As difficult as it is for me to imagine a cause for the truly random event, I can think of organisation arising out of a certain class of random events, to whit; evolution from genetic mutation. Is it a quality of random events that they are chaotic? It strikes me as amusing that creative folks are caricatured as living somewhat “chaotic” lives. That all their organisational talent is expended in one discrete area, ie., bringing coherence out of the chaos and randomness of their inspiration. In consideration of the totality of their lives, It is almost as if they were swimming against some sort of turbulent tide - if that’s not a contradiction in terms.

I’ll be sad to see it go. It’s up on Ebay.

[Update: it's gone. I hope it has a productive life - in Vienna!]

What to do? I should perhaps consult with a consultant knowledgeable about consultants in marketing to help decide which marketing consultant I should consult.

It’s been that kind of day.

When I think about “inspiration” - that white heat of spontaneous creativity - which may last moments only, I realise that there is no analytic thought involved. It comes as a priori knowledge of what is musically right and fitting as it is being played and leads instinctively or intuitively to further musical utterances. This process is in contrast to that involved in the consideration of the musical materials thus arrived at for the purpose of organising them into a coherent piece of music, or song. So I see two dissimilar process at work; one a priori and the other analytic. (I’m used to the latter; I’ve heard about the former.)

The only qualification I would make is that the quality and frequency of the “inspiration” appears to be proportional to the frequency with which it is provided the means to occur and then exploited. This might not explain genius, but then; what does?

Is the nature of the faculty for making music similar to that of creating any other form of art, or even the achievement of original thinking in the sciences? I’ve read (or heard) about the facility for lateral thinking, or more specifically the ability to connect apparently non-related phenomena or ideas to arrive at new knowledge as an essential quality of the inventive mind. Maybe creativity is all of a piece, irrespective of the field in which it is engaged. But there is something apparently random in this lateral thought. Maybe that’s what gives it its a proiri appearance. The alleged something-from-nothing quality of inspiration bothers me. I think it’s a fallacy. But it reminds me of the randomness of mutation that underpins evolution. There is a randomness about creative thought that begets art and science.

The pre-production of my forthcoming CD Uneasy Listening is nearing completion! But there is still some work to do. If you would like to be kept up to date with the progress and be pointed to a place where you can download free pre-mastered mixes of the songs as they progress, please complete the form below:

At this time a few things remain undecided: song order, booklet artwork and blurb, inclusion of lyrics… maybe you will have some ideas!

Thank you for your interest - and support!

Dave

But to me it’s all rather obvious since it’s an internal life that gets externalised through the act of songwriting. More accurately, its expression is stimulated by the act of simply noodling on my guitar without the intent of writing a song being present at all. But once the gears are engaged, so to speak, then whatever store of resource that resides within seeps up like some osmosis into my consciousness.

What does crop up which is caused by the stimulation affected by simply improvising (say) on chords and / or melodies based on scales will depend on a multitude of unrelated events in my life – contemporary and historically. These “events” can be superficially trivial or deeply personal or even completely impersonal. I’ve written a song about a cowboy after watching western TV shows.

The extent to which they are autobiographical spans the whole spectrum from not at all to almost journalistic.

Some songs are borne out of empathy and portraiture as distinct from being vehicles for self-expression. Other songs are more concerned with the sound and expressiveness of the language used than with the meaning it conveys. Yet others are a means of catharsis. Others still are long-winded and overblown ways to tell a joke. Whatever kind of song comes about is caused, not intentioned.

What is an anathema to me is to go into the studio for the purpose of writing a new song. I don’t do that. Sometimes I will go into the studio for the purpose of trying to finish a song that is already underway – in fact, without that discipline no song would ever get completed! Coming up with new “stuff” – they can’t be called “songs” – is unconscious in the first instance.

To a future stranger, who asks, I may well shrug and say that I can’t remember: I’ve been writing songs since I was a kid and that’s a long time ago. It’s a habit - no more; no less.

In the early days of my project studio I had the whimsical idea that my songs would be enhanced by liberal application of hand percussion. So I went round music stores and bought all sorts of shakers and rattles and cowbells, triangles, a tambourine, a cabaasa, brushes, and several items whose names now escape me. I also took the opportunity to pick up a swanee whistle, an ordinary whistle and a mouthorgan. My brother donated a didgeridoo brought back from a business trip. These items remained unused. I never even dreamed of bringing the didgeridoo into service, particularly since my one and only effort to coach a sound from it failed utterly and in fact lasted leas than a minute.

I did overdub many songs with items from my collection with variable results. I think I drove our cat crazy and my moved the television to the other end of the house. The sound of an enthusiastically struck cowbell can penetrate all but the most effectively acoustically treated room.

I even bought a sound module containing samples of various drum kits which I attempted to “play” by way of a MIDI keyboard. The results of these efforts were not variable: they were consistently awful. Several songs got the full treatment of hand percussion and MIDI enabled Hell. The resulting cacophony signaled the beginning of the end. I’m a slow learner, but I got message. I’m not a percussionist.

My strict adherence to simple guitar and vocal these days is not so much borne out of a desire for purity, but more having arisen from these experiences during the early days of my studio. I guess I could hire musicians but I’ve also learned that the risk of other parts “getting in the way” of the songs is real and makes the effort hardly worthwhile. A sort of “less is more” outlook has taken over my aesthetic sensibilities, particularly since the songs themselves appear to be getting more convoluted in form and arrangement.

The assorted hand percussion was eventually gathered together and tossed into a large plastic bag and donated to the local primary school. The contents of the bag seemed to clatter in protest as my wife hauled it out the door for delivery. We got a letter of thanks from the school a few days later and sometimes in the morning, before the mists have completely risen from the hills opposite, I believe I can just hear from afar the rhythmic hiss of something being shaken.

I sold the sound module to a jazz guitar player who had similar MIDI driven dreams of adding drums to his playing.

The Didgeridoo remains supine and gathering dust behind a sofa.

I threw the mouthorgan and whistle away.

The cat’s in rehab and my wife moved the TV back.

For my part, I keep a weather eye out for those folks who fail to conceal their desperation for success. Those for whom their own self-esteem is defined by the applause of others. I see them occasionally at the day-job and (sadly) more often in folk-clubs and other music venues. In a way, it’s hard to be too critical because there’s no question that you must be focused and driven if you’re going to achieve your goals in any highly competitive arena. But there are some who see and value little apart from the achievement of these goals and who notice little and care less about the impact their striving has on others. And there are those lovely people who will speak negatively of you to others with the conviction this will make them grander by comparison.

I should confess that my uneasiness with all this is caused by my retrospection into my own early efforts to be a successful singer-songwriter during those short few years when I was convinced that my day was bound to come if I put as much effort as I could into my career and was prepared to sacrifice other considerations to that purpose. Actually, I don’t remember the latter being a conscious consideration; but in hindsight I see that I developed in the eyes of others a selfish and manipulative personality - and on some occasions I know I presumed too much when friendship and help was given. In short, I treated some people rather shabbily. Do I consider I would have cause to regret this now (as I do) had I in fact become successful? The question is moot.

As a matter of fact, I’ve mastered a sleight of hand where I can transmute the criteria for my own success, at will, depending on the prevailing outlook and the likelihood of my achieving a prescribed set of goals at any particular time. This is a wonderful strategy and has the priceless advantage of my being able to avoid the risk of failure entirely. All I have to do is elect to abandon a particular set of ambitions and recast my aspirations based entirely on the probability of success - should I so choose!

So I occupy the opposite pole from the ambitious type, now: I’m irresolute, inhibited, and lazy. Maybe that points to why ambitious people bother me so much. It could be that I envy their energy and commitment. That they might succeed where I have failed. All well and good. But I don’t feel comfortable in their company - and I prefer, these days, that people feel comfortable in mine.

If there is no such “free will”, then how is it that we feel free – and continue second-by-second to act as if we were free - even under circumstances where we acknowledge that we are actually not? You would think that we might just give it all up with a nihilistic shrug of the shoulders. Well, it may be that we’ve evolved to presume we can think and act freely because of the advantages it confers. Advantages like the idea of a rational morality. I can (for the sake of argument) accept that all my choices are determined and yet each day make a multitude of them both trivial and important entirely as if they were free, without thinking about it.

It remains a conundrum to me. For my own part I’m undecided. All I can say with certainty is that I have not read anything (and I’ve read quite a lot) that convinces me of the existence of free will.

All of this will be gobbledegook to people of faith for whom free will is a faculty bestowed upon Man by God.

To let go while remaining in control. That reads like a paradox, all right. But I take it to mean being “in the zone”. It’ll be good for me to keep it in mind and by doing so perhaps I’ll achieve it more often.