Wish you’da known her we was quite a pair
We’s sharp as a razor, soft as a prayer --- Tom Waits
I’ve lost my St. Christopher now that I’ve kissed her
And my Stacy’s are soaking wet --- Tom Waits
Edna Million in a drop dead suit --- Tom Waits
Molly be damned smote Jimmy the Harp
With a hard little pistol and a lariat --- Tom Waits
That’ll do, dawg, that’ll do. My windows are fogged. Hmmm, I meant that literally, I mean assuming you buy into the notion that we own windows, heh, but I reckon my windows are fogged in a broader sense as well. That goofy little state of the dawg losing his motherfucking mind up in here (up in here) entry off to the left if you’re coming from center, did have a small bit of gestalt to it, or catharsis if you ain’t a revisionist up in here (up in here).
That damn crank it up part of Janis’ version of Me & Bobby McGee that comes in between la la la la and yeah, hey, yeah, has been bugging me for days now. So I grabbed one of the YouTube’s that scrolls lyrics, which, in my mind are extended pieces of that misheard lyric blockbuster ‘Souse me while I kiss this guy, so I could both hear and see what nutty shit someone else thought she was singing was. They cheated, round one was la la la round two was na na na and round three was lord lord lord. Yeah, no. I think lawd en-na was as close to phonetically accurate as I could get. I mean yeah, there are la’s and na’s and lords, but in-between em is a lawd en-na.
Power singers of blues and rock need to add syllables here and there because when you get up a head of steam it has to go somewhere. With a woodwind you do it with your tongue and lips and keep the air in your lungs, with brass you do it the same only outwards instead of downwards. With a guitar you could have your whole head in a fish tank sucking nitrous oxide through a snorkel. Singers are a different beast altogether. I say this as a frequent private audience not from experience; I can’t sing. Well, you know, I can’t sing well, it’s like saying I can’t dance, someone is going to insist you can and then patronize you when you stomp on the downbeat and flap on the up, but, to be fair, they just wanted to be moving and touching you, so it’s the least unkind patronizing there is, and if you don’t stomp off in a huff you’ll probably get laid. Me singing is never ever ever going to get you laid.
I know, you weren’t under the impression that it would, if you thought I was even marginally serious you’d protest that you don’t need my help. Sure you’re right (up in here).
That’s why I was stubbornly trying to figure it out on my own far away from any possible collateral damage just in case there were someone within earshot that might possibly want or need to get laid within this lifetime and the first half of the next.
Power singers add syllables and they are almost always some nasal phoneme, a sound bite more than a sound entrée. Because those of us who can’t sing want to at least faithfully reproduce the intent of the sound if not the letter of it, power blues have to be translated for the singing impaired. Because I can breathe through a saxophone and that’s intuitive to me, releasing excess air through my nose is counter-intuitive, at a certain point power on a woodwind is a question of control and not testicular fortitude or double D lungs. I know, if there is a power singer reading this they are insisting it’s true with a singer as well, and yes, so I’m told. I know how to speak through my diaphragm and project my voice across a room without using any more or less air than regular speech, I just can’t do it while making a joyful noise, and, for the sake of propagation of our species, I don’t sing through my diaphragm (it’s only louder, not more in tune). I am not, unfortunately, tone deaf so I am full aware of how badly I sing.
Oh, motherfucking digression up in here (up in here). I’m asking, anyone, that nasal phoneme;
Know what I mean?
Know why that is? (if you answered no to number 1 just skip ahead to ---- twitter)
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