Greetings from The Birthing Room

Welcome to the room where the last five years’ worth of songs began their lives.

Coffee. Guitars. Old couches. The right light. The Mac. Paul Biemann’s Rickenbacker bass on loan.

 

The ward has been busy of late. The incubators are lined up and fully occupied. Proud and sleep-starved parents and rarely seen relatives mark the glass with breath and fingerprints. They point and wave and talk like idiots—the way many talk to dogs and the elderly.

And the babies have names like:

Before The Blast

I Don’t Have a Clue

It’s Official

Long Slow Sad Demise

Gadfly
We Swore We’d Never Change

Dog Whistle Words

Meanwhile, the ones born in the previous few months have been passed on to their very modern (all males) family for further development. These kiddies have names like:

Boyhood Idol

Your Heroes

Bay Window

Professional Jealousy/Saw Your Post

Changing Color

Mrs. Kean

Martha, We

You Say It’s Over

In the capable hands of Mike Koch, Joe Vent and Brian Wooldridge, these little guys and gals are smiling, rolling around and pulling themselves up to walk along the furniture. A few have already gone off to the Daniel James McMahon Finishing School for Viable Songs in Rockford, Illinois; more will join them in February and March.

It’s enough to make a proud parent cry. And an unfortunate reader cringe.

Proving again there are few things worse than a metaphor extended beyond the bounds of reason and taste.

Really ought to get that bass back to Paul.

--Mike B.