I'm often asked how I write songs. Do I start with words or music? Harmony or melody? Verse or chorus? Title or concept?
My process typically happens at the piano, and all at once. I usually start with the kernel of an idea - it could be lyrical, rhythmic, harmonic... anything, really - and build outwards from there. It involves trial, error, and repetition. It looks (and sounds) almost exactly like this:
It's only the sixth of January.
It feels like it's been this year for much longer than six days.
I'm choosing to see this as a good thing. I am Getting Stuff Done.
We are making an album.
We've been "making an album" for an embarrassingly long time now, but there have been hiccoughs and obstacles and things that constitute excuses.
No longer. I tell you, it's Time and we're getting down to business.
I'm so stupidly excited about this. With all these song-children clamouring for attention it'll be fantastic to finally release some of them them the way they want to be heard.
John's self-imposed job description includes "reigning in the Katie". If I had my way, they'd all be fully orchestrated, with sixty vocal harmony layers and ahhhhhh...
He's currently trying to convince me that I don't have to double EVERYTHING. I'm not sure John realises that when I say/hear 'double', I often mean/think 'triple'. So this is a reasonably-heighted (taller than average, but not quite tall) order.
In other words, all is well at the Fish camp. I'll see if I can swap one reasonably-heighted request for another and get something on here to share with you.
Twice, I have drowned
without drowning.
The first, the deep end of a shallow pool: "Look-a my circus flips!"
before I flopped.
Her name was Eleanor, and she tried to help,
but my brain was diving into over-drive
and her hands were the enemy.
I panicked,
kicked,
flailed
(nothing beautiful about it),
and my world was all about holding tight:
Don't Breathe, Don't Open Your Mouth,
and Don't Open Your Eyes, for I had it in my
overly-driven, blacked-out vision
that I'd panic more if the water touched my pupils.
So I thrashed and gnashed
and kicked the angel's helping hands;
not knowing which way was Up
until my head crashed on the concrete floor.
The second, the Sea: "Come farther, it isn't deep!"
Her name was Megan, and we were inseparable
every other weekend and all of the Easters.
She was in command that day and I obeyed,
trusting, when suddenly, a
wave, and a hole in the sea
floor, no time
to inhale, or to think; she thought I was
being funny, for a moment, until
she realised I wasn't being
funny.
But this time I reached
for help.
My mum saw, ran in, clothes and all.
Saved my life and lost her best sunglasses in the process
(the way she tells it).
But there have been countless other times I drowned,
on land,
without drowning.
It happens to us all
(life's a beach),
and then we move on.
Sometimes we thrash and flail.
Sometimes we don't trust a helper's intentions.
Sometimes CRASH with no time to take a breath.
Sometimes people think we're joking.
Sometimes, maybe we are.
Sometimes we forget all the things we thought we had learned
as pupils
and we can't open our eyes to save ourselves.
We're always lucky if someone is there to help.
"To drown in treacle is just as unpleasant as to drown in mud."
- Idries Shah
P.S. Whyyyy did I just watch this.
It would have been worth it if it didn't end about two seconds too soon.
I'm sound.
My vision of galaxy is waning
Never full, ever unsung.
I'm allowed
To call the shots; break my rules
Guide my foolish others
(and sames)
To that place where webs and yarns are spun:
The corner.
Dinner for the Minotaur. Sweet Miscreant on Rye.
Another minute more
Should even the score
But eyes have the power, and
I'm sound.
Re. Visions, I'm a wreck
Want to snap my -
Delicately, now - Feck of an excuse for a vehicle.
It drives me over bends and around
Hell's hills and back
But not quite, else I'd be living
Without the dream.
(Without meaning the seeming. We're not on canvas any more.)
Here be Floating Lights.
I'm sound because I'm full of it, but do you see or am I clear?
