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Thursday, March 26, 2015

MooPig "How to Write a Blues Song" Department

Hey Jeff, Have you ever Fancied Someone you Shouldn't?
by Pat Darnell  |  Mar 26, 2015  |  Bryan TX

Hostility is worsened when humans try to intervene. Not a good opener for a Blues song, but very pertinent. As is oftener the case our lives are carved out not as a map of ideals we live for, rather by choices made along the way while in places that embed themselves in our heads.
"I was in the street
On Grand Avenue..."

There is a relentless hope in all to love and be loved no matter in what place one finds himself. Unless a person is fully jaded, he is looking for someone to share his journey. Many choices we make are begun while looking for a partner.
"People huddled
Cold and damp..."

Without partnership, cold places seem colder, hot places seem hotter, and wet places seem unbearable. But with chosen partners the coldness is manageable, more of a friend, and less of a ghost. Our Blues song lives in a sort of faded social corner in our minds, the in-between land, a non-committal zone. We liken our situation to others who magically have made choices that ease their lives. Our situation seems comical to others who fancied what they should have fancied and didn't shoot for the stars.
"My lady dropped me
from a four story building..."

In the pain of a mix up, like picking the wrong gal, if one were living on Venus, he would be frozen, fried, and crushed in a Venus-crush. Every field he walks in would be filled with cockle-burrs, and ticks, that stick onto his flesh. And he has little choice but to rip them all off his skin, and continue roaming.
"She sure enough threw me
Off a four story house..."

Then, as a form of self-preserving, our minds lock onto a repeated utterance or theme. In the Blues song this is the Refrain. Some of these utterances coupled with melody can become the chant of an entire generation of human offspring. It can rock the micro waves till hotter than a moon beam.
When I dove,
My blood froze,
On that cold avenue.
She clapped her hands
whipped her hair, and s'ed
'Papa, that weren't cool.'

And so it is questionable who threw who, and what will become of him that hit the floor? Reminded that this is written in late winter, say March, and the beautiful death of winter can be another yet softer snow, covering every available surface. Hollers of people on the avenue are strangely reflected off each snowflake as cars, houses, eyebrows slowly collect snow. Voices carry on snowy evenings, and various tragic and humorous situations are picked up. All around cars are stuck in peculiar positions, dogs jump and bite the air, "Wasn't there a sidewalk there?" And words never convey all that is going on.

Out of diversity of life comes genius of adaptability in snow muffled cries of success and failure.

Old Jeff, Old Jeff,
c'mere and rest...
...Your toasted self...
Feeling kind of hungry,
just might be that you could help.

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