We often say music is a personal experience, because no one else can ever hear things the same way we do, or put music into the context of life in the same way. Our relationship with a band/album/song is something uniquely our own, and trying to put that into words is not always possible. In fact, sometimes trying to explain the way feelings work makes me wonder if our language can cover even a fraction of the human experience, despite the vastness of our dictionary.
That truth goes even further for musicians. When we write songs and put them out into the world, we can talk about what they mean to us, or what we felt when we were writing and performing them, but there aren't words to fully convey the depths of the connections we have with our own work, both for good and bad.
Speaking only for myself, writing and making music has been one of the few joys of my life, but also a source of great disappointment and quasi-depression. While pulling songs from the ethos has revealed sides of myself I didn't know were there, and allows me to say things I probably couldn't put into words through a normal conversation, hearing those songs held back by my lack of vocal talent has been anything but a gift.
There has existed in my mind all this time a contradiction where I have been immensely proud of the songs I've written as I heard them in my head, and somewhat ashamed to share any of them as I heard them in reality. It does a number on your confidence, or lack thereof, to spend decades wondering, "What if?"
For the last year, I have been looking for a singer to work with who can do what I cannot with my songs. That search has led to some interesting new people, and a few quite interesting experiences. Among them, I was told by a musician that my chord progression was 'wrong', and that my song couldn't be done the way I did it. This, of course, despite the fact I obviously recorded it the way I did, and plenty of people have praised it as a good song. The most interesting experience was one person who completely re-wrote my song into a spiritual ballad, because one word in the lyric gave them an impression of the meaning that couldn't be further from the truth.
But it hadn't led to what I was hoping for... until now.
Today, I'm happy to share the biggest success I've had as a musician yet. I recently met Misha Bear, an Australian singer/songwriter who was kind enough to give that song of mine the breath of life. Years of frustration now seem worth it, because this recording is the closest thing yet to what I've heard in my head all this time. Pride once felt like I was trying to manifest something that didn't exist, but now I can say with certainty that pride is indeed real, and is warranted.
"Black Velvet" is a simple song, but one I feel displays some of my influences. Written around Elvis Costello-ish puns, it's a song of exasperation, talking about the feeling when you look back and realize the dreams you had of who you were going to be couldn't be further from reality. Sometimes, you want to have those old dreams play back in your mind, so you can remember what it was like to have hope for the future. Maybe the best way to deal with disappointment is with a bit of humor, even if it will go over the head of many people.
At least for this one moment, the future feels inviting.
Here is the definitive version of "Black Velvet", featuring the wonderful vocals of Misha Bear.
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