Can't really stop...

I’m a little past “three-score and ten.” I should be winding down by now. That thought hovers in the background as I, instead, gear up. Not that my physical body enjoys this. My feet are numb from peripheral neuropathy, an inherited affliction that no one can do anything about. My larger joints and muscles have ceased to benefit from frequent or slightly strenuous exercise and require only that they be moved in some way every day. I am not keeping up with the housework, but then, I never did. And yard work is beyond considering, even though it’s desperately needed (according to American lawn standards).

I made this music, this “album,” in 2021, and it’s being “released” now online, with the “hard copy” coming soon. I’ll give those CDs away; it seems crazy to charge money for the privilege of possibly being listened to. Somehow, I got a half-hour gig in April at a ukulele festival (thanks to Kirk Jones, an almost Christ-like local ukulele teacher). I practiced an eight-song set daily for two weeks, including the patter between songs. I included only three originals because I didn’t want to challenge anyone. Four or five friends were there to hear me play. I played seated, with a music stand holding my printed-out song information.

The other performers played standing up with no props. This scenario may be repeated in July (again at Kirk’s invitation). It would be helpful to gain more experience between now and then, but there have been no offers, and I am not sure I possess much self-promotional energy, although I do value my own “creativity,” such as it is.

This whole solo music thing is not something I could have predicted, and I’m not sure if it helps anyone but me (pyschologically, not monetarily). I am often mired in the minutiae of song details and finger-picking patterns, and now, online voice lessons (to deal with a few unwanted cracks in my ancient vocal range). At night when I lay me down to sleep, melodies I’ve written or played swirl through my brain, unwanted and not enjoyed. My inner voice says, “Stop it. Stop it!” Sometimes that works, sometimes not. I should be thinking about the world, about the suffering of humans and other beings, but I rarely dwell on that. I read the news headlines, that's all, and that's enough. Social forces have readily channeled any desire for political action into the notion of donating money, which I cannot easily do; I am spending any “disposable” income on music-related items and services, like recording studio time.  https://www.startlinglyfreshrecords.com/marylyncoffey.html   

 
This all could be seen as a vanity project, and as such, reprehensible. But other people are encouraging me, and I am NOT feeling vain about it at all, but rather self-conscious. Still, throughout my life, I always knew how to find other people to tell me to do things I already wanted to do, from having sex to spending money on getting my hair done. Now it’s playing music and writing songs. I’ll never be a great ukulele player, and in fact, I think of my baritone ukulele as an easier guitar. I am not wildly enthusiastic about ukulele group strums or festivals, and my own songs

are drastically introspective in both fictional and direct ways. I was told my songwriting is “quirky” during an online open mic the other day. Sometimes people comment on the clever lyrics. I wish they’d cite the “interesting” chord progressions, too, but I realize I sometimes create them just to BE “interesting” and to involve odd melodies that take some doing to memorize (that’s the only part of a song that I DO memorize these days, since I cannot write them down).

This September I was asked to plan an hour-long set of originals for “Concerts on the Dock,” an outdoor venue that’s usually quite well-attended. Again, I’ll be opening for the opening act, but still, it’s something. The crazy thing is, I’ll be backed by what I consider to be REAL musicians, jazz guys who actually read music. This will involve some rehearsing. I imagine it will be very different from the current haphazard biweekly sessions in Huey’s basement (the guitarist/leader of my old ‘90s band, the Lonesome Lovers) with Claudette playing bass and Huey randomly bringing up old songs we used to do. And yet I keep thinking about death (not as far away as it used to be), and climate change (not as far away as it used to be), and the necessity to straighten out my “affairs” and clear out the house (although the problem is mostly Russell’s stuff, not mine). What have I brought to this world? No new human beings, thank goodness. But have I helped anyone? And is “helping people” just an old-fashioned notion mostly foisted on women to keep them out of trouble? To keep them from cluttering up the landscape with their personal shit? I do not know. All I know is, I can’t really stop now.