I would sometimes upstroke drawings into the side of their sofa. (I posted pictures of one of those drawings below; Julie's guitar is in those pictures.) And my favorite part of my favorite summer: Melinda read me the Harry Potter series. While we were on the second book, we pitched a tent in the living room and she read it to me from inside. Sitting in that tent in the Abendroth's living room, as Melinda read The Chamber of Secrets is one of my favorite memories of life. If I were sentenced to live that day over and over, I would a) never grow bored of it, and b) probably have the happiest life of any creature who has ever lived.
A couple months later, I was officially admitted to UConn for my Ph.D. I stayed in Oregon through Christmas, and then left for Connecticut on January 1, 2010. The next Christmas, after finishing my first year in the program, I came back to Oregon for a couple weeks. I spent some of that time with Julie and Melinda (including the day before I left). On the fifth, while sitting in a plane on the runway of some midwestern connecting airport, I got a text from Melinda. For a few seconds, I stared blankly at my phone. Then I hurried to the lavatory, closed myself inside, and called her. I tried (and mostly managed) to keep my composure. As soon as we got off the phone, I wept uncontrollably for a week. I still cry when I think about Julie (including right now).
I was so early in my education when she died. I used to complain to her about all of the stresses of being a student. And she always had the perfect response. She had the exact amount of empathy I needed to feel validated, the exact amount of encouragement necessary for me to overcome whatever the struggle was, and the exact amount of humor to give me a sense of proportion about the whole episode. She understood the challenges of being a student so clearly. And I know she understood the challenges of being a professor, but I'll never get to complain to her about that. And I can't think of anything I want more than to have that conversation. Just once (as long as it could last about ten hours). I'll be fine without it -- my career is going well -- but my career (and, more importantly, my life) would be far finer with a few of those Abendrothian profundities.
Okay, back to the song. Someday, I do want to re-sing it. I like some of the original lines, but, again, I wrote and recorded them while drunk. It's just a bunch of gibberishy off-key mumbling. If I can find the original audio file, I may rewrite the words (and their melody) to be about Julie and Melinda, and the last summer the three of us spent together.
Since this song, I've probably written and recorded fifty other songs on Julie's guitar. And I still haven't changed the strings. They're these aging elixirs, but they still sound perfect to me. Because they're the exact strings Julie used to play. It's like when a husband finds his aging wife as beautiful as she was on their wedding day. Obviously she's not. She's fifty-two. She was twenty-five when they got married. Objectively, she's not nearly as attractive. Not even close to nearly. But the husband's emotional response is not lying. Similarly, my emotional response to Julie's strings isn't lying either. How could the sound be anything but perfect? They're the exact strings Julie's hands used to pluck and strum. The notes are unimprovable.
I'm sure I'll change them someday. I'm just not ready yet. When the day comes, I'll need Melinda to do it with me. She is -- and will forever be -- my sister. And I'll need my little sis there with me on the day we unstring and restring Julie's guitar. And I'll insist that we do something special with them. Not bury them though. That's not special. That's just weird. What I'll insist: We melt them down and reshape them into an elvish ring. And Melinda should keep the ring. She inherited Julie's elvishness (elvinitude?); she is the rightful heir of the ring, forged in the fires of... sentimentality I guess. Okay, that's all. Julie, Melinda: I love you. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
[Pictures of my note to Julie and Melinda] __ [Pictures of the face in the sofa side]
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Kisses for Blows (October 17, 2010)
It takes a minute to get going. A little over actually. I think a 1:10 before it stops being super boring. And then it's another 40 seconds or so before it gets to the moment in the middle that I actually like ("unless you keep your head above your heart... as I make you mine"). That lasts for about a minute and then it gets boring again. It was for someone. All those lyrics were really specific. And most of it is a bore, but for that one minute, the lyrics, the mood, the pace... it was all right. The song itself isn't good. It just had a moment that worked. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Little Plastic Wedding (November 7, 2010)
This was for the same person. I think it needs to slow down, become less busy, and have rain in it. Re: busy. For large sweeps of the song, there are two totally different vocal melodies happening at the same time; at one point there are literally three different vocal melodies. It's just too much. If the song would calm its sorry ass down, rely more on the opening guitar melody, and sing along with the rhythm of rain on a window, I think it might work. As is, it didn't work. So I don't know why I'm putting it here. I have fifty other songs that are just as messy, just as busy, just as "good" that I could put here. But this one did have a couple lyrics I liked. And it's part of a little three-song set I wrote for someone. The first song was Kisses for Blows. The third was Pipe Dream (acoustic dojo).if i gather up my words / and i run them straight through your soul / could you still waver on the edge of forever / and never let go the easy dreams / come open up your hands / i've got something new / for tomorrow it's you and me / with a new stitch in old severed ties / so i'll climb into your head tonight / and if you'd like me to stay / i'll sing my way into your heart / but i know you're still afraid / love, what would we do / if our only chance went away / (if you're a little unsure of tomorrow) / (and restless and lost, you know i can wait) / (take all the time you need) / (i'll play the martyr) / (caught between your end) / (and where we begin) / (and if you put out your hands) / (reach across the miles) / (and i surrender my heart) / (then i'm yours to keep) / so with this song / and plastic ring / i'll wed thee now / and take your name / and watch love outgrow its home / (come move inside) / but if you're ruled by reason / (i'll hold you close) / and if you need this season / now i cannot rush and cannot still the soul's reflex / you could lie me down and tie me up with thread spun out of the years / (you know that i'm still the same) / this heart will be dust before it ever lets go / i'll never give you up until i'm gone / (and you know that i'm here to stay) / and if you're waiting up i'll leave the light on, light on / i know when to cry out / (we belong to every breath, love) / i can't take these thoughts apart but i can put them all away / (you know i'll always leave the light on, light on) / all i wanted was your life and i'd never give it back / is that too much to ask, love, when i'm gone i'm gone, i'm gone / and there's nothing left to cry out. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Chance (March 25, 2009)
I always liked the body of this song; it was just wearing the wrong outfit. I wrote and recorded it in a few hours and I've wanted to rewrite and rerecord it ever since. I am happy with the melody. I wouldn't change anything there. And there were a lot of lines I liked too, but the rest of the lines were part of a moment and that moment lasted about as long as the song did. In other words, it lasted until I sobered up. I drank a lot in 2009. This is one of many products of that drinking. One of the better ones, granted, but were I to do it sober, it would have been very different (lyrically and vocally). Someday it will be. I'll eventually get around to redoing it. It's a pretty simple song. It's just one mic on the guitar, one on the vocals. Nothing else there. No layering, no accompanying anything. A little bit raw, a little off-key, sung pretty badly, but I don't think I missed on the melody. Or the general theme. I will keep that when I redo it. Theme: The people we love, marry, divorce -- all the pining and heartbreaks -- it's just matter of chance. None of it is even real, seldom matters. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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For Eileen (March 8, 2009)
This one was very personal. Neeny (whose real name was Eileen Nyberg) was my non-biological grandma (my grandpa's longterm girlfriend). She lived in Chinook, Washington (sort of a suburb of Astoria). My grandpa lived there part time and spent the remaining part in Portland, Oregon. Christmases were usually spent at the Portland house and summers in Chinook.
Neeny's house was on the beach. A beautiful, empty beach with giant port ships always on the horizon, driftwood on the shore larger than any trees that grew there. During the summers, my brother and I would wake up at sunrise and head down to the sand to make forts and bonfires (sometimes make forts into bonfires). When it got too dark and cold outside, we'd come in and build a fire inside... like a normal-person fire in the fireplace (how regular people make fires). And Neeny was there for all the bon and normal-person fires. If anything was ever magical, that was it.
We did spend a couple Christmases in Chinook. On my ninth Christmas, my brother and I gave her a basket of fire starters for a present. They were these little clumps of compressed wood chips that must have been soaked in gasoline or something. And they were about the size and shape of ordinary biscuits. And Neeny apparently thought they were biscuits because she started eating one. "Thanks so much Andy and Court!", while chewing the first bite. "These are so delicious!", after having swallowed the first bite and taken a second. My brother and I were silent in our confusion. Our mom, who obviously purchased and wrapped the fire starters for Neeny (Andy and I were nine and ten-year-olds; we weren't really doing our own Christmas shopping), stopped Neeny. "Those are fire starters!" Grandpa Bob was filming. I don't write that story to make fun of Neeny; I write it to explain how amazing a person she was. She complimented us on the flavor of our fire starters, forcing herself to take more bites -- chewing and swallowing gasoline-soaked wood chips -- just so that we would feel good about ourselves. So we would feel good about the gift we gave her. I've never met a kinder person.
In late February, 2009, my mom emailed me to tell me that Neeny had suffered a rather large stroke and was in a coma. I was in California and wasn't able to make it back right away. Not really knowing how to process that news, I picked up my guitar and wrote half of this song (all the stuff about bon fires and the "if you die, I won't understand" stuff). Neeny died on March 2, 2009. I waited a few days before I finished the song ("she'll lay down her dust now", etc.).
It's been twenty years since I last went to Chinook. In May 2012, my brother took his girlfriend there. They drove to Neeny's old house. He sent me pictures. It was empty and dilapidated. I doubt it'll be there for much longer. Whoever buys the property will tear it down and build some mansion overlooking the ocean. I would say "overlooking the beach", but the beach is already gone. My brother didn't send me pictures of that. He just told me the ocean had buried it. At the lowest tide, the water goes clear up to the retaining wall. Our home movies have us running on a beach with forty feet of perfect sand before reaching the water. And videos of us swimming out to a large island that would surface every morning when the tide went out. Now all of that is just gone. I don't think I ever want to go back. It would take something away from my memories. It's like looking at your hero in a hospital bed. The image of frailty is all you'll ever have. Anyway, here's the song:
i'll court all our memories / i'll light a new mile / i'll chain the words to my breath and lift you to my voice / and once upon a lifetime, the mourning wreath is hung upon our souls, aimed deeper than the heart / although you always welcomed me with outstretched arms, sometimes i forget to love / but i'll try to remember just how the wind would sing / as unreturning hours tumble toward decay / but outside our rushing lives rush on / and soon will wash away / as life forgets its age and i forget to love / when morning found the lowest tide we'd carve our names into the beach / so ships out in the sun that tie its beams to the sea could know a friend in their reckoning / at the highest tide we'd build a fire to guide the ships into our shore / where waves still shed their promise like the sunbeams to our sand / when this is gone i won't understand / the lighthouse of our embers sparked / it rivaled stars and blossomed to a flame / although it was fated to dim and burn out before the ships sailed in and night began / if you die i won't understand / but i'll try and i'll try / now this life is caught between my youth and death with the former looking forward and the latter looking backward on the fields of our years / we'll save our tears / while daylight breathes its eternal after-draw / and tomorrow turns no clock / but day breaks with a fog to blind the sailors on the acres of our ocean watch / and one by one the ships will sail on / she'll lay down her dust now and head into the night / i wish that i could see you one last time / and i wish that i believed you could look down on me from a heaven in the clouds / but you know as my rushing life rushes on i'll miss you so much / though i forget to love / and i forget to love. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
Neeny's house was on the beach. A beautiful, empty beach with giant port ships always on the horizon, driftwood on the shore larger than any trees that grew there. During the summers, my brother and I would wake up at sunrise and head down to the sand to make forts and bonfires (sometimes make forts into bonfires). When it got too dark and cold outside, we'd come in and build a fire inside... like a normal-person fire in the fireplace (how regular people make fires). And Neeny was there for all the bon and normal-person fires. If anything was ever magical, that was it.
We did spend a couple Christmases in Chinook. On my ninth Christmas, my brother and I gave her a basket of fire starters for a present. They were these little clumps of compressed wood chips that must have been soaked in gasoline or something. And they were about the size and shape of ordinary biscuits. And Neeny apparently thought they were biscuits because she started eating one. "Thanks so much Andy and Court!", while chewing the first bite. "These are so delicious!", after having swallowed the first bite and taken a second. My brother and I were silent in our confusion. Our mom, who obviously purchased and wrapped the fire starters for Neeny (Andy and I were nine and ten-year-olds; we weren't really doing our own Christmas shopping), stopped Neeny. "Those are fire starters!" Grandpa Bob was filming. I don't write that story to make fun of Neeny; I write it to explain how amazing a person she was. She complimented us on the flavor of our fire starters, forcing herself to take more bites -- chewing and swallowing gasoline-soaked wood chips -- just so that we would feel good about ourselves. So we would feel good about the gift we gave her. I've never met a kinder person.
In late February, 2009, my mom emailed me to tell me that Neeny had suffered a rather large stroke and was in a coma. I was in California and wasn't able to make it back right away. Not really knowing how to process that news, I picked up my guitar and wrote half of this song (all the stuff about bon fires and the "if you die, I won't understand" stuff). Neeny died on March 2, 2009. I waited a few days before I finished the song ("she'll lay down her dust now", etc.).
It's been twenty years since I last went to Chinook. In May 2012, my brother took his girlfriend there. They drove to Neeny's old house. He sent me pictures. It was empty and dilapidated. I doubt it'll be there for much longer. Whoever buys the property will tear it down and build some mansion overlooking the ocean. I would say "overlooking the beach", but the beach is already gone. My brother didn't send me pictures of that. He just told me the ocean had buried it. At the lowest tide, the water goes clear up to the retaining wall. Our home movies have us running on a beach with forty feet of perfect sand before reaching the water. And videos of us swimming out to a large island that would surface every morning when the tide went out. Now all of that is just gone. I don't think I ever want to go back. It would take something away from my memories. It's like looking at your hero in a hospital bed. The image of frailty is all you'll ever have. Anyway, here's the song:
i'll court all our memories / i'll light a new mile / i'll chain the words to my breath and lift you to my voice / and once upon a lifetime, the mourning wreath is hung upon our souls, aimed deeper than the heart / although you always welcomed me with outstretched arms, sometimes i forget to love / but i'll try to remember just how the wind would sing / as unreturning hours tumble toward decay / but outside our rushing lives rush on / and soon will wash away / as life forgets its age and i forget to love / when morning found the lowest tide we'd carve our names into the beach / so ships out in the sun that tie its beams to the sea could know a friend in their reckoning / at the highest tide we'd build a fire to guide the ships into our shore / where waves still shed their promise like the sunbeams to our sand / when this is gone i won't understand / the lighthouse of our embers sparked / it rivaled stars and blossomed to a flame / although it was fated to dim and burn out before the ships sailed in and night began / if you die i won't understand / but i'll try and i'll try / now this life is caught between my youth and death with the former looking forward and the latter looking backward on the fields of our years / we'll save our tears / while daylight breathes its eternal after-draw / and tomorrow turns no clock / but day breaks with a fog to blind the sailors on the acres of our ocean watch / and one by one the ships will sail on / she'll lay down her dust now and head into the night / i wish that i could see you one last time / and i wish that i believed you could look down on me from a heaven in the clouds / but you know as my rushing life rushes on i'll miss you so much / though i forget to love / and i forget to love. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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September Smiles (May 29, 2008)
This song isn't good. The quality of the recording is just awful. I sing off key pretty much the whole time. And I don't like any of the lyrics. "But I suppose we're intertwined; where do we go from here?" is okay. And "I'll shake away the snow from lilacs and vines" could have been mediocre, but it was ruined by the accent on "lacs." Now that I listen to this song again (for the first time in nearly a decade), I realize it's worse than I thought. But there's some little piece of the melody that nearly works. It's not good enough to redo. I don't think there's an unpolished gem here that could shine if it spent some time in a tumbler. The song is about two and a half minutes, I wrote it in no more than twenty minutes, and finished recording it within the hour. And it wouldn't get any better if I gave it another shot. If I tried harder on it, that's all anyone would hear: me trying hard on something that isn't worth the effort. But for whatever reason (no good reason), I do like it a little bit. I remember recording it in Kristen's bathroom. I think that's what I like about it. On matters of nomenclature, "Smiles" isn't a bundle of nouns with September as their adjective; September is the noun that's verbing the smiles. It doesn't matter. It's a failed song, but the tiny bit of charm it has is that laziness, captured in the bathroom. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Maynard, the Soul Blanket (June 10, 2009)
I hate this song. In early 2009, I was writing a song nearly every day. Most of them were terrible; they were built on a single line or one riff that I tried to stretch over too many beats. They were all like a fifth grader's social studies paper. Somehow, one or two sentences of actual content drags on for five pages. According to my journal (Wednesday, June 17, 2009), I ran my external hard drive through the washing machine and lost my only copies of twenty of those song-a-day songs. I quote: "My external hard drive found its way into a pile of scrubs that I scooped up and shoved into the washer. The scrubs and t-shirts came out clean and the hard drive came out in 4>x>2 pieces." Later: "Out of those twenty-three, I was able to find exported back-ups of three of the songs: Wish Flower, Dizzy, and Maynard the Soul Blanket."
Maynard is sort of about alcohol, but I can't stand songs about drugs and alcohol. They're always way too long (see Free Bird, the worst song ever written; even worse than the songs on this page) and they require the listener to be stoned or on acid while listening. "You just can't understand it sober" is a euphemism for "bad song."
With Maynard, I wrote it in my song-a-day phase and I was drunk and feeling terrible at the time. I'm pretty sure I was sober when I sang it, but I definitely wrote it all drunk and sad. And pathetic. What did I have to be sad about, I wonder? Life was fine. Sure, I didn't have a job, but that's just because I was being lazy. I was lying around writing bad songs. Of course I was unemployed. What did I expect? Apparently I expected a great deal more, and it made me sad that I didn't have it.
I had my dinosaur blanket with me at the time (blanket I've had since I was a child). It's name was never Maynard. It never had a name. It was just my dinosaur blanket. But I decided to name it Maynard while I was drunk. I sobered up and rescinded that name. Anyway, out of the three songs I didn't lose in the washing machine, this was the best one. The other two that weren't lost were probably better than the nineteen that were, and those two were terrible. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
Maynard is sort of about alcohol, but I can't stand songs about drugs and alcohol. They're always way too long (see Free Bird, the worst song ever written; even worse than the songs on this page) and they require the listener to be stoned or on acid while listening. "You just can't understand it sober" is a euphemism for "bad song."
With Maynard, I wrote it in my song-a-day phase and I was drunk and feeling terrible at the time. I'm pretty sure I was sober when I sang it, but I definitely wrote it all drunk and sad. And pathetic. What did I have to be sad about, I wonder? Life was fine. Sure, I didn't have a job, but that's just because I was being lazy. I was lying around writing bad songs. Of course I was unemployed. What did I expect? Apparently I expected a great deal more, and it made me sad that I didn't have it.
I had my dinosaur blanket with me at the time (blanket I've had since I was a child). It's name was never Maynard. It never had a name. It was just my dinosaur blanket. But I decided to name it Maynard while I was drunk. I sobered up and rescinded that name. Anyway, out of the three songs I didn't lose in the washing machine, this was the best one. The other two that weren't lost were probably better than the nineteen that were, and those two were terrible. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Aunt Beast's B-Side, instrumental (October 21, 2008)
I was living with Kristen at the time. It was a weird phase of my life, but parts of it felt rewarding somehow. I had stuff like youth and oblivion. I had no idea life involved discipline and hard work. I was just in a perpetual stupor. I'd go for walks, read a little, strum my guitar, have tea, pay no rent, cuddle platonically. Life was as easy as it was pointless.
Every few years, I reread A Wrinkle in Time to see if it's still good. The last time I did was probably 2013. I'm always worried I'm going to realize it isn't good, never was, and I was just too stupid to notice. That's probably the case, but nostalgia clouds my judgment. Anyway, before 2013, the last time I read it was in October 2008. When I finished reading it, I recorded a song (this one) and then Kristen and I did some platonic cuddling over cups of tea. The quality of the recording is awful, but I do like the melody. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
Every few years, I reread A Wrinkle in Time to see if it's still good. The last time I did was probably 2013. I'm always worried I'm going to realize it isn't good, never was, and I was just too stupid to notice. That's probably the case, but nostalgia clouds my judgment. Anyway, before 2013, the last time I read it was in October 2008. When I finished reading it, I recorded a song (this one) and then Kristen and I did some platonic cuddling over cups of tea. The quality of the recording is awful, but I do like the melody. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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The Sad but Mighty Acorn, instrumental (October 21, 2008)
Another instrumental. I recorded this one on the same day, but I had been playing around with the melody for a while. I came up with it when Lum and I were writing Halloween; it's a melody that didn't work for that song, so it became its own thing. I just laid the tracks down when I recorded AB's B-Side. I've already written the lyrics; I just never bothered to sing them. Maybe someday (though I kinda doubt it). --cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
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Kismet, instrumental (May 1, 2009)
I wrote this one when lots of people I knew were graduating. The song has lyrics; I just never sang them. It's supposed to sound a little like a graduation march. I was doing ballet at the time (it's not a long story; I just don't want to type it). Melinda (my sister) was the most important graduate of the season, but lots of my ballerinas (and a couple ballerinos) were also graduating. I was the 28-year-old, kind of creepy guy attempting ballet with high schoolers. Mostly drunk. Occasionally sleeping at the studio. During South Salem's graduation, Win and I actually got down on the field and sat with the band. That's around the time I wrote this song. But I never finished (sang) it. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Morning Song, instrumental (February 28, 2010)
This one is in the A-Side (Acoustic Dojo) section. But this is it without words. It was about (and for) the woman I was dating who had the two kids (Parallels and 22 Months). ---cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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Untitled/KK, instrumental (June 27, 2007)
I had words to this one, but it's been nearly a decade since I wrote it and I still haven't gotten around to singing it. At this point, the words are pointless and bad. And the vocal melody wasn't any good either. It was about a girl named Katie (Initials: KK). Once, she fell asleep in the Pacific Outdoor Connection (what is now just a garage of office space off the back of Baun Fitness Center at University of the Pacific). She looked all beautiful and peaceful. So I took a piece of paper out of the printer and sketched her: this.
--cdj, Dec. 20, 2016
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Minnows, instrumental (August 5, 2011)
The version with words is above. Scroll up. Here's the instrumental version. The interesting part is I can figure out my love life based on the dates of these songs. When it stopped being Morning Song, my heart returned to Pipe Dream (my first serious Disney soul mate and the recipient of years of pining). When she became pregnant with her husband's baby (legitimately long story), my heart wandered to Minnows. Then to Promise Me for a bit. Then to (back to)Forgiveness (she had Danielle's Song in early 2007, which I'll never post because it sucks). Eventually, I arrived at Start with Me (which ended with End with Me). It's a tiny bit pathetic. Though I guess other people just write emails. Or do sexting (or whatever). I write and record songs... in roughly the time it takes a pervert to send twelve sexts. So if you put it into perspective, it's not really that weird that every romantic interest has a song. Until I listened through my old catalog (over the last week), I didn't think I had written any love songs. Start with Me was, I thought, the first precisely-aimed love song I'd written. At least the first one I'd written for someone since becoming a grown-up. And I guess it is, depending on how "grown-up" is defined. But there are at least ten more songs I'm not posting. A couple because they're too personal, the rest because they're too bad. --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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BWBW with Timmy, cover song (June 6, 2007)
With Timmy in the Eola house. I'm playing guitar (I don't actually know how to play Bullet; I'm just sort of figuring it out so Timmy can sing it.) --cdj, Dec. 24, 2016
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All songs written by me. Except Bullet with Butterfly Wings. That's BC (of the mighty SP), of course.