The Bin
 
          Notes about “The Singer.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    This album was made in tranquility and isolation. The result is a very natural  and somehow nordic sounding record. A producer friend of mine told me this album is “heart and mind” music more than “body and soul” music and maybe he has a point. There are very few syncopations in the music and the setting is minimalist and dramatical with vast colours and large empty landscapes. Furthermore it has  similarities to a musical or a book of short stories.  
 
    The songs are written over a time-span of one to seven years. They are stories of events and experiences - like drinking beers on a musty hotel floor with mysterious blues musician Chris Whitley, before he died of cancer (Legendary Afterparty), or stories that I have come across in my lifetime - like the one about the murder of a lonesome man walking his dog in the fog by being accidentally shot by two young men several years ago (Guilt By Association). I heard this story when I was a kid and I have slept on it ever since.
 
    Let me give you an example! This should give you a better idea about the stories. Here are the lyrics to the song about Chris Whitley, Legendary Afterparty.
 
 
    We bought a six-pack and headed to the Austin Motel. Stars were aligned between heaven and hell. The door was open, we sat on the floor. You rolled those cigarettes like you’d been to war. You told me how you met Andy Warhol when you arrived on the New York scene. I may not remember everything just right. I was more impressed by the music you had played that night. You said that songs were what the world needed. That you liked those singers that really mean it! You don’t even say that you ain’t going back to rehab. You kept that pretty silent. Guess I wasn’t meant to know. Your mouth was aching, you said it would be alright. You travelled alone and your girlfriend cried at night. Forsaken talents feel so sorry for themselves. I felt sorry for you and all your shame. I told you to shut it, to stop complaining. I felt like beating you up with your guitar. But you had your reasons and now you are gone. You are still my hero, if I ever had one. You don’t even say that you ain’t going back to rehab. You kept that pretty silent. Guess I wasn’t meant to know. It takes a great man to go the way you did. My picture of you is when you played your “Dirt Floor” music. The crowd was electric and you stomped your feet. The whole place was shaking, I had never seen anything like it.
 
    I wanted to work with people that are close to me and not busy doing other things. I also wanted to record in a place which would inspire us all. It seems that goodwill is worth more than what money can buy. All of my friends chipped in with their dedication and time. My sound engineer had just bought a top of the range studio and made it avaliable for the occasion. I contacted Tróndur Bogason; a composer and arranger from the Faroe Islands. I knew that he would be able to help me slow down the music and make it more spacious and theatrical. Over a period of three months we made choices together about what direction to take each song and which instruments and colours would be required for each individual story. We listened to the lyrics and melodies already there. For these first three months we used only piano, pen and paper, and lots of cigarettes. It was an entertaining process, to hear what the music told us, to wait in the pauses and tell these stories with music like each of them was a journey.
 
    Then we travelled to Gotland to record the album in a 19th century Swedish Princess’ estate - nowadays a summer hotel run by my mother in law. The recording gear was shipped over and put up in the concert hall. During the month of October we recorded a brass quintet, a choir, prepared Steinway pianos, percussion instruments, guitars, bass and drums and Tróndur made cross-synthesis out of clarinets and saxophones. Lots of musicians came by and played all the arrangements. They had no idea what it would sound like when it was finished. Everyone let go and did their best.
 
    I never listen to music that happens by coincidence unless the music is tuned into a higher power or the material is performed by individuals with the improvisational caliber of John Coltrane, Sonic Youth or Beethoven. Usually the result for a songwriter is average at best - a sketch of what music it may have become   - mostly within the limitations of an acoustic guitar. If you want to create something musically ambitious, you need to stand under a high ceiling and know where you are and what you want. You must listen and wait, break rules, let go and make choices on the way. Or else you are not making music at all.
 
    So, very well, if my producer friend is right, this is not “body and soul” music, but “heart and mind” music - like Scandinavian design or perhaps architecture. Maybe it is also “some of the whitest music I have heard in the last fifteen years.” That’s what he went on to say. “I hope you don’t take it as an insult,” he said. I don’t take that as an insult at all.  This music is exactly how I feel right now.
 
    On the cover of the album is the picture of a cartoon figure which stands inside the room of an empty dollhouse. It looks almost like a skeleton and it has no face. The figure is a caricature of “The Singer.”
 
    Here is the opening song “The Singer”:
 
    I always had the voice and now I am a singer. The audience grows silent when I open up my mouth. I sing the words I’ve written every night before a crowd.  As if I were a poet or some legendary mind. They wonder what I’m doing up there on the stage. They stare at my posture and say I speak so well. I sing about my loneliness and in return they thank me. I had never meant to be a singer. But I am slowly getting used to the idea. I am part of this whole movement that people come to see. They drive for seven hours from all across the country. We raise our voice in unison at the end of the show. People break into tears for reasons I don’t know. They just want to understand me and I sing to be loved.
 
    Here is the song “Letter From Alex”. It is a letter from a friend overseas, written four years after the death of his father. The letter is very beautiful. Alex’s girlfriend, Emily, is an actress.
 
    The end of February, a garbage truck is backing up outside my window. Four years ago my father died, that’s more than a thousand days. Emily is across from me, her head cocked like a curious dog. She’s muttering lines from an upcoming show, broken into jazz standards. Something about “Baby leaving” and “Never coming back. ”Where are you in the winter when I need some camaraderie? I’m disappointed about my job. It’s definitely not what I envisioned. Emily is staring out the window, the three armed lamp is out one bulb. I hear you are travelling around towns I can’t prononce. You know, I used to live in them! Now I must get some rest. All the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness. In the Februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.
 
    Another, “We Still Drink the Same Water”.
 
 
 
    You have moved to the outskirts of town. I bet you like it more when no one is around. I bet you spend most days in your dressing gown. Word is out that you are working again. That you look good with coloured chins. I’m glad to hear that you are seeing our friends. It’s still the same, nothing has changed. We still drink the same water. All those women on our street look at me strangely when we meet. They smile politely and nod with sadness. It’s as if they’re saying: “Please, go get her back. You poor old thing, you look like a wreck!”  As if all of their dreams did not come true. It’s still the same, nothing has changed. We still drink the same water. I might take a holiday, I need to get out of my own way and put an end to all of this running away. I’m thinking that we might as well quench our thirst and get up where we fell. Since we float in the same well we still drink the same water. It’s still the same, nothing has changed. We still drink the same water.
 
 
 
    And “Start Wasting My Time”:
 
    I live for deadlines, dying for just a minute’s peace. I swallow headlines, always running from the time police. Will I ever get used to this? Will I ever get used to this? Racing car driver, I’ll beat you to the next light. Born again survivor, I never loose a dog fight. Start wasting my time. Let’s rent a sad movie and drink some bad wine. And stare the sunset. Just make sure that I’m wasting my time. Will I ever get out of here? Will I ever get out of here? Everything you do seems to be in slow motion. It must be some voodoo. Could do with some of that potion. Start wasting my time. Start wasting my time. Let’s do something stupid my partner in crime. Let’s listen to Dido and Madonna. Just make sure that I’m wasting my time. Start wasting my time, ‘cos I’ve got too much on my mind. Give me no good reason why. Start wasting my time!
 
    Guilt By Association
 
    The joke is that we thought we were shooting a dog. We sure didn’t see no man in that fog. It was just a boring day that we decided to betray. Me and him are outlaws now. There ain’t no stopping now. They are coming to get us now. “You fired that shot and I simply had to watch. I am putting the blame on you!” He looked at me and we looked away. The fog was getting closer. Our gun was still smoking. We saw this as a token that we could still run away. Run, run away. There ain’t no stopping now. I’ll always run away. Run, run away. They are coming to get us now! Minutes later we came back. We would say that we had found this man in a crack. Something kept an eye on us, the eye that always watches us and we finally told the truth. A killer is a cold blooded one. Just like us, he shoots stray cats for fun! What happened there is beyond, I swear, we’d never aim to kill or scare! There ain’t no stopping now! Run, run away. There ain’t no stopping now. I’ll always run away. Run, run away. They are coming to get us now!
 
        Enjoy!