How I Write My Songs

You'd probably like to know who some of my musical influences are. It's a difficult question, since my own work is so darned unique. But I'd have to list Steve Earle (country and cool), Loudin Wainwright III (self-absorbed but funny), Gillian Welch and David Rawlings (old time music for modern times), Elvis Costello (well, early early Elvis Costello), Fred Eaglesmith (country-ish, another fine unknown), and the old-time Nashville folks too numerous to mention. I would say Dwight Yoakum, but I've turned against him, wrote a song about it, "Dirt Sandwich" (as in "You're no better than a dirt sandwich"). Sort of a "How Do You Sleep" if John hadn't met Paul, knew nothing about him except his music.

And the Beatles, of course.

Dylan? Nah. If anything, I'm an influence on him. Probably he never could have written what he's written, even the early stuff--especially the early stuff--without my more recent shining unknown nearly overwhelming example. If you were to hear some, dear reader--and if you try hard enough you almost can, there at the edge of the horizon, a faint, deep warble, a windblown strum, a song you could sing along with if you only knew the words and the tune--you'd surely agree.

Or you travel, alone, to Munich. (And when I say you I mean me.) You walk and walk and walk. You stop in every chilly deserted baroque church you come across. You attend the surprisingly inexpensive opera, learn that stehplatz doesn't mean seat, it means standing place. You wander through the bombed out and recreated residences of princes, dukes, electors, kings; you wonder how those who were not obscenely wealthy lived. You inbibe a certain quantity of locally brewed beer. You decide, all in all, you'd rather be in Belgium.

You don't even take a guitar.

You write some early drafts of poems and, finally home, type one out on your computer.

AT THE ALTE PIN0THEK, MUNICH, 8 APRIL 2005

They are only representations--
slicks of oil on canvas or wood.
And we only look at them--skaters,
say, on a frozen town moat in 1618.
Several people glide on one foot;
others swat at something with sticks;
one slides a carriage.
The sky's cerulean,
layer of high clouds,
punctuation of tiny birds.
Over the wall--buildings, a town.
The world bustles, nearly teems.
But I am not entranced,
not exhilarated, not even
particularly interested.
I've never skated, not once.
I wander into the next room,
where I spotted two drunken men--
soldiers, maybe--cavorting with
two young women--prostitutes,
probably--in remarkable representations
of light and shade.