Adrift in what seems like an endless feeling of doubt and contemplation. Stereotypically the artist, I am. Some romanticize these headspace moments but perhaps I’m just too old for that sort of thing. There are many song lyrics that I’ve heard over the years, quietly sung, like a plea or a prayer, captured on tape and spun into the fabric of the snowballing narrative of the downward spiraling artist. Just as the album starts to take real shape, I find myself rejecting everything that it stands for; for hopes and dreams are ploys crafted in the hearts of naïve youth, too fucked to care of the repercussions. Yet hopes and dreams are the only thing worth standing for in a turbulent political world entwined in violent clashes and vomiting xenophobic walls: the dark side of humanity. Hopes and dreams are the weapons of the pure at heart with the joke being that none of us are pure, but I don’t really believe that. I think purity in adults is a kind of stubbornness, a resilient twitch that refuses to desist and diminish. I sigh, knowing that sighing is really a waste of energy. “What’s the point, then?” I asked my friend and band mate. “The journey,” he says with a knowing smile. Wise, he really is wise. 

My most recent impression is that the album has bass worth listening to. Rock music has been lacking bass that grooves and takes control, I feel. Where everything seems like a copy of a copy of a copy and nothing is offensive, I hope the bass offends people in this album. I hope my lyrics are worth listening to. I hope; I dream.