Brand new song… YouTube video to follow…

Dark clouds roll across the sky
Plunging my world into night
Wind picks up, dusty grey
And here I stand not turning away

‘Cause I’m not afraid and I’m not scared
Holding your hand I’ll stay right here….

CHORUS
Your love means more to me than the terror of these storms
And your love grants to me the strength to carry on
There’s nothing we can’t weather as long as we’re together
So I’ll hold on….
Hold on

They say marriage is tough
That life these days is way too rough
There’s no way to make it last…
But all I know is that you can’t look back

CHORUS

‘Cause I’m not afraid and I’m not scared
Holding your hand I’ll stay right here….

CHORUS, 2x

Reblogged from Luna Guitars' Blog:

This blows my mind. Eerie and beautiful at the same time...

The piano settled closer to the wall when it detected the scrape of a key in the lock. Stealthy, it regarded the worn old man who entered. The man carefully shut the backstage door and shuffled toward a closet door. The ring of keys jingled on his hip with every halting step, and the noise was cacophonic when he searched for the key to the closet door.

The piano rolled forward, inch by sneaky inch, being sure to stay close to the wall. It halted just behind a set piece sporting bloody handprints on fake stone.

The old man created even more racket when he drug a mop and bucket from the array of cleaning supplies in the closet. A cupboard of other utensils crashed down inside, and the man let out a soft curse as he dropped to his knees to tidy the mess.

The piano waited.

At last, the man finished re-stacking the fallen items, and he seized the mop and bucket from the floor. Using the mop as a cane, he began to lever himself upright.

The piano made its move. It rolled from behind the set piece and gathered speed. The old man looked up, squinted in the shadows as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Unable to contain its glee, the piano let forth an eerie growl of moving steel and wood as it rolled inevitably toward its prey.

The old man struggled to rise, and realizing he was too slow, stuck out the mop to defend himself.

The piano shifted it’s lower panel open and rumbled in for the kill…

* * *
This is part of an ongoing story… Catch up via the Serials page!

Remember the Federal Government’s high-profile raids last year on the Gibson guitar company? Well, musicians, you’d better get ready, because it’s only just begun:

• US Government Plans to Seize Guitars from Famous Musicians at Summer Music Festivals
• Law Could Be Used to Seize Musicians’ Guitars May Need Fix, Senator Says
• Feds Threaten to Disrupt Summer Concerts
• Nashville Politicians Lamar Alexander Fights to Keep Guitars Out of Border Agents’ Hands

The thing that makes me angry (aside from the Feds having the despicable audacity to steal a man’s guitar) is that when this whole thing started, I made several warning posts on Facebook about this. I was outraged. I knew it was only going to be a matter of time before the Feds got it in their head to come after the people owning these beautiful instruments. I could see it, plain as day. So I posted, vehemently. I saved and copied articles to my Wall. And you know what?

Most of my musician friends called me stupid.

They called me Chicken Little.

They said I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. They said I was blowing things out of proportion.

“Gibson guitars was guilty! The Government will never, ever target musicians.”

In their eyes, I was batshit crazy for even thinking something so dire of our government.

Yeah, well guess what? I think I hear an “I told you so”…

…

I sincerely hope this Nashville-based senator can get this law changed before the government takes over the music industry. Because while it’s just “famous” musicians now, it will come on down the line until it’s honest players like you and me having the Feds come knocking. Don’t think that will happen? How many people in 1930′s Germany said the same thing — “Oh, it won’t happen to ME, I’m just the little guy.” I know that’s a pretty dire example, but still. Please don’t make the mistake of writing this off. Beginnings of major things never seem huge or important until they are.

Because once the government sticks their foot in this door, once they flex their muscle and get away with it, what’s to make them stop with guitars?

How about vintage instruments or centuries old violins and such?

Or Irish flutes, which are made from exotic woods?

World instruments made in foreign countries?

Imported modern instruments?

Repair materials?

Accessories?

The music you play?

I could go on, but I think you get the picture. Give the government an inch and they’ll take a mile. Don’t wait to speak up. Spread the word.

[Addendum, May 23rd 2012 9:00am] For those of you claiming I’m making this shit up to be alarmist, read: Has Anyone Actually Had their Guitar Seized? — Les Paul Forums

It HAS happened, folks. It IS happening. And it’s going to KEEP ON happening as long as this loophole in the Lacey Act remains. Want to know how iffy it really is? Read Fretboard Journal’s article on it. Still think this issue is cut and dry? Still want to travel abroad with your guitar?

I want put out some music utilizing the electric guitar (aka. The Balrog). So far I have two new songs (“Holes” is one of them) written for the electric, but I have at least three others that I would like to re-release (“Bad Penny,” “You Never Were Mine,” and possibly either “All the Hardest Things,” or “Lose You”).

I also would like to do release some of my more medieval-themed music. (“Gypsy,” which is unrecorded, and “Monster”)

My issue is — those projects do not mix, and neither of them are enough for a full album by themselves. And my musical tastes change so quickly I really have no idea what I will turn out in the coming months. So here’s my question:

As far as pricing goes, I probably wouldn’t charge any more than $5 or $6 for either of them, but they would only be available off my Bandcamp site.

Thoughts?

Miss Poulan tossed her heavy hair behind her shoulder and cleared her throat. Adjusting her stance, the older woman prepared to sing.

Maren took a breath. Her fingers ached from practicing with the self-proclaimed ‘Diva of Brisby,’ and the notes of the aria’s accompaniment blurred on the page in front of her. In fact, the black and white keys of the rehearsal room piano wobbled most disturbingly. Maren tilted her head at the keyboard until the nauseating motion stopped. How many times had they been through the aria already this afternoon? Thirteen? Twenty? She wasn’t sure, only that they’d started when the late sun still slanted in the windows and it was full dark now… Nevertheless, Maren bent her stiffening fingers to the keys and began to play under Miss Poulan’s stern glare.

She wasn’t a bad singer, Maren mused as she listened to Miss Poulan belt forth the melody. In fact, her voice sounded rather lovely. But the woman herself tended to be…

“Piano-Girl! You make it sound so heavy!”

…Pretentious.

Maren closed her eyes against the shrieking tirade. Dropping her exhausted hands from the keys, she let them hang straight down in an effort to relax the muscles.

“Ugh! I can’t work like this! Nothing will be ready for the Variety Show at this rate!” Miss Poulan stalked about the room, her multiple bracelets jingling with every dramatic movement of her arms. “And you! Piano-Girl!” The raging diva advanced on Maren, snapping her fingers in front of the young woman’s face. “You are lousy! I will have another pianist. Never have I sang so badly! You can’t accompany me properly. Five rehearsals like this — FIVE! I give you more than enough time and now, no more! The manager will hear of this!”

Maren sighed as the angry woman hustled out of the rehearsal room. Maren stretched her arms above her head. The ensuing silence felt good. Leaning her head back, she looked at the worn ceiling, studying the plaster cracks she knew by heart. How had she let herself get stuck as an accompanist for hire? At one time she’d been good enough for solos, for full concerts with her name as the headliner. How had she ended up at the mercy of people like Miss Poulan?

Oh, right. Stage fright. That crippling fear of what lay beyond the curtain. Being an accompanist meant being in the pit where you were hidden from looking like a fool, hidden from judgment, and immune to the paralyzing anxiety. Maren made an exasperated sound. If only she could grow a pair, stand confident under the stage lights…

“Rough session, eh?”

Cal leaned in the doorway, his dark eyes watching her with sympathy.

“You heard?” she asked, leaning forward to gather her music.

“With that woman’s voice, how could I not?” he retorted, smile lines crinkling the edges of his eyes.

Maren snorted, slipping the sheets of music into her briefcase. She pushed back the bench, closed the dust cover over the black and white keys. She walked to the door.

Cal blocked her path. His gaze was serious again, direct. “Don’t let her get you down,” he said. “Your a better musician than any of them give you credit for.”

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, trying to step around him. He put out a hand, grasping her gently by the arm. Their eyes met, and he suddenly looked awkward. He let go.

“I mean it,” he said. “They haven’t heard you playing like I have, after everyone else has left. You’re good. Don’t let people like that diva tear you down.”

Maren took a breath and nodded. “Thanks,” she said, touching him on the arm briefly before heading up the stairwell. She felt his eyes on her until she rounded the corner.

As she passed the new piano on the way to the backstage door, she felt eyes on her again, but she didn’t see Cal anywhere in the shadows.

* * *
This is the second installment of an ongoing serial story — catch up via the Serials page!

THANK YOU.

Thank you for supporting the arts, thank you for valuing creativity and imagination. Thank you for taking a chance on the little guy. Thank you for helping me to continue doing what I do. I hope you enjoy the art I’ve put out there as much as I have enjoyed creating it.

Thank you.

(If you’re new here and would like to see just what it is I do, please check out my music and my writing. And thank you for taking the time to do so!)

Some afternoons are hard to get through. Sometimes I walk out of a session thinking, “WHAT am I doing?” It’s rough.

And then there are days like today.

I have a young student. She’s a bright girl, and boy does she love her flaming pink 3/4 guitar. She’s always eager, always ready, and she has quite the healthy dose of talent to go along with her desire to learn. Whatever I throw at her, she soaks up. I’ve been teaching her for a few months now, and I was seriously starting to wonder if there was anything she wouldn’t get on the first try…

Today, things started getting tough. But this little girl just furrowed her brow and asked for more.

More!

No hesitation, no self doubt. She admitted the exercise was “tough,” but she still asked for “more.” She amazes me and makes me smile. I know so many adults who, at the first sign of difficulty, say “I can’t” (myself included, though I try hard not to). I know so many adult who simply give up on their dreams when they find out it might be difficult.

Not this wonderful little girl. “More,” she says with an emphatic nod. She knows she can do it with practice, and her desire to achieve outweighs the present difficulty. She informed me that she will be playing and singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” for her school talent show. “I even have it memorized,” she said. “Want to hear?”

And be damned if she played it perfect for me right then and there.

Whether she knows it or not, she’s an inspiration to me, and I’m easily twice her age. Twice her age, dealing with bills and insurance and the rigors of finding paying gigs and trying to sell my art in a poor economy. Feeling tired. Feeling marginalized. Feeling out of place and like I’m treading water.

And there’s this little girl who looks at a difficulty and simply asks for “more.”

It’s a humbling lesson in persistence.

Time to start another serial story, folks. This one’s got mystery, romance, uppity divas, and a cannibalistic piano… Gonna be fun! Enjoy!

* * *

Maren Thompson fell in love with the piano the moment she saw it. “Where’d you find that?” she asked the Brisby Theatre manager, Cal, on his way across the backstage area. He frowned, and for a moment his young face showed the age and strain of someone much older.

“We don’t know,” he said. “The movers don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“What do you mean, nobody knows?”

“I mean, this piano shows up on our doorstep when we didn’t order it and the moving company can’t find squat about the sender.” Cal shook his head in exasperation.

“A donation, maybe?” she suggested. It wasn’t unusual for odd pieces of furniture and other things to turn up from fond patrons cleaning out their attics or from random estate sales.

“Possibly. I’m gonna have a helluva time tracking down who, though.” He scratched his head and wandered off in the direction of his office.

The piano was a tall cabinet grand constructed in ebony wood with wrought silver flourishes crawling over its surface. Silver-edged columns swooped gracefully up from the floor to support the keyboard and bas-relief silver trim laced across every edge of the box. It was stunning, a beautiful piano as far as pianos go, all dark shine and sparkling opulence, and Maren couldn’t breathe.

The piano dominated the narrow space, crammed as it was against the back stage wall among the set pieces and spare curtains.

Reaching out, she caressed the case of the instrument with an open hand, regarding its beauty with a careful eye. “How old are you?” she murmured, moving around to get a better, closer look. She’d never seen an instrument so finely crafted before. Most pianos were simple, utilitarian. She traced her fingers down the front, following the inset silver along the panels. On a whim, Maren retrieved the bench from where they’d left it by the door. Settling it in front of the piano, Maren sat and pried the keyboard dust cover open.

The black and white keys grinned back at her, a full set of teeth in the dim backstage light. Reverently, she touched them, skiing in awe of the perfect ivories. Her little spinet at home, though well cherished, exhibited a badly flawed smile: chips marked every white key and scratches marred most of the black. Maren ran her finger down the edge of the flush keyboard. Positioning her hands, she pressed down on the keys.

A firm, robust chord rolled from the instrument, the low notes rich as honey and the high ones delicate as lace. Beautiful. If Maren didn’t miss her guess, this instrument hadn’t even fallen out of tune with the moving. Shaking her head, she played some more. Hell, this piano sounded way better than the Theatre’s Steinway. Maren smiled, letting her fingers drift over the notes from Miss Poulan’s accompaniment music.

“Where is that accompanist-girl?” shrilled up the stairwell from the basement rehearsal room.

“Speak of the devil…” Maren muttered, returning the bench to its rightful spot underneath the keyboard before setting off to meet her client.

* * *
This is part I of an ongoing serial story. Learn more on the Serials page!

I’ve also published the final report in .pdf format: Anglo Saxon Hearpe

And the glamour shots…