I always feel like I’m on the verge of writing the next great pop song.
I feel the art within me dying to break free and a big, beautiful hook that enraptures the masses with its incessant catchiness and wins over the music cognoscenti with its subtle instrumentation and gentle nuance. Experiences universal, yet uniquely personal, punctuate the verses as everyone believes the song is about them, but recognizes the singularity of the song’s narrator. A song for all of us while simultaneously, and paradoxically, a song for each of us.
I realize I have no musical talent whatsoever. My last real experience playing any instrument was when I was pretty good at playing the recorder in 4th grade and was asked to perform at the winter holiday program with the grade level above me at the local Sheraton hotel. My last fake experience playing any instrument was when I made it to medium on Guitar Hero III.
Yet I feel this song in my bones. I know it’s there and I know if I just unlock the potential, it’ll come spilling out of me like Nucky Thompson’s juggling skills in that Easter episode of Boardwalk Empire.It will be the musical equivalent of Ken Griffey Jr’s swing, of Ray Allen’s jumpshot, of Joe Sakic’s wrist shot, of Michael Fassbender’s enormous penis.
Then I stop daydreaming, pull into my destination, turn the car off, and come back to reality. I realize I just like listening to “Learn to Fly” by the Foo Fighters and that I’m not actually writing it myself.
