Category: #music

Creativity and Moody Muses

jamie

A lot of creative people I know seem to create constantly. Some people claim you have to force yourself to write daily.

Me, I don’t think you should force yourself to do anything, and my muses would only get angry at me for abusing their good nature. I’ve come to appreciate the long periods of nothing as rest between the motherlode dumps. It’s almost seasonal, except the seasons are random and droughts frequent. But I’m NOT complaining.

Muses are Everywhere

True Creativity is a gift. It comes from inside, but also from someplace else. Muses. Belligerent as they are generous, if you try and steal their gifts for gain. For Profit. For me, anyway.

I don’t think it’s wrong to make a career of music. But for ME, the career part doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to sell you something. I just want you to listen, if it makes you feel something. Anything. Otherwise, fuck off. Seriously.

Because having a great beat and fun lyrics isn’t a bad. I’ve had many great nights that were just plain fucking good FUN. But I also think there has to be more to the music (or at least a lot of xstasy). Listening to music without feeling something besides the driving bass, leaves a whole realm of emotions unfelt. Buried. Seems empty. Noisy.

There are millions of artists streaming their work, and some of them really grab your attention, for diverse and spectacular reasons. Then there is a lot of noise. A LOT. Amongst all the noise, I try to offer back the gifts I’ve received.

If you are chosen by fate to find my music, and it actually reaches you…makes you feel something, then we are probably kindred spirits. Touched by the same demons and dragons. Dazed by the beauty, hope and sadness of it all, and frustrated by humanity’s stagnation on the road to evolved existence. There’s a lot of those themes in my songs, even if you don’t hear them the first time.

But I mean…How fucking hard is it to love each other, learn to feed everyone, and stop fighting over real estate, money, and power? Why is it so difficult rein in the entitlement of the elite overlords who use division to bend history for their own benefit, while depriving much of mankind of the benefits of unity and the resources of a bountiful planet?

Elite Carrot Overlord

Anyway, thanks for reading. Thanks for listening. In peace and hope. ~j

Boulder, CO. Where the Hip Meet to Trip.

jamie

That was title of the 1979 Time Magazine article about Boulder Colorado. Naturally, I decided to go to college there. Mostly to get as far away from home and my Goldwater Republican parents as possible. I stayed in Boulder over the summers, to avoid conflicts. It was a different city when the college wasn’t in session. I think we met Morris the first or second summer.

They called it Guyana Punch, and the Guyana Parties at Morris’s place on The Hill were legendary.
Everyone brought a bottle. Liquor, any kind was acceptable. Everclear, 151 rum and vodka were the foundation. Water, KoolAid and assorted juices and fruits were added, and the party was off and running.
Somewhere during the evening, sheets, tabs, and assorted microdots always found their way into the punch, and everything got colorful and weird.

Music. Usually Grateful Dead tapes from some show someplace that was “the best trip ever”. Great times. Great people. Great music always makes the scene.

When the punch eventually ran dry, and all the places to buy real beer were long closed, literally hundreds of people tripping their balls off wandered off into the Boulder night on their own psychedelic adventures.
I remember one night after Morris’, we ended up smoking weed with these girls at this witches coven house down the street. At least I thought they were witches.

At some point, my buddy Adam turned into The Devil during the Stones Sympathy, and I wandered off, caught up in one of those trips, where facing one’s own fears turns into battles with demons and dragons. My roommates spent hours looking for me. I spent hours looking for me, too. Eventually I wandered home I guess, because I woke up there the next afternoon. Nobody remembered and dragons or witches but me.

All things must end. Eventually, the Guyana Parties did too. Morris, the Cat who threw the parties (and probably always dosed the punch) moved on to who knows where. Times changed. We grew up.

The Boulder scene changed a lot when the cocaine started rolling into town. Coke and acid really don’t mix. It changed the party. The whole scene, and not for the better.
You don’t threaten to kill people to get more acid or mushrooms, but with meth and coke, lots of liquor…you never know.

Things melted down. People ended up in jail. Everyone was a narc. Nobody could be trusted. Eventually, I was glad to be out of the hip-meet-to-trip delusion. Every trip ends, I guess. Everyone I knew got out alive, so I figure it’s a win.

I’ve stumbled into a lot of crazy party scenes since, and sooner or later the mood always gets heavy. It’s all fun and games. Then they change the meds, some new people change the mood, and everything changes with it.

Not usually for the better.

Eggsistential Hill on You Tube

jamie
Eggsistential Hill

Life’s a box of chocolates
When it ain’t a box of dicks (tricks)
Some folks think that farmers
Are all a bunch of Hicks?
I used to live the city life.
Got tired of all that shit
At least here on the farm,
you know when you step in it.

I got ducks out In my yard.
I got turkeys on my porch
Got chickens out in back
and a little herd of pork
We ain’t got a lot
But what we got is real
Everyday is perfect
Up on Eggsistential Hill

I work hard every day
Building stuff and chasing ducks
Nobody’s gonna bring me down
Cause i stopped giving all them fucks
Working for the man.
You can’t never get ahead.
Keep you running till you drop.
Unless you drop on out instead.

I got ducks out In my yard.
I got turkeys on my porch
Got chickens out in back
and a little herd of pork
We ain’t got a lot
But what we got is real
Everyday is perfect
Up on Eggsistential Hill