How can the Vicar not post his diary, I ask, when so much is happening?! Time to take my place in the hot seat. I have waited twenty years to find someone who can produce my songs – and now here they are. The unholy triumvirate – David, Punk and The Vicar.
Anyone who has spent their life bottling their artistic frustrations, and taking the sensible path, while staring longingly in the opposite direction, will know how I feel. Rage no longer. Take the plunge. If for you, like me, the pain has become unbearable, then the consequences, I feel, will be tolerable. Even desirable.
Enough already. There is plenty of advice to be had from the aphorisms at the bottom of the page. Or from that other diarist. What happened in the world of Singleton? Just a minor, run of the mill, everyday musical miracle. Today's twenty year old masterpiece in potential – «The Bells. »
The Bells are ringing in my head
Telling me to ring out my dead
They have found me guilty today
Someday you have to find out how good you really are
Someday stop living on credit
Tomorrow will catch you up
(lyrics, please remember cold cynical readers, are not poetry – to be sung, not read.)
At lunchtime, we had a passable version of an acoustic croon along, as reproduced frequently in my bedroom. At 3pm, the harmony line for the chorus appeared –at least a minor third out of my range, but it somehow expanded to do the needful. A passable croon along became a jangly pop song. A good rendition of the song as a twenty two year old Singleton might have intended it. But there was more to come. At 6pm, the Vicar muted the guitar track, and added a trombone line – vocals, bass and trombone ( ???). And there it was. A song all grown up, ready to leave home and take its chance in the world.
There is more work to do. The verse, without a guitar, has no backing. Tomorrow's problem.
And I will be telling you about it.