WHITE HINTERLAND

Sometimes I am asked why I don’t play older songs, or if something happened that made the older songs less attractive. The only answer I’ve found that seems to ring true is that in the scheme of things I’m stupidly young. I started writing when I was 14, recording at 18. I remember something Steve Lacy said when he was asked when he knew he found ‘his voice.’ He passed away only a few short months later after this and his reply was “I’m still looking.” 

What is nice is that this means throughout life we get to explore many different voices. Then some return to us out of the blue. Songs act as my memories. They have a skin and the inside is a perfectly preserved time capsule of where I was when I wrote it. I’m just now getting to experience some songs that are over ten years old. It’s the uncanniest of uncanny feelings. I can’t even imagine what it’s like for someone like Bob Dylan to go into the vault as far back as he can. Do you think he ever forgets a song? These are things I wonder about. Are they tattooed in the mind somewhere hidden? I look forward to writing more about this when I’m 75 and have some life under my belt. It feels totally foolish to talk about any song I’ve written being “old” when I’m barely 27. 

Anyways, I did this such song in December of 2010 for Daytrotter. It’s up today. I think it was snowing, and something about snow reminds me of this song. There’s a giant Yamaha CP-80 in the corner of the studio. I actually hadn’t played it in almost 5 years before rolling tape (something I’m sure I’m not supposed to admit). It was never released as a WH song, but it’s a song like a friend who occasionally turns up to see how you’re doing. It’s not a perfect rendition of it, it’s not tidy, but it is a visitation. xxoc