A Dream of Music

I saw an acoustic set by The Menzingers at a local record store the other day. All we had to do was cop their new record on vinyl a day before it dropped and we got to see a nice eight-or-so song set and then meet them for some quick, stupid autographs which I felt really lame about.

There's something weird and paradoxical about meeting people you admire. Part of you wants to shake their hand and tell them how great you think they are, like the groveling peon you happen to be, and the other part of you thinks there's nothing stranger or more uncool than dripping with adulation over someone you've never even met. In my heart, I side with the latter notion, but that doesn't stop me from becoming a clumsy, marble-mouthed jackass every time such a person crosses my path.

Regardless, it was a cool experience. They arranged their tunes very nicely to fit the contours of the acoustic vibe and the new songs sounded great. Because the tone was much more mellow than these dudes typically are, I could more easily absorb the admirable simplicity of their songwriting and it got me pining to create some of my own simple little ditties. I happen to know from anguished experience, though, that the simpler the tune is the more mind-bending the creative process can be.

It's the same way in great writing: if it seems effortless, it’s because some dedicated son-of-a-bitch broke their back making it look that way. So, whenever I sit down to compose “Louie, Louie”, it comes out like baby’s first guitar recital. I like that bit of irony, but not when it infringes upon my artistic endeavors. And it always does.

All of this reminds me a bit of a dream I had years ago that has always stuck in my head. I’m in this big sprawling mansion with a couple of friends and we’re wandering around against the wishes of some unseen omnipotent force. I quickly lose my friends and begin to find my own way through chilly, marble-floored living rooms and awe-inspiring white-pillared dining halls. I’m feeling increasingly nervous about finding my way back to the dudes when suddenly I see a figure in a distant room just standing there facing the opposite direction. I wander up to them in their wide-brimmed hat and vintage suit and tap them on the shoulder.

It's Bob Dylan.

Well I’ll be. Can’t say I recall many more celebrity cameos in my dreams before or since, but this was clearly Mr. Zimmerman and he was just chillin’ there in this absolutely wild mansion which, now that I think about it, may have belonged to him. By the way, I had no strange insecurities about meeting him the way I did The Menzingers, perhaps because it was in a more intimate setting, or perhaps because he was the one imposing on my dreams, I’m not sure. Anyway, Bob’s in a decent mood and he tells me he’s been working on some new tunes and asks if I care to dig it with him. You bet your ass I oblige.

With that, he procures this odd-looking metal cube contraption with a crank protruding from its side that he proceeds to wind around. Turns out it’s a patented Pat’s Dreamworld Music Box and it opens up to reveal some strange clockwork goings-on that emanate a truly beautiful tune which I had never heard in my life. I mean a full-on tune with multiple decipherable parts. The sound was pure and warm.

I was sitting there in wonder and hoping to remember the tune so I could go home and play it on my guitar, but to no avail; all that remains is a glimmer of the feeling it gave me. Such is life.

It was uncanny and unlike any other dream I’ve ever had. It really made me think, man, and it still makes me think, especially on days when I get the desire to create the beautiful art that I believe is in me, and simply can’t.

Is there a place of pure creation in my mind? Where unsung songs and endless mansions and mysterious Folk heroes reside of their own mystical volition? Well I’d say so, because I’ve been there. But how do I tap into that cosmic fountain in waking life? I mean, can I? I believe so, but I’m still searching for a way to.

I think that all great artists have their thought-radios tuned to a station that can pick up those dream frequencies in their everyday lives. Jimi Hendrix often referenced dreams as inspiration for his music, “Purple Haze” being a primary example. Paul McCartney awoke from Dream Country in the middle of the night to write “Yesterday” (although the original went something like, "scrambled eggs/oh my baby how I love your legs") and Keith Richards did the same to knock out that game-changing riff in “Satisfaction.”

The dream/art connection is definitely a real thing and I’m sure there are endless more examples. I’m also sure the boys from the Menzingers have their antennae aimed squarely at the source of that mystical place where all pure melodies exist at once, waiting patiently to be discovered. “Borrowed from the void” as they might say.

Here’s to hoping that even the dimmest of dream-waves might finds its way into my waking reality, and into the heads of all those who seek it, so that they might share it with a world so desperately in need of its awesome, shining glory.