I’m not a Swiftie, but my daughters are minor-league Swifties, so Vicki and I went with them to see Eras in a large-screen theater with Dolby Atmos sound. Our seats shook for three hours, even during the ballads. My daughter provided closed captioning (this song is about this famous guy, this is the lyric you missed―actually, if I just leaned over, I could her better as she sang along than I could Taylor). The theme of the concert was Swift singing about the different eras of her life.
My songs, to date, have been love songs. I wasn’t sure I’d write any more, so I commissioned No More To Say. Then it happened.
Somewhere during hour two, I felt that familiar tap on the shoulder. I rushed to the lobby to scribble down lyrics and titles. This effort isn’t going to be like my others; these will be intensely personal, not headed for Itunes or Spotify (yes, Paul, you’ll have to listen to them as a podcast), and I think I’ll sing them myself, once my tunesmith is done setting them to music.
I wanted to use the line “You look like my next mistake,” but all three of my women vetoed it on the grounds that it is trademarked by Taylor Swift.
A tiny handful of you would be interested in hearing these new songs; drop me a note if you are in that number and you’ll get a link when the job is done.
I don’t know how long this round will last. My muse has moved into the spare bedroom, but she only brought a toothbrush and a change of clothes. She left her steed at home. She only comes downstairs when I am writing―and, thank heavens, only when I’m awake.