The Virgin writes Hemingway style

#15 Never Have I Ever: Written a song

Foreplay: I can write poetic prose. I can write piquant blog posts (I hope...). I can even write coherent text messages to my mom while 6 drinks deep into my weekend.

But you know what I can't do? Write a song that doesn't involve shouting bastardized rap into my phone to the phrase of, "Get yo' drunk jacket on!" Not that I've ever done that or anything...

I don't know how musicians do it. Do lyrics come first? Or does the melody? Does the guitarist simply wiggle his nose and a completed CD magically pops out of his ass? Well, does it?! How am I supposed to know?!

The Down and Dirty: Last week Hermosa emailed me a short guitar track and asked me to "apply those word skills of [mine]".

Oh man, I thought, how flattering is this! So I did what any lauded lady does. I left it practically untouched in my inbox for a week.

You guys, I don't think you understand my lack of creativity yet excess of performance anxiety. I don't know know what rhyme scheme I'm supposed to run with. Wait! Is it even supposed to rhyme?! This country-twanged folk song is super cute. I'd hate to mar it by adding lyrics about the social constructs of the word "slut" or urinating in alleyways or any of the other stuff I often write about.

So I took the Ernest Hemingway approach to writing: Drunk and indiscriminately. As I nursed my Fat Tire, I texted Whiskey Sour to whine about how pathetic I felt drinking alone while lacking inspiration. He rang me up for some pillow talk (on his end in Virginia), told me to go listen to "2 Atoms in a Molecule" by Noah and the Whale, and gave me 3 different writing topics. After we said our respective sleepy and buzzed farewells, I lit a candle, put on some Bright Eyes, and made intoxicated but determined love to my laptop.

Below are snippets strung together during my inebriated writing rampage based off each theme supplied by Whiskey Sour.

The morning after:
From my knees I kissed the seat, and spewed love from my lips

A crush (this topic spiraled into an aggravated rant on my part that involved the quote, "Fuck crushes; I'd rather just do it." What can I say? I'm one classy broad):
I don't need a friend, I need a warm body tonight

My first trip on uh... certain substances:
I only pray to God
Just to say that I was sorry
Just to prove I was right all along

The Afterglow: Definitely not of e.e. cummings grandeur but better than what I started with. Maybe I just needed a proper verbal ass-kick from Whiskey Sour and a stiff drink to loosen me up. To be honest, I'm still pretty buzzed. And it's not even midnight! This is either really awesome or really, really, really sad...

I'm going to go crack open another cold one before I'm forced to answer that question or text my mom back.

I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best: "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." Cheers to that, old literary dude.

The Virgin sings the blues

#4 Never Have I Ever: Recorded a song.

Foreplay: I hate hate hate being showered with attention if only for the fact that criticism and rejection scares the ever loving shit out of me. However, I do love to sing but rarely by myself or in public -- and never without liquid courage. I always grab a partner and a Screwdriver when hitting up some karaoke. While I don't believe ignorance is bliss, in this case it's freakin' euphoria. Oh, did I hit a flat note? I'm sorry, I can't hear over the rhythmic glug-glug of this fine bottle of Charles Shaw chardonnay.

I'd like to think I have a pleasant albeit low voice but middle school and high school choir is as far as my technical singing abilities go. Needless to say I was surprised, flattered, and anxious as all hell when Hermosa asked me to sing a duet with him.

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me over to record a cheerful little diddly he wrote about self-righteous pilgrims. I really couldn't turn down an offer like that.

As I watched as Hermosa set up the equipment in his makeshift studio (a Macbook, Pro Tools, and a bad ass microphone in his bedroom) my feet began icing over. Now, I was totally game on my drive over. I had some time to study the lyrics, get the the rhythm down pat, and exercise my voice. But as I stared into the condenser mic my mind went blank, my trembling limbs couldn't keep a non-River-dance tempo, and my voice was going to either squeak or growl uncontrollably at any given minute.


I needed liquid courage. STAT. So we each had a glass of wine. And then another. And then a couple beers on top of that. I think one of us suggested that we start recording before our slur starts speeching. What?

We hit record and went through the song a few times before I got a chance to hear any of the tracks. I already knew I was off but I had no idea what to expect. What the hell was that? Was that me? Seriously?! I've been told I have a low, smokey voice but have I always sounded so... drag queeny?

We tried to forge ahead but the damage was done. I was like Punxsutawney Phil who saw his shadow and fled back down the hole to drown in self-deprecation and an unholy amount of discount Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I wasn't quite willing to give up until I had something decent to show for my efforts but this pilgrim business was working as well for me as it did with Pocahontas.

Hermosa suggested we switch to a more mellow, almost bluesy number he had written. Well, hot damn! Maybe the song fit my range better, or perhaps it was my fervent frustration, or it could've been because I was finally sobering up -- but I didn't sound too shabby this time 'round. I wouldn't go about posting it on YouTube, but I wouldn't mind playing it ever so quietly alone in my room when I know that my flatmate is gone for the weekend so that I can scream into my pillow when my vomit-inducing chagrin finally spills over.

The Afterglow: The sound of my own voice still provokes a full body shudder of mammoth proportions but it also baits my inner perfectionist to create a piece to be proud of. Recording is actually heaps of fun if you don't take it too seriously. I'd love to have another go at it; perhaps sans alcohol. Ha, who am I kidding?! Pass the pinot noir, please!