pianogonzology

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Steps . . .

. . . of songwriting are like steps of a business decision . . .

(based upon information at http://www.umassd.edu/fycm/decisionmaking/process/)
Step 1: Identify the decision to be made.
In songwriting-do you want to write a cry-in-your-beer-song-about-a-love-gone-wrong . . . or a JAZZ INSTRUMENTAL?

Step 2: Gather relevant information.
In songwriting-if you know nothing about jazz, stick to the first.

Step 3: Identify alternatives.
In songwriting-the beer song should be a 4/4 country-type ballad with a catchy hook, the instrumental could be a modal configuration, a waltz, a swing in 4 or 8, a searing, uptempo hard-bop number?

Step 4: Weigh evidence.
In songwriting-skip this one.

Step 5: Choose among alternatives.
In Songwriting-see 1, 2 and 3.

Step 6: Take action.
In songwriting-sit down and WRITE the sucker.

Step 7: Review decision and consequences.
In songwriting-play it, (sing it), listen to it. Do you like it? Move on to the next one.

Step Lively
©2016 Raymond M. Jozwiak

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Tuesday, September 6, 2016

They're Only. . .

. . . words. . .

morguefile.com

. . . the result of pondering insults and considering Don Rickles' career . . .

(from http://onelinefun.com/insults/ and https://thetfp.com/tfp/tilted-fun-zone/2530-vulgar-creative-insults.html)
I'd like to see things from your point of view but I can't seem to get my head that far up my ass.

Your family tree must be a cactus because everybody on it is a prick.

I'm glad to see you're not letting your education get in the way of your ignorance.

You've only got 3 brain cells left and they're all fighting for attention.

I'd call her a cunt, but she lacks the depth and charm." (William Styron).

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Monday, September 5, 2016

Long . . .

. . . to be Latin . . .

We spin on an axis as bold as love round a sun that’s alight with fire

It’s true our time is marked by the man in the moon

Don’t walk ahead, don’t walk behind, just be my friend and walk by my side

It’s real, this life is by in the blink of an eye.

I live and I long to be Latin as beauty rebels against time

I live and I long to be Latin

The cardinal wish for the scent of the red summer rose.

We have walked the dream palace of yesterday

Where myth is truth and the proof’s hearsay

Memories disguised by the ways that we wish they could be

The drives and input are well defined

Lies rolling off dying tongues chill the soul

Chained in gold we walk a lifelong line.

I live and I long to be Latin. I’m waiting to see my own eyes

I live and I long to be Latin

But what will I wear to the end of the world, my demise?

Upon the chipped dish the rich and pure fare of the love feast, kissing the sky

As we hold hands in a ring, the night to morning link

Contacts with the light

Be my friend, we can walk side by side

Don’t walk ahead you know I won’t walk behind

Though we stumble through our fears and tears

To the cadence and the tune of the spheres.

I live and I long to be Latin to live the fool and die the sage

I reach and intend to be Latin

To make vision real in the face of chance and circumstance

I live and I long to be Latin to take my stand against routine

I live and I long to be Latin

Where living at risk means I can see what others don’t see.

What do you think?
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My latest solo offering, No Frills, is now available at - No Frills

Sunday, September 4, 2016

But . . .

. . . that was yesterday . . .

Finally, a 'club' that required exactly the musical product we, 'Ful Treatment,' were offering. It was a relatively roomy, oblong configuration with a large rectangular bar that encircled the tending staff, located at one end with a dance floor to the side and a stage at the far end of that. It was located in an industrial area to the south of the city, in close proximity to the docks, business of which brought many merchant marine and an assortment of blue-collar clientele for some weekend reverie. In fact, we frequently, unfairly generalizing, joked about the patrons' general lack of teeth and violent tendencies. Let's face it though, large amounts of quickly consumed alcohol frequently result in less-than-gentlemanly behavior in humans, irrespective of type of employment or socioeconomic level. . . Our bigotry was not based entirely in fiction though. One particularly well-lubricated Friday night crowd included two, physically imposing females, complete with the teased, bouffant hairdo, each with a personalized version of a blond-streak adornment. Someone in the crowd was heard to refer to these ladies as 'skunk-heads', referring to the aforementioned blond coloring. As the evening progressed, it became obvious to us that night that the 'skunk-heads' had become enamored with several male members of the crowd. It became more obvious still later, that there was some discontent among the party of ladies and their newly-found, romantic interests. Eventually a real, true-to-life bar brawl erupted as a result of the developing sexual tension (or was it friction?) When the fists began flying, one of the involved merchant marines picked up a chair from a table adjoining the dance floor, and broke it over the head of his antagonist, sending a wooden chair leg hurling meteor-like onto the bandstand. It seemed as though the frame froze at that point, all sound ceased, and we all stared toward the crowd, mouths agape in astonishment for what seemed to be a short eternity, but ended with Greg (our saxman/vocalist) picking up the disconnected furniture appendage, waving it in the direction of the audience saying something to the effect that he dared anyone to 'try anything NOW!' . . .

Bb Blues
live recording of Ful Treatment apprx 1977

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Saturday, September 3, 2016

Wishful . . .

. . . thinking . . .

The black coffee’s aroma hangs thick like a cloud every morning
He sorts through paisleys and patterns and stripes on the door
As he lifts up a vain little finger to stifle the blood
From a close shave in the battle of life
The late night crowd’s returning from an all night bout of drinking
While he’s all-consumed by grand delusions also known as wishful thinking

His star quality seems to escape everyone
Who would be in position to help him
Still he goes off each day in anticipation of all
Of the thrill and the joy that one feels
When he’s making interment arrangements
He’s misunderstood
A book a song a TV sitcom part you’d miss for blinking
Or a winning lotto ticket in his hand is only wishful thinking

Oh its nobody’s fault but his own
So few offers come over the phone
But he still perseveres faces up to his fears
That can cloud the intentions and bring on the tears

Still his spirits get lower each day that this program’s protracted
Moment by moment it takes all he has to go on
But he just grits his teeth charges in slings the arrows back into
The face of outrageous misguided conclusions
And even though he’ll never die a pauper or a rich king
He’s just not content to spend his time on anything but wishful thinking

Oh the groceries and the bills aren’t paid by talking or by drinking
So he just resumes the grind lacklusterly and does his wishful thinking

Wishful Thinking(excerpt)
©1993 Raymond M. Jozwiak

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Friday, September 2, 2016

She . . .

. . . comes out of the night she wrote every book you've read
Fingering her pearl(s) every bead a lover dead
She wears that feathered hat ends up burning on the bed
Her freedom ring's not cheap the beast the till both must be fed

We twins sit on this leather seat this woman this man
One lives the level of her heart the other's gland's in hand
She serves that wicked brew opens minds opens eyes
Holds up the looking glass cracks to cut the shame that binds

What is is what is not is too
This emptiness inside includes
The mystery awaiting moving you
To be released and not removed

And she runs me down in my limousine
And she picks me up in my limousine
And we drive it home give our breath away
Though I'm left alone no way am I the same

The hand extends the fingers eyed they fondle urging every word
You only have what you give up fluxing in the flow
Holding on to what you want will only keep it out of reach
And lock you up inside yourself and block epiphany

Read the beat the rhythm takes and gives
The bodies dance in primal play
Forever steps alive into today
Here each word points but does not say

And she runs me down in my limousine
And she picks me up in my limousine
And we drive it home give our breath away
Though I'm left alone no way am I the same

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Thursday, September 1, 2016

Dread . . .

. . . creeps up from behind
Overshadowing my customary optimistic demeanor.
It's a surprisingly potent force
Wielding power far exceeding that possessed by mere men.
A knot in the stomach causing uneasy nights
Turns to worry and preoccupation with situations indescribeable
Yet very real and yes very possible.
But are they probable? Maybe.
And are they really bigger than me?
Fact is, they do originate with mere men.
The voice of reason from the lips of angel
Reassures me that no matter what that dark force brings
It cannot destroy what we, the angel and I,
Have built together.
So forward I go.

What do you think?
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My latest solo offering, No Frills, is now available at - No Frills