Chapter 4: Muse Happens

What is the proper way to write a rock song? Do you begin with an emotion, a feeling that gives birth to relatable words? Do you begin with a melody inside which random lyrics may be placed? Perhaps it’s best to start with a poem or stanza whose oration seems to produce a melody of its own. Or can a pleasantly rattled drumbeat, given adequate concentration, materialize its melodic counterpart? As a singer, a youth, an ignorant schoolboy on the cusp of manhood, I began with my notebook, pencil, and a recreational understanding of passionate verse. Which is to say, my experiences, my inhibitions, from a tragic, songwriter’s perspective, were trite episodes of adolescent importance.

The first time I shared the contents of my notebook with Ted, our older, more experienced guitarist, a paternal scoff burped through his mealy lips. He then tossed said notebook, Frisbee-style, back across my eager lap before continuing about his guitar stringing business, as if my initiation were a helpless portion of gullet phlegm which required only spitting attention.
“It’s a song,” I said.

“No it isn’t,” he said.

“It’s called, ‘Green Swing.’”

“It’s obvious . . . what you need is a muse.”

“A muse?”

“Yeah, something or someone who inspires you.”

Ted writes all our songs. Sure, I’m 18 and he’s 28. Yes, he is a six-string virtuoso and I have the instrumental dexterity of a tree-dwelling primate. No, I have never written a song in my life. But I am the singer dammit! I’m supposed be the lyricist, a creative Knight wielding his No.2 Excalibur during twelfth-grade study hall. All I need is a chance, some able stimulation, and, as Ted so derisively suggested, a muse. As it turns out, with time and creative intention, muse happens.

My muse has glossy polished nails, swaggering hips, sapphire eyes, abnormally perky bosoms, senior status among the cheerleading squad, and a wavy blonde bob like Kelly McGillis circa Top Gun. Her kind and my kind never date. Her kind: the tan, pompom-rustling, jersey-wearing, Chanel-scented, intellectually-comatose, and my kind: the long-haired, boot-wearing, Kerouac-reading, narcotically-savvy, never interact at all. It goes against every variant of social reality. The rules have been predetermined. They are “They” and we are “We.” They suck, we rule. Simple.

It’s first period. I am in the library, not in Calculus where I belong, because 8 a.m. is just too damn early to think differentially. In fact, the entire concept of first period, and the classes held within, does not harmonize with my vocally nocturnal addiction. I sleep, in the library, in the corner, in that fuzzy egg chair with the putrid wad of chewing gum beneath the arm rest. She glides across the room, frilly miniskirt waving down at her lean thighs, pauses at my smelly corner chair, and speaks:

“I’m Jennifer.”

“I know,” I say.

(I have never spoken with Jennifer, or any of her friends, but the name and image of every attractive girl in school floats through the hallways like some eerie masturbation virus.)

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“I’m in a band,” I blurt, because . . . I am a spaz.

“Yeah, I heard about that. Are you the drummer?”

“No, I sing. Why did you think I’m the drummer?”

“Because you’re always tapping your hands or pencil on something.”

I do that because . . . I am a spaz.

She hands me a folded piece of paper. “Here’s my number if you wanna call me sometime.”

(High school courtship is swift and non-interview based.)

I call. We date. She is astoundingly dull and talks about football all the time . . . but she’s beautiful. She says “like,” like she’s like some freaky like Tourettes like victim... but her skin is flawless. Her friends wear New Kids On The Block t-shirts . . . but she has full, promiscuously pouting lips. Her male friends are date-rape conversationalists... . but her legs are smooth and shapely. My bandmates hate her, my friends hate her, they think she’s a bitch; she is a bitch... but a tighter backside cannot be found. I am a naïve, superficial asshole... but everyone’s got to learn somehow.

Once again, the notebook is passed to our paternal guitarist. He scoffs, again. “It’s a song,” I say, again. He looks down at my scrawling lyrics, grimacing, again. But this time he’s impressed. “I’m impressed,” he says, “let’s give this one a try.” I demand the song be called, “Jennifer,” because.. I am a spaz. But Ted renames it “Fantasy Girl.” He comes up with a melody for Fantasy Girl, the band applies music to Fantasy Girl, we play Fantasy Girl at band practice, Jennifer attends, blushing in the corner, her presence pisses the guys off. We intend to open with Fantasy Girl, a medium-paced, open-chord song with jazz-rhythm drumbeat, at our upcoming fraternity show. Success! My first real song!

It’s first period, the Monday following band practice, and I have abandoned my library chair to visit the Boys lavatory. I exit the bathroom, turn a corner past the second floor science room, and descend back toward my first period sleep-chair. There, in the East Wing stairwell, up against the pale blue wall, I see the scarlet and gold of Shawn Rittman’s varsity jacket, his quarterbacking hands clamped around the firm buttocks of my cheerleading muse, their mouths locked, tongues sword fighting.

On Friday evening at 10pm our band is set up before a group of 100 university students. My voice is warmed up, Ted is in tune, a bottle of honey infused Evian sits beside the microphone stand, and I switch on the PA to address the crowd. “This is a new song,” I say, we are about to perform my song live for the first time, a fast paced, bar-chorded, heavy hitting song, “it’s called, ‘You Can Go Kill Yourself.’”

Contact Daniel McDermott: danmcdermott@hotmail.com

---

Rock N Roll Addiction, Chapter Three

Rock N Roll Addiction, Chapter Two

Rock N Roll Addiction, Chapter One

back to jerseybeat.com l back to top