My experience with music, before Melody and I broke up, was limited to an electric guitar, a four track recorder and a few effects pedals. As a kid in high school, I stopped writing in the basic verse/chorus format, most likely because I was hanging out with older guys that were doing a lot of improvisational writing and I really couldn’t help that it rubbed off on me. I was at that age where I despised everything conventional and the 3 minute song was absolutely in that realm.
But after the break up, everything tasted different, everything looked different and everything sounded different. Bob Dylan, who I mostly disliked, made a u-turn in my mind and sensibilities. It was as if I had never really heard those songs before I felt those feelings. Sadness, betrayal, alienation, resentment, anger and despair—I came to believe that there wasn’t a single artist in the world who more accurately captured these feelings than him. It felt like the songs were tailored made for my situation.
Almost as a form of therapy, I bought an acoustic guitar and began learning them. And this is when I began playing live. I played nothing but Dylan songs. Day and night. I’m certain that it annoyed a great number of people, but I still believe it was a good education that came at the right time.
The problem that I found myself with when I first arrived back in New Paltz, was that I lost the ability to sing like anyone else.
Across the street from my apartment, there was a record store called Jack’s Rhythms. For the whole rest of that summer, about 7 or 8 weeks after I got that apartment, I’d record my new songs and bring them over to Jack’s. He was kind enough to play them on the house system and, as original as I thought I was being, he’d take the tape out and say “Sounds too much like Dylan.”
This went on for nearly a month.
“How about this?” I’d say.
“Good song. Still too much Dylan.”
And back to the apartment I’d go.
Then there was the day I wrote a song called “Guilty of Yourself,” and I loved the way it sounded. Thing was, that wasn’t the first time. So across the street I went. Jack was virtually a saint. It did not matter how busy he was or what he had going on, he’d stop what he was doing, introduce me to whomever he was in the middle of talking to and stick the tape in. Now imagine, he would usually have something playing that was recorded at the best studios with the best producers and engineers and I had a cassette, fresh out of a Tascam. It did not make a difference to him. He’d put it in.
And this day, he listened intently as it approached the chorus and the hook and he pointed to the stereo, “This is different! Now you have your own voice.”
Well, as you might imagine, I walked back to my apartment (or floated back, really) with that unmistakeable feeling that there were endless possibilities for me in the world. This is when I began to look for band members in earnest.
The song “Child’s Scream,” recorded during the same sessions we did “See Us Run,” spoke about what it felt like to lose the love of your life and all the attending issues that go with that. She was my first true love and I never experienced a week of drinking to excess and crying and throwing up before. It was quite pleasant and I think everyone should go through it at least once.
The other thing that affected me emotionally in such a profound way, was how people who you could spend holidays with, people who you could go on vacations with, people who you ate dinner with, could shut you down so completely and irrevocably once a relationship was over. I understand it a lot more now, but at that age, it felt like the worst thing I ever experienced.
“Child’s Scream” was a song of triumph. You may have disposed of me like yesterday’s kitchen garbage, but I am back with a sound, with a song, with a band and it’s all mine. No one can take this away from me.
Some technical aspects: Chris, who by now had the nickname Chickenbutt, was a miracle of modern music. He only picked up a bass the first time at about 18, but he was incredibly driven. He rode his bike everywhere to take a few lessons from this guy, a few with this other guy and on and on. And we lived in the perfect area to find great talent. He even took a few lessons with Daryll Jennifer of The Bad Brains.
He, too, had his own sound. The years and years of mathematical education he pursued above and beyond what was being taught in school, made it so that he heard music in a very arithmetical way. If you listen to the bass line, you’ll hear what I’m talking about.
And then Bob Parrillo’s drums. You can pay attention to just that and you will realize that there is a cymbal he begins hitting when the drums start and he never stops hitting right up until the end of the song. There’s all kinds of other patterns going on, but the cymbal is a constant. To me, it was no less than genius.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Child’s Scream
Did you think it was easy? Did you look to the war as escape?
A place to put your love? A place so high above
No mortal hand could pervert your trials
Throwing up on cold bathroom tiles
You made the choice, to find a voice
And now everything is like a dream
Did you hear the music in the sound of a child’s scream?
Did you look toward death? Or were you trying to see the next page?
All their bed scene whisper lies, all their back patting disguise
Seem to only love you if they must, seem to wallow in their ancient rust
You saw beyond, their stagnant pond
And now you’re swimming in peaches and cream
Did you hear the music in the sound of a child’s scream
Billy, I enjoyed the song and the story of determination that went into finding your voice. Thanks for sharing!