I’m currently typing this, listening to a John Denver record. It’s probably the whitest thing you can do. Sometimes I feel it, sometimes it’s angering. Why they fuck is John Denver so white? Not him physically, but why are things defines that way. Hell, why do I define them that way? It’s all me. Why can’t listening to Denver, James Taylor and the Beatles just happen because it’s good? As a musician, I see it more a different way, a different type of eye-roll. There’s so much more cultured and deep rabbit-hole’d music than these artists, the ones listed are simply the epitome of the type of music they made. Badfinger, John Prine, Randy Newman, Nilsson, and Loudon Wainwright III I’d consider more 'cultured’ versions of the aforementioned artists. Get it? When someone mentions an awesome Denver “deep cut” like they were the first to discover something other than “Sunshine on my Shoulders”, “Annie’s Song” or “Rocky Mountain High” I want to vomit. Like bitch, you’re late, shut up and enjoy the fact that you’re merely BEGINNING crawling down the rabbit hole of this music. You think John Denver is the only guy who’s made this kind of music? Nah. It’s that feeling though on the receiving end, when someone mentions how white it is. Furthermore, the previous reasoning making me feel bad for simply needing some Denver tunes in my life. Sure, I know it’s superficial, but it’s kind of over-rated, underrated-ness. His hits overshadow his other work, nobody listens to any of his entire records. It’s nice to just listen to without the typical thoughts of his hits. Just listen to the music at face-value, not with the pretext of comparing some other tune on “Back Home Again” to “This Old Guitar” or “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.” (Spoiler, he kinda never was)
Well, this is not what this post was supposed to be about, but here we are. It was supposed to be setting the scene as to what I’m doing. Listening to John Denver and sitting here typing while I’m on the clock. I’ve truly given up. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve got more free time than I’ve ever had in my life or so it seems, and I can’t get a damn thing done. What the fuck is that? It’s like some cruel twist of fate. A living hell where I’m dead, with all the time and resources I can muster to make something half decent and can’t get my brain wrapped around the idea that I should do something. What the heck is that?
Every time I write here, I also think back to the serious thought of rearranging this site. I like posting my ramblings, but if I change it to market my non-existent music career or simply a place I can feel good about sharing, this piece of it is a bit cringe worthy, isn’t it? Where does a blog like this, where at times I’ve confessed I’m not pleased with life and considering terrible thoughts and admitting worse things I’ve done, is that going to vibe with someone stumbling on this for my music? Probably not. What’s more (that’s a good one, ‘what’s more, what the fuck.) is that it probably seems even more to a stranger that it’s all grovelling and crybaby crap. I do whine on here quite a bit, a considerable amount. I probably spend more time here whining to the sky than I do bettering myself and my life in general, crazy. It’s easier to form thoughts out on the screen through the keyboard, than it ever does trying to dissect it in real-time and getting past it or over it. Shit.
I’ve flipped to side two, it starts with Annie’s Song, and it’s still wonderful.