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I can’t write and listen to music at the same time. It is so impossible for me. Writers very often get asked the question, “What music do you listen to while you write?” While I can’t speak for other writers, I can say with absolute certainty that, while attempting to write, I cannot listen to any music that allows for me to sing along. I start to dance in my chair and lip sync (because most of my writing occurs well past sundown) and I can’t focus any of my attention at the blank page in front of me, much less focus on a frameless idea in my thought process while David Bowie or Elvis Costello is rocking out in my ears.
With that said, it has taken me half an hour to write this little bitty bit. I am currently listening to Death From Above 1979 and anyone who is familiar with them fully understands the difficulty I am having in concentrating on my keyboard.
With my NaNoWriMo word count looking pretty pathetic after four days, I am finally starting to accept a fact I’ve known for awhile but have longed to challenge: I must endure the creative writing process sans my favorite sing along-able songs. Or, at the very least, replace them with some Bach. A little Chopin. Maybe some Tchaikovsky. Probably no Mozart though. His stuff is way too fun to listen to.
It is a rarity in America to discover a good musician who isn’t pop or rock or emo and isn’t force-fed to us by major record labels and, when they decide to actually play the occasional music video, MTV.
Sidenote:
( I happen to work at an awesome, indie record label, not a controlling corporate one.)
Anyway, I discovered this British kid over two years ago. I remember him being 17 or 18 then, so he’s got to be about 20 now. Which is incredible, that someone so young can have such musical vision, in such a transcendental way.
His name is George Lindsay but his music is On The Sill. Most of the songs are chill downtempo electronica and they are all incredibly interesting, with the different textures carefully combined; an intricate latticework, if you will, of thought-provoking beats.
I visit his MySpace page quite frequently for my On The Sill fullfillment, since you can’t download the songs nor can you purchase them. Mr. Lindsay’s a bit of a tease. And so I recently noticed that he had taken two of my favorite songs off his page. I commented woefully that one in particular was my favorite and much to my surprise and delight he commented back, asking for my email address and offering to send me mp3s of the songs he had removed. He has pretty much offered to do that for all of his beloved fans, posting a bulletin to that effect which is impressive and inspiring and gracious and selfless, that he is willing to give his music away. Hopefully he represents a future generation of awesome musicians.
If you’re into it, or even if you’re not, check him out. It’s hard not to love his peaceful music.
Bright flashes of white and yellow
Pink mini skirts and bejeweled handbags
flung around dance floors
In dark corners and you
feel the music in your bones
in your skin and you can’t help
but move and groove
The drums, the drums
the drums, and a dj.
A red glow, the slow burn
of the tip of his cig
catches your eye
and you stare mesmerized by
the painted scene against a backdrop
of fresh air and black light
in a crowded back alley
and you realize that he sees you
under the tilted brim of his hat
with an unlit cigarette in your hand.
An invitation.
You’re back inside and dancing
and he is there too, dancing
his eyes under his newsboy cap fixated
on the floor and your feet
your legs, your breasts, your mouth
your eyes, your eyes
your eyes and you spin away.
A slow burn.
It’s four o’clock in the morning
and you drunkenly sashay in the parking lot
outside the club and people leave
and scream and laugh and continue to
dance. He grabs you and whispers something
you can’t quite hear but you nod anyway
and he takes your hand
and hails a taxi and
you climb in and he follows and
gives the driver an address.
You wake up in your own bed
in a haze
a fog
of dancing and music
vodka and cigarettes and you wonder
how you got home because you don’t remember
much and you look around
your room at clothes, a pink mini skirt
a newsboy cap, a newsboy cap?
and you hear a toilet flush
and suddenly you remember
kissing in taxis.
