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the long way around

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 y…

Mad World (a scary song)

no words

a sort of homecoming (speaking English)

It's our pleasure to serve you

an expat holiday

directions

more than winter (the fool)

adjustments

messy clocks (to be seen)

pianos (a different life)

the imaginary numbers

promises

lining up the bones (saved by chicken shit)

wandering nameless streets (Tony Come Back August)

candy (the cinematographer)

Where is Valery?

the Abraham Lincoln summer

snapshots from the end of summer

burnt toast is the sweetest

What do you want to be when you grow up? (sucker punch)

when you smile (I am a boat)

fumbling in the dark (pushing elephants)

something about rain (E makes a movie)

anything was possible (suffer no more)

white nights and no place to go

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