Here's a cover my friend Clint and I did of AA Bondy's "Mightiest of Guns." He laid down the guitar at the beginning as well as the main vocal. Whispering, steel string, harmonies, and other weird crap was produced/arranged/mastered by yours truly. Started yesterday, finished a few minutes ago.

Click ----> Mightiest of Guns

I stood on top of a scene. From the staccato report of clinking glasses, the stool's weary creak, the tiresome whir of overhead fans, a melody emerged bearing more meaning, more importance than the vacuous symbols issued from its players. A composer before noise, an artist before lines, a god-man before death, I claimed meaning where there once was none, and there was meaning irregardless. I stood before and held the present, then slipped, and I was, again, a noise among many.

What an odd place a comparative few find. When, from the tireless chattering about us, a sea of seeming imperatives (why?), we, suddenly, find ourselves standing on a strip of land where the sea, for a moment, has held its breath and receded. We face, quietly, the scene about us. The automated parts, the floating cogs that make up a consuming listlessness, we face it; we have seen what is, and it is not as it should be, and we cannot, in good conscience (or in any capacity at all, at this point), return to what was and live as if it were standard and acceptable fare, as if we'd never seen what the banal cacophony hides beneath its frothing tips. The tide recedes for few; where the world is glimpsed and the things in it are forgotten, and what lies before is being affording itself.

Anxiously, constantly, ashing your cigarette; embers, then fragile soot of quickly spent memory. Dwell on a wet ash tray. Dwell on that thing from earlier today. Dwellings of the un-dealt-with: the ancient oak bar, the coarse jokes, the deafening laughter; home away from a home that we refuse to make. At the end of it is an aching question, best avoided, and let to linger till our next visit.

Ah, what was that? A piece, a fragment, where the wind blew just right, just now, and the way the light is playing on that willow's branches, the way it dances, and through my eyes and throat and lungs it pools, just for a moment. And this brief tick (tock) is felt, an object, where all the things that are right now, the things that grip at the fabric of this second, flow through its prism and separate and throw scenes (their smells, feelings), long forgotten, onto the canyon wall, over the vast divide that keeps sweet memory blurred. Look! The way this autumn air crisps, there I am when I was young, when my father was strong and took me on walks through New England's ancient maple and ash. The light, it flits and beckons, and that is my first love, when I was afraid of the thing. And the blue sky, its soft wind, I am small and cradled in the sleeping lap of my mother. It leaves me, and I'm left short of breath, working quickly to dig a wider moat.