The living room is a forest of mic stands and cables. A cup of coffee, a large glass of water and a shallow shot of whiskey sit on the tiny white table. I alternate between them, making sure the guitar is in tune, trying to understand if the chair will creak when I lean my head back on the second chorus. There is a hush in the room. I can hear my own heartbeat. The lyrics are printed out on a fresh piece of paper, large and thick so I can read them easily even though I sing with my eyes closed and will surely forget a handful of words no matter what I do.
The guitar sounds dry, perfect - even honest. I can play a simple D chord with a long strum, or the side of my thumb and it sounds so different. I record a few takes, barefoot in the bright room. I am going too fast in some parts, and my fingers are already sore from the chord changes.
And then all at once, I am thinking of a show I played in an old factory in Brooklyn, way back when I had just started writing songs almost twenty years ago. The audience was full of familiar faces. I felt like an uncle at a birthday party, all wisecracks and confidence as I slipped a capo on the guitar and told some story about the next song. There were no chairs, so people sat cross-legged on the floor with these patient smiles, inches from the toes of my old boots. It was a perfect night. Afterwards, a man who had worked with Brian Eno cornered me and made some overtures about a demo session, and gave me his card. I had this odd sense that things were about to happen, that goosebumps would ripple along with arms after each phone call I would get in the next days. Of course, very different things went down. I never did get to call that man. When the bottom fell out of the boat in giant ugly pieces I just surrendered to the craziness and treaded water, keeping my head up for the sight of dry land.
It took a good long time to get to this moment, in this living room, with the sun banging through the curtains, these words in front of me that I could never have written back then. This black guitar, so light in my hands, so ready to be played.
The coffee cup is empty. Yes, a few random sips of whiskey to open up my throat and I press record again.
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