Bugolgi Apparatus

These chords will not yield up a song. I'll go to bed early and attack them in the morning while they're still asleep.

I have no scientific basis for this; in fact books like This Is Your Brain On Music would claim it’s your adolescence, but I’ve noticed that when I’m working out songs in my head, my template seems to be the decade of my pre-adolescence (the 70’s) rather than my adolescence (80’s). In fact, I consciously avoid anything that sounds like the 80’s regardless of the fact everyone says my music reminds them of David Byrne or someone else (perhaps that’s just the sound of restless white dudes without a schooled music background. Anyways, for me the platonic ideal/default setting is mid-tempo funk with jazzy chords and horns and strings. Like everything on AM radio or Sesame Street back in the day. 

Will the mixing engineer do the work? Will the guitarist accept $300? Did you approach the right vocalist for the track? Can you afford you credit card payment this month, plus the effects boxes? Will your job leave you too exhausted to practice? Will anyone come to the show? Will someone other than your friends come to the show? Does any of it matter? Work in a way that doesn't leave you broke. If you're really compelled to do this, the indifference of most people shouldn't phase you. If you continue to improve yourself, be inspired by other artists, research, practice and question your practices, things should run (relatively) smoothly. I think only the writers last, though. It's too problematic to be a drummer or a bass player, schlepping around refrigerators for gigs for too many years. The back gives out. Writers don't have a choice, or many other options. They're fucked :).

our insides are legos try to snap me off I slip into a thermos leaving an oil spot I love your latex fetish it doesn’t go deep enough mile-long reefs in oceans compounds found in rocks drawn to sharp designs molded into love plastisphere spans continents orbiting planets as space junk unconditional, unconventional let’s block around the clock bullet proof,telepathic- the plastic inside of us

Pink Money I'm an artist You're an  Industrialist  We're the same!!! You with your money Me with my paint!!! We make things happen You with your factories Me with my openings I like the dinners  at your house My kids like to eat I'll give you validation  you could, ahem,  maybe buy something  I'll put you  in my work You could imagine you're me I'll work hard to  seduce you  Even when you see through me It's a virtual world of pain,  loneliness,  And poverty You could feel it for yourself In my painting On the bidet in your aviary  In a better world,  we'd be comrades in solidarity  In this world We play monopoly with pink money

So we had this argument in public  and we know each other very well-  we’re more like two cats playing  than a married couple.  And I go home angry and start writing.  On my itunes, I mostly have ripped obscure  indie soul singles from a friend from Chicago.  I hear a familiar two chord strut  that I can never seem to exhaust.  The lyrics come out as easy as  pulling the tape off a package: “Let’s have a contest/holding our breaths/the winner is the loser/of what you can’t guess/lucky if you had it/free as a child/if you never get it again/you’ll surely die/race to the place/who’s more grown up?/everybody lies /when they’re adults/too proud to beg/to scream and crawl/how long can you live/without love” And there’s been a riff floating around my head  for the last month and I take it down  and of course it’s only a few notes.  I read something once that suggested that memorable riffs...