https://soundcloud.com/gallery47official/take-it-from-me-band-practice

I feel a bit like Diego Simeone at the end of that Champions League Final in 2014.
Every day I plan to quit everything out of protest, but then I get bored or my mood changes.  Are you gonna take part in the race or are you not? I’ve managed to detach some of the insecurity from what goes on, though. If I don’t get a reply, of course I worry that my music or voice isn’t good enough for those people. But that can lead to paralysis.

I’ve always felt better whenever I’ve heard people insulting musicians I admire. Particularly, maybe, Radiohead and Bob Dylan. Those seem to divide opinion, though both draw absolute loyalty from so many fans amid calls of genius, and I agree. I was listening to The Bends last night, wondering what they all think of it now. Especially now everything’s mastered for Alexa, haha! I thought how my little bluetooth speaker didn’t quite do justice to the second song. When Thom Yorke is screaming ‘You do it to yourself!!’ and then he screams “RHAHAHAA”. That bit stood out a bit at me last night when it never has before. I guess that’s the thing about masters and editions, isn’t it. Lots of people wouldn’t notice too much difference between the Spector / McCartney mixes of Let It Be. Wait a minute, what am I on about now? Why am I talking about this?

Anyway, there isn’t really anything for me to say. I’ve already used writing or blogging or noting or writing lyrics to try and articulate whatever great pressure weighs so heavily on my chest. But maybe I’m just tired or having a bad day. I remember in 2011 I just got so fed up with the world after my first album release that I stopped playing gigs for a year, or really doing much musically. I had a great year on Fifa 12 though, and smoked so much it’ll probably kill me down the line. So you see, even if something magically changes now, there are some of those scars which won’t really heal. And I agree with you that it would probably be best for me to get busy living and stop complaining. Well, I won’t. I like complaining. It cheers me up. Woe is me.

I tried to arrange a show at an established small venue in London. They tried to charge me £150 to play a small show, plus £500 of drinks at the bar. In other words, if they made £100 at the bar, I would have to pay the other £400. It would take a £650 risk to play this gig at a small venue. I try to get by, food, transport and stuff, on around £400 a month. I made approximately £47 last month through digital music sales.

I was told by another musician that they were invited to play for quite a bit less than this only a few weeks ago. I can’t help but feel, therefore, that I somehow didn’t make the artistic credentials to warrant an existence, according to this person. This kind of thing, you know, hurts so much. It does. I feel terrible. I feel totally worthless. Maybe I can go back to 2004 and never pursue anything. Except I can’t. I’m stuck in it. Its hard enough to apply to anything. The Charles Darwin of the modern world. Mr. Fucking Baudelaire.

And if I look weathered and gruff, it’s because I have a horrible hangover, which seems to have become the norm lately. Nevertheless, I’m optimistic. It’s simply take about a year to look fresh as a daisy. Meanwhile, I’ll write songs about feeling weathered.

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This is an additional placeholder post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.