I've been battling a Winter funk since churchbus' triumphant return from Texas. My life seems a still backwater in contrast to the fast current of that art-filled road trip. Back in Chicago since the 3rd of January, I still haven't unpacked my bags. They lie on the dining room floor half gutted for clean underwear.
Sounds pathetic, but the artist in me knew that this sinking into self-pitying depression can be creatively snagged if patient like a good fisherman. The bait was taken Friday night at Hotti Biscotti. Sullen already, I let things get to me. As fortune would have it lots of little things went wrong (bad tempered musician buzzing my ear, the club's neglected PA system breaking down, false theft accusations from the bartender). Fortunately this didn't affect many people and the show went pretty good. I was the lone sufferer (well me and maybe that bad tempered musician). The next morning I reeled in the fish, recording the vocals to a bitter drone churchbus had long been working on. The song needed vocals and for many weeks I couldn't get into the right mood to do it. Saturday morning, mopey and self-loathing, I needed a creative outlet. It was in the basement on a half-inch reel of tape.
The Hotti Biscotti events took me to the place but the gears were already in motion. In my wallow I read a Robert Pinksy poem that truly sang to me, I'd like to pass that on.
Oh and the song should be up on the churchbus MySpace page soon. It's called "Three Short Years."