I Am a Liar: a Song Elucidated

I've used the blog format to showcase my writing and my poetry, though I have yet to take advantage of the medium in unveiling my greatest passion, music. I see myself first and foremost as a musician and that is where my artistic energies are focussed. I also adore the art and trade of composition, so I would like to explain my thought process when penning and composing my humble musical creations. I suppose you can see me as the magician who unveils the tricks of his trade (though I assure you I am no magician). 

The song I will be unveiling tonight is, as the title suggests, I Am a Liar. I Am a Liar possesses numerous genesises, all of which would be exacting to express, but I would like to break down the logic of my recording process (as poor as it is). The initial guitar riff, originating in Dm, is the backbone of the piece. It is where the melodic lines, both vocally and instrumentally, grow. The riff is in-itself melodic, building upon the Dm and the Gm7th chord structure, but its potential I believe is unveiled within the lead guitar line, which is importantly incredibly repetitive, and the vocal melody, which, through its use of octavus jumps, adds depth to the piece. It allows the listener to be engaged. The engagement is incredibly important for the structure and the layers within the song are by design repetitive. The Song is built upon the classic verse-chorus-verse structure, allowing for a vocal coda built upon the layered verse. 

The lead guitar line, which slightly echoes the initial song riff, is as mentioned before repetitive by design. It is built to link the chorus to the verse, allowing the initial melodic tendencies of the song to still exist above the changed chordal structure of the chorus. The lead line does not change, chaining every aspect of the song within the confinements of the initial melody. The phrasing of the lead line is also important. It cannot be exact to the original riff or it will fail to bleed forth from the pack, difficult to do when dealing with the shoegaze esc rhythm guitar that is purposefully layered to muddle the first guitar. The rhythm guitar by all intents and purposes is meant to make everything sound muddy and hard to distinguish. Built upon three chords, mainly Cm, the rhythm is drenched with heavy reverb and layered with an exaggerated delay/echo, ensuring that one chord bleeds into another, making it messy and hard to distinguish, such adding another layer of sound vital to the width and depth of the song. The rhythm guitar is removed when the chorus is played, but the basic feedback remains, adding a slightly different soundscape and allowing the lead guitar to shimmer through. 

The bass line and the (fake) string section are intrinsically linked. They are separated by a fifth, building a basic (power) chord and driving the song forward, but also allowing the bass to fill out and appear less monotonous (which it is). The bass is simplified to allow the hip-hop influenced beat to sound un-alien (to mixed results I must admit). At the very least, it allows the poor hip-hop beat to feel less arduous, and drives the song forward. The drums are vital for the pacing of the song, driving the song and adding tension to the work (again with mixed results).

Lastly the guitar solo. In all honestly the solo is a work of repetitive improvisation. I improvised a guitar solo over the verse section over and over, slowly piecing together specific phrases and note clusters I enjoyed aesthetically. Once piecing together 3 or 4 parts, I than improvised those tools overtop until a satisfactory take was created. Possibly the quickest and enjoyable process of the song. 

If you are interested in hearing the song, just click on the link below to my personal Soundcloud, entitled Winged Flight. There you will find other songs, which I will hopefully explain in detail on another date. 

Cheers

https://soundcloud.com/winged-flight/i-am-a-liar

What Makes a Man?

Looking at Jason I feel out of place. He sits before me, tall, handsome, and painfully arrogant. His cowboy boots and his belt buckle hold together the rest of his cowboy attire well, while his well groomed hair and awkward piercings contrast with his image. He is a man of polarizing styles which oddly makes him irresistible to the young women he has learned to prey on. The Heineken he drinks conveys wealth. That it comes from the rigs means little to his one night acquaintances. Jason has that smile which make women blush and men sigh in defeat. 

"Hey man, how you doing?" He asks in his melodic and confident voice. The master of small talk. 

"Oh you know man, I can't complain haha." My reply is as he expected. I am a downtrodden pathetic man. The antithesis of Jason. I am far from a good looking man, and lord knows I lack confidence. My clothes would be an ode to film Noir if not for their bright colours, a vast difference to Jason's Spaghetti western influences. I am a sexually frustrated and inept young man with promise while Jason is a sexually successful and charming man facing a dead end.

"for sure man haha. What are you drinking?" I look down at the Heineken.

"Ill have a Heineken as well actually." Jason smiled "good man!" The waitress walked over with two Heineken's and a smirk in Jasons direction. I look across the small bar table which stands between me and Jason. 

"So hows life man? Still working on the rigs?" Jason smiles as he takes a swig from his bottle. "Ya man, same old same old." I nod as I always do when I see Jason. "Cool, so you got a lady?" I always ask. I know the answer. With Jason, there is no point in trying to bullshit and move around different conversations. He wants to talk about one thing, women. 

"Ya man! I think this is the one. You know me, I want to settle, and this girl is real special." This is the carbon copy of our last conversation. Every girl is "the one" and Jason still clings to his frail christian ideals. I know in time, he will change her name twice, and talk about two other young ladies he is ready to settle down with. As he sits across from me I feel contempt and jealously for him. Contempt because he is a lier, thief and manipulator. I feel jealously for him because in many respects he is a greater man than I am. His sexual prowess is frustrating and his masculine projection is hateful. 

"You seem to be doing well for yourself eh Jason haha." Jason gives me that smile I disgust, yet I wish I had. He could swoon almost any dimwitted woman in any bar. His deep green eyes and his thick brown hair bring out his nose and whitens his smile. He sits with a ease I can only perceive but never conceive. 

"You know me man, always got them by the string" as he makes a reeling motion. What makes Jason more of a man then me? I ask myself this question often. I can't help but feel morally superior, and I tell myself daily that kindness means more than charm and dashing good looks. Every time I see jason though, my thoughts seem weak and petty. Who am I compare to this man? I feel like a boy, a lost one at that. 

"Well, its getting late Jason, but it was good seeing ya take care. Cheers" I say. "Sure man, take care. Don't be a stranger." I walk away hating myself and hating him for being the reason.      

Party

The haze of the room distorted the lights. The energy in the room encompassed the fleshy matter that was confined in the small space of the basement dwelling. Sweat added to the humid environment of the enclosed area. The sexual, sensual, intellectual, and physical tension was heavy and felt heavier than air, as it hung like smog over a sinful city. Eyes locked in every direction, as hands rested in ideal places. The movement of people was in perfect unison with the reverb soaked music that glistened in the dense air. The tickling sensation of vibrations caused shivers as each resounding beat of a bass note broke through the treble. Hearts came into sync, as feet shuffled, slide, glided, and rose in army synchronization. Hands delved deeply into thick and young hair, as nostrils flared, capturing hormonic desires. 

Youth has always found a way to express itself. Suppression of unbridled desires, energy, and excitement has been meet with dangerous consequences. The war rampages of the past have shown history that only the death of youth can keep the outflow of vitality from consuming everything indefinitely. Each juxtaposition of movement holds a dissonant beauty as youthful bodies graze, and lights bring to light thinly veiled thoughts. As skin continues to glisten so does the floor and the air that remains interwoven with the vibrations within the tight compact space of the basement. Rebellion can be felt. It caresses indulgent souls into fiery ideals. 

Hesitation of the masses is the start. 

Within an instant a pause. The flow of interchangeable and overflowed limbs stop. The crackle of speakers and panted breaths act as the only sounds in the room. White masked faces hold tragic, comical, and fractured expressions. The timeless quality of emotion etched and moulded into the abysmal masks are laughable in their lack of creativity. Youth, in its very essence, is striving for creativity and uniqueness when faced with the harsh reality of a past life already lived.

The crackle is broken by a snare crack. With each beat the figures move a limb in perfect unison. What adds an odd sensation to the sight is that each figure does not move the same limb. Some move a leg, though which, does not matter. Others move their arms, heads, hands, fingers, or hips. Some simply blink. Sporadic but fitting, each snare hit inches towards a pattern. First it revolves around an 8/7 pattern. Than a 3/4 waltz. The snare hit than warps to a 4/5 pattern before settling on a 4/4 beat. The strain of remaining in the same place is evident on the bodies of all participating within the event of the party.

A drum roll begins. One falls. Than another. As people fall to the ground the drum roll begins to crescendo, each body hitting the ground accenting certain beats, which fall on the third of every beat. After 33 beats, the snare roll tempo increased. Than again, and again, Until at last 333 bodies laid upon the ground, in a perfect circle around one lone individual, who stood without a mask. His hands resting at his side, and his hair in his eyes.   

Regretful resentment

"I know you hate me" I typed. I sat and stopped. The blue "reply" button in the bottom right corner stared at me. The finality it represented should have scared me more. It was quick, easy, and un-repent-able. All I needed to do was work the trackpad of my computer to waver the hand over the "button." I than simply needed to tap the trackpad with one of my fingers and the words which stood lit on my computer screen would be sent to the other person. It would move unimaginably fast and would tear at her heart to see my clearly hurtful words. They where meant to sting. So easy. It should have scared me more. 

I wish I could say why I am capable of evil. It seems to delve deep within my chest. I can feel it grow when I grow angry, sad, alone, or disturbingly so, when I am bored. I think the latter is the rarest. I hope it is the rarest. It grows quickly, not slowly. I don't think evil just appears, it is always within me, but it is sometimes small and sometimes great. I try not to be swept away. 

It seems petty to say but I don't remember why I wanted to hurt her. She hurt me I think. No. I am sure she hurt me at some point and retribution is something I enjoy in the moment. It fills me with a hollow pleasure and slowly deflates upon itself. I think the guilt which weights within it is to great that it must collapse when unleashed. Unlike the evil within me guilt doesn't exist within my chest. It delves within the pit of my stomach. It is always very great but on lucky moments it shrinks. Those moments of guiltless and gutless evil are frightfully wonderful though sadly when it disappears the guilt that encompasses me is tenfold worse. 

"I know you hate me" is no longer on the screen. Only a flashing 90 degree bar remains upon the white surface that my computer attempts to create. It doesn't seem all that real does it? The glow hurts my eyes in time and the feeling within my cranium is that of unreleased pressure. I still don't know where the valve is. 

"I hate you" has now taken its form before me. I think I was here before wasn't I? No, I typed "I know you hate me." It doesn't seem to make much difference. Hate is hate. She hates me so I hate her in return. Or perhaps I hate her and want her to hate me for hating her. I think the later is true. It is hard to say. Either way I am back to a familiar place. The words of pain are before me and the button is once again so easily taken advantage of. I just need to tap my trackpad and I will have successfully sent my insubstantial dagger of pain. though it doesn't hang before as if in a daze I am still unable to grasp it. 

The screen blinks "message sent successfully" upon a white background that doesn't seem all that real. It only sends a pressure to my brain which doesn't appear ever to be realized. I know I will blame the computer. It is easier to blame the technology than the user. I don't mind. It is a wonderful scape goat. If I had been forced to write a letter she would never have been wounded. She would be happy that night. She would be alive and with her friends. To bad for that easy reply button.    

An Evening

With an impending doom Jason laid upon his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was a friday evening in which he was shrouded by a darkness he had no control over. He was alone and as such delved into negative thoughts better not explored. Yet, as with many of his evenings, he had no way to stop them from clouding his mind and basking a darkness over his already fragile and sour mood. Jason thought of his countless flaws and his seemingly baseless qualities and toiled with self loathing and flirted with self hatred. With each passing week of loneliness and each passing failure Jason slowly closed his heart and suppressed his emotions hoping that someone would take the time and effort to break through. It occurred to him how doing so was in many respects selfish. He knew that those he loved, and those that loved him, had their own struggles and trepidation, and that "testing" them was in-itself a fruitless act for it did not truly express their love and feelings. As with all cycles of course, this was one he could not break. Yet Jason could not feel guilt free about telling how he was feeling to people who are both close and far in distance. He truly wanted them to ask, to delve, and to dig from him the many emotions and thoughts he was feeling, for that was the way in which he was able to express himself in a guilt free manner. 

Jason laid in bed. His phone by his side set to insure that if anyone contacted him he would be undeniably informed of the incoming form of menial human contact he so craved. He just wished for one text. One act of kindness in which a kind soul said "I know you aren't okay. Let's talk." It wasn't going to happen. Those forms of interactions, as he knows, only happens in movies, in which timing is impeccably set to create enough suspense and emotion to keep the viewer hooked, but not too much, for if they created to much it would be to painful and uncomfortable. Jason continued to lay silently in his bed, staring at the poorly painted ceiling. He tried he felt. He attempted to change things. At what point do you give up and accept the truth? At what point is trying no longer admirable but a tad pathetic and saddening? Weeks? Months? Years? Decades? He didn't have the answer. With all his evenings he never gains an answer. It was a vain act that never brought about any self-realization. Happiness, like all other human concepts Jason considered, maintained its transparent, translucent, and indescribable abstraction. 

He considered the term for hours, turning it in his mind to no avail. Always he came to a consensus that he seemed unlikely to be able to truly ever be as "happy" as everyone seemed to be. Jason was sure that everyone held a secret to life he did not know in which they had gained happiness and countless other idolized words and human concepts he could only thinly grasp. Jason looked at his open and cold computer and glanced at the time at the top of his laptop, it read 1:30 am. The night was still young and his mind was still restless. 

Jason died every night. No one knew it. They saw him smiling the next day, hiding a pain that he kept deep inside if only for societies sake, and maybe for himself. Some secrets, even the ones that ultimately destroy you, are kept for they give you a little more power. Knowledge is power they say. Jason would than rise the next day from his death, and look at the clock once again. He would scroll through Facebook and see his face on the screen, smiling. At that moment he was reborn, and he would walk out the door with a reborn demeanour that would last until the next evening, when he would face his death once more. 

A Letter

When I consider my predicament, I am filled with shallow sorrow. I lay night after night and consider my actions. I am never to sure of how I feel. During certain nights, I shed tears, for I am distraught with guilt and sadness. Other nights, when the moon is bright, and it glows into my room, I laugh, uncontrollably. When I was a child, I would read Shakespearean tragedies and laugh. I understand that my statement shall be perceived by some as melodramatic and maybe even petty. The thought of reading tragedies for comedic purposes is far from original, but my life is not original. I live within a box. I can feel the walls phasing closer and closer from me. The shifts act like the tides for I find they both correspond to the ebbs and flows of the moon. My first friend, and my last enemy, told me that she couldn't understand how the cosmos couldn't affect our lives and moods. I used to believe her, and in some respects I still do, yet, I feel deep within me that I am so distinctly small that the cosmos does not affect my life. I state this not because I disagree on our micro-finite importance; I state my position on the strength of that reality. We are so minute that the grotesque power and force of the universe do not have the time nor the reason to affect us. The statistical chance that we, being so small within a space practically infinite in size, would be directly, or even indirectly affected by the actions of the universe is highly unlikely. We might as well live within a vacuum within the universe itself. I still feel though, and I still live. 

Pondering on deep seeded philosophical issues does not tame my unabashed hunger for chasteness. Any action, when considered and analyzed on a macro-level of analysis, becomes morally and humanly inconsequential. I can redeem my actions through any number of logical paths, be it through religious, nihilistic, macro, and micro philosophical thought. Once I reach a logical end conclusion which absolves me of my "crime", I then add it to the concoction of salvations I have been brewing over the years. Wether I invoke Nietzsche, Kant, Hobbes, Plato, or Hegel, I have found my actions vindicated. 

Yet, I feel guilt. For although greater moral, amoral, and anti-moral thinkers than I have found a way to exonerate my conduct, I know what I did was wrong. I have a few theories. One is that despite my carefully considered and methodically researched absolutions, I cannot shed the truth that society, the very institution I committed my act against, is unwilling or unable to forgive me. It is a burden I must carry with me. Still, I find all my intellectualizing of the past has left a bitter taste in mouth. I have an instinctual, irrational, and tiresome irking that I am wrong. That I am evil. 

I can debate what "evil" is, and wether it is qualitative or the result of lacking virtue, or both, it is unimportant. I believe I am evil. My basic instincts, the very things that brought me to this place have not only enabled me to commit my acts of evil, but have confirmed what I feel deep inside. I continue to search for a rational conception that can override my instinctual beliefs of myself, for I feel that if I do not I shall die of laughter and of despair. I hope that you will not judge me harshly, for these walls are not meant to keep me from hurting you. They are meant to keep you at bay, and away from my mistakes. 

Sincerely yours,

Epimētheús