Yeah, that’s me—bee-boppin’, hip-hoppin’, flip-floppin’, show-stoppin’ my way down the boulevard of broken hearts past the false starts, easy marks, forgotten parts and lost arts of a no past, too fast, don’t tell, don’t ask, wannasee, wannabe, all about me society. Oh boy!
Did you hear that high sweet note Richard wrote with a broken spoke, a ray of hope, a cloud of smoke, inside joke, high on a tightrope? Yep! Mr. Rogers for city folk. And that’s me, too!
Like Malcolm in the Middle, playing second fiddle to a world that’s upside down. How would it feel if I were real and you could hear my song?
Did you hear that? The down beat, the up beat, the back beat, the vamp? The grace note, the lost hope, the angel, the tramp? The chorus that ends well like a lesson you learned well. The tabla, the tuba, the dry spell, the death knell. Oh, yes! And don’t forget the cowbell! Gotta have more cowbell!
Before music became an adrenaline rush. Before music became the walls between us. Before music was used to show the world’s against us, music for me was for building a bridge between us. When music was real and took a little more skill, the ultimate thrill was how it held my heart still.
And all the world, you silly boy, can never hold my heart. And all the world, you silly boy, can never keep us apart.
The music I loved was like a prayer for us, respectful of the sacred distance between us.
That bound us, preserved us, kept the memory of us. Makes me wonder now, what’s happened to us. Are we really so tired of believing in us? Well, not me. But, hey, you know. That’s just me. Yep, that’s me!
Words, music, recording, and production by Richard Faylor
© Deep Happy Music
richardfaylor@yahoo.com
208-713-4002