I’ve been writing songs and/or poems (off and on) for (pretty much) as long as I can remember. It doesn’t matter if any of them are any good. The other day, I was playing a blues progression while feeling particularly grumpy and old.1 A few words drifted into my head. I jotted down a handful of lines and kept messing with them. Days later, I added a few more lines and tweaked them here and there. What I ended up with is at the bottom.
At its heart, songwriting is a person with an instrument (which could be one’s own voice) and a drive to make a sound. In my case, I usually start with a vamp on my guitar, which I’ll fill out into a whole chord progression. At times, the vamp will come with words, or melody, though usually it’s words.
On a few songs, a long time ago now, I did a little production. I’d add some reverb to the vocals, add tracks with other instruments, or even start with a click track and lay things down track by track. Computers have changed all of that. It’s easy to do now, sort of.
Production can take the core of a song and make it into something truly great. I envy those who have the heart and drive for that. I know that right now, I don’t. I wonder if I ever had that drive. When I was little, when I heard the song on the radio, on TV, at the concert hall, or in the theatre, I wanted to play it. I wanted to sing it. I wanted to show off. But after all that interest, once I knew a song, once I could get through it effectively, polishing it to the point where I could show off with it was a bridge too far. I suffered the conceit that knowing the song and being able, passably, to play through it was worthy of admiration.
I’ve become less interested in production. I’m not a flashy performer. My voice is pretty average, and my instrumental skills are weak, but writing songs makes me happy, so I do it. This song was vexing to record. For the first time in several years, I could sing a song without crying, though part of that was the topic. Singing it, I found that my voice had an affect. When I sat down to record, I wanted to change things. I tried to sing out in my full voice of long ago. It comes through in places. Whereas in others, I wander off-pitch and lose my sound. That’s ok. This song is bad, but good enough to share. If you’re curious, scroll down to the bottom and listen. The lyrics follow.
I’m old 4/2024
Blusey I,IV,V major but with m3,4,Dom7 in bass
I
I’m getting old it’s plain to see
Every gray hair is weighing on me
I’m too tired to fight it
I know that’s not wrong
I just keep on strumming
Tryna keep going on
IV
I’m old, Just getting old
V
It’s about damn time I wrote this song
IV
Getting old is hard but it won’t be long
I
I’m old
I
I get up at night, always gotta pee
Every damn drop is weighing on me
Too tired to fight it, too tired to sleep
It’s all I can muster to keep up on my feet
IV
I’m old, Getting old
V
It’s about damn time I wrote this song
IV
Getting old is hard, not for the faint of heart
I
I’m old, I’m old
I
What’s that you’re talking, can’t hear what you say
Hand me my glasses. Get out of my way.
Need help with the door, help up the stairs
Just walking around gives me despair
IV
I’m old, I’m old
I
I like to complain but I’m happy as can be
I may be old but I’m goddamned free
don’t care what you think, don’t mean a thing
you look right past me, no puppet on a string
IV
I’m old, I’m old
V
I’ve learned a lot of things, some I’ve forgot
IV
If you’re still young and you think you’re hot
I
you get old, (if you’re lucky) you get old, you get old, I’m old
If I get enough tracks, I’ll release them on an album. I’ve chosen the name Springboard. Until then, I’ll release singles. The artwork below is cropped from a piece I published earlier this year.
I’m not entirely sure why I chose that name, but I like how it feels. I had to go through a whole little process (I chose to use KensVamps for my group name, which was the original name of this publication) when I signed up to use distrokid for my release process. The online music world is so much bigger than it was in 1999.
It’s ironic that our latest and greatest invention is a machine that can mimic our creative work. I feel a certain - I don’t know, loss/trepidation - when I think about what can happen to creative work released out into the wild. It does feel as though the process to discover new artists online is stifled. I’m not really trying to get discovered. If I were, I’d be out, in-person. I’d be playing out. I’d be telling people. Right now, I’m not that person.
I’ve read a little about Emily Dickinson. I identify with her reclusive nature. My publishing model is similarly small.
As always, even if I don’t write it out - best wishes, Ken