Very nice collaboration.  I think that that the calmness of the piece has us accept things that would normally alarm us.

The poem is so well described and true. When I look in the mirror in the morning, a helpless, strange man always looks back at me. A great text by Peter, Debbie's piano playing gives the overall work of art the colour it needs and your mixing and mastering is excellent. You are a great trio.

Listen to Where in the world by The Beautiful Dark on #SoundCloud https://on.soundcloud.com/kWu3U A peaceful voiceover song I just uploaded. Sharing it with you because I think the three of you might enjoy the positivity in it. Loads of love and light, Carl 🕯️

Debra's Piano and your serene voice are always a delight

well; just had to look at the names of the talents involved to know this would be great...you indeed prove the power of collabs folks.

We all go through this morning phase in front of the mirror ....  Music chosen for this text, always so well written for this poetry .... by our Friend Peter .... Debra's participation in the background is really perfect.  Thank you for bringing these two extraordinary characters together.

The moment is exceptional .... Both in the words chosen and in the evocative piano accompaniment ....

I’m waitin on a new style I’m waitin on a new day
Walkin a long the mile checkin out the play

I’m never goin out at night
Only out in the day
Never gonna ride assumption
That I’m gonna be ok
So I’d rather just have you know
It’s another shut in day
The flowers never grow
When you focus on decay
You never amount to much
When a shadow scares your touch
So smile at the crossroads
You talk shit way too much 

Everyone is a little bit frightened
Everyone is scared
Maybe you could help them out
But a shut in you don’t care.

Make your friends dine about
Try to dance and scream and shout 

I was waitin on that cow bell
I was waitin on the rain
Someone said they remembered me
And boy was I a pain
Before the lavish luxuries
And pleasantries defined
I got pistol whipped by 
Robbers
Just beggin for the time

Mother ran the tightest ship
Blessings in her way
I always had the politest things
Ready off to say

She never let him out at day
Never out at night
Lovecraft’s sick in bed again
Better turn off the bedroom light
Lovecraft’s sick in bed again
Better turn off the bedroom light
Lovecraft’s sick in bed again
Better turn off the bedroom light

We saw him in the window
We told him to come down
Waving at his friends
His mother always frowned
His mother always said
Lovecraft’s sick again
His mother always said
Lovecraft’s sick again
His mother always said
Lovecraft’s sick again

Lovecraft's Sick Again (Acoustic Version)

Deep Cuts

Deep Cuts -with AnandaTuk

Single Use & Recycled slaying on  guitar, and composition

Dime X Single Use & Recycled

Written 11 years ago: recalls the days when music was vinyl only and a magical retreat from disabling matters of the heart


33 RPM NIRVANA

Flattened faces pressed up against the glass
It’s well known no-one needs to ask
People talking ‘bout how I’m feeling
If they were me yes they’d be reeling
They’d need time and recuperation
But at night I take up station
Hanging around in 33 RPM Nirvana
Getting away to 33 RPM Nirvana 

She’s a stranger that’s her right to choose
Who can blame her she don’t like old news
You might say she’s one go getter
And why did she not treat me better
I admit I loved her deeply
But right now I’m kind of sleepy
Hanging around in 33 RPM Nirvana
Getting away in 33 RPM Nirvana 

I’m pulling the curtains and switching it on
Watching the tone arm lower onto my black vinyl

Drifting away now the music is my river
Not analyzing I’m seeking separation
Through the mists of time I wander
What is life I’m bound to ponder
Gonna get to shrug my shoulders
Moving on and getting bolder
Hanging around in 33 RPM Nirvana
Getting away in 33 RPM Nirvana

33 RPM Nirvana

When I was in infant school my class was a ragbag bunch of scruffy working class urchins, self included.  National health glasses held together with band aids, hand-me-down clothes, bruises, jam sandwiches.  There was a kid in that class who was very quiet, often absent.  Good at reading.  Good at running.  Kept himself to himself.  Sat at the back, never made eye contact.  Never put his hand up.

Turns out he was very deaf and spending a lot of time in hospital with operations of various sorts.

When he was seven he was given a hearing aid - huge thing the size of a transistor radio that sat in his shirt pocket.  The story I heard was that when he first went home with it his mam took him for a walk down a country lane to try it out.  He was very upset that it was obviously broken - all sorts of odd scratching and buzzing noises.

They eventually realised that he was hearing insects for the first time.  

Imagine that.

Often wonder what became of him.
_________________________________________________________________________

Huge thanks to my two friends here: Paco for inspiring and driving this project with his wonderful music, and Oddrun for lifting my simple lyrical efforts to another level entirely.
__________________________________________________________________________

A Good Boy

A symphony of crushing silence 
Played his timpani of weathered clay
Under lowered eyes that cried defiance
He’d softly make his quiet way
A guiding star that burned with life, but ever failed to shine
Kept his distance, from afar, no avatar to hide behind
He’s a good boy, so they say, in their condescending, pitied way.

Inputs built of aural mud are clinically desensitised
Muffled whispers trundle under cobbled skies of grizzled grey
Dreams and aspirations that never could be realised
He’d tightly close his eyes and lightly kneel to pray
Social cripple loner ‘neath a joker’s plastic smiles
Silent rippled mannequin, cartoon audio spastic child
He’s a good boy, so they say, in their well meaning, hurtful way.

Flip the switch and hear the light
Bear witness to the revelation
A trip to day-sound from his silent night
Demolishing all his expectations
Sweet blushing kiss of angels’ eyes
One of them has turned the volume dial
To flush his muted domicile
And hear the crickets singing on the chamomile

So cast the light fine, on the deafened child’s mind
And let the sound shine as the clearest of days
A new world’s flight is leaving dark behind
Clarity rebound leads the way
Breathe the noise, of those blissful waves
Touch the sense as darkness fades
He’s a good boy,…..he’s a good boy…..

So swing the arc’s beam, bless the lonesome soul
Illumination wakes the inner self
Warmth of seemliness melts the cold
Communication taken off the shelf
Breathe the noise, of those blissful waves
Touch the sense as darkness fades
He’s a good boy,…..he’s a good boy …. He’s a good boy now.

A Good Boy:  MidiSound, Oddrun Eikli, 1234567890

I see him each morning, hair askew, face needing to be mowed with an electric razor, a face wrinkled and weathered by experience and decisions good and bad.  None the less, I am thankful he is looking back at me; I'm still alive and thankful to have another day.  
Peter's poetic meditation begins like a prayer and becomes deeply introspective into how life has changed the man looking back at him.  His initial inspiration was Arvo Part's "Spiegel im Spiegel" but for this reflective journey, he asked pianist Debra Buesking to accompany him which she does  with great feeling and eloquence.  I come into the picture as the one invited to bring them together for a memorable moment, a great honor and a labor of love for two of my favorite Soundcloud artists.  More of Peter's thoughtful music and spoken word can be found @https://soundcloud.com/user-264930040/tracks, and more of Debbie's beautiful playing can be found @debra_buesking.

Some Words for Mr. Part:

Dear God, just look at the state of you - what the hell happened?
Did time do that all by itself?
Chiselled and scraped with gentle, temporal strength?
Yesterdays now patterned well with telling tales of wear and tear.
Always took such good care that you ticked every health kick box
But all the ticks collect their tocks, bundling up the time we thought was
dangling spare.
And wrinkly skin comes out to play, crafting plots with crumpled neurons
badly frayed, and
Liver spots about the edges worn of happy recollections,
Waltzed away, invisible to the swinging of that penduled clock.
Take your eyes off it for just a minute and you’ve lost a day,
And then a decade’s worth of wry reflections,
Lovingly to fold them up and let them lie in memory’s pocket.
Those lines that contour of your brow, a biography of creases now
And all cut down so very deep.
Each epidermal void crevasse life’s stylus tracks a scratching past
Evinces of a record no mortal hard re-format could delete.
And of your eyes, sallow yellowed at the margins, framed by corvid feet
Rigid-set to well outlast whatever bargained span of life your good Lord
deems replete.
As if your face lampoons of age itself, wrecked and bent
Of scars that trace minutiae, carved in master sculptors’ stone
And none too soon, for just that task and that alone, recording compressed
of the past..
We both know well which ones are smiles and which the pain that heaven
sent,
The former few, soft of the flesh, the many others sunk unto the very bone,
The harshest welt of any sole upon the universal cobbler’s last.
But does it help to so reflect, or but to hurry time’s neglect?
Of such consideration circles wrapped in worry tearing down
All edifice of self respect, the towering pit of pity comes once more to town,
Parades a circus fine of talents, self deprecating jestered clowns
And galloping horses all the while stampede about the rounded ropes
Vespered peace forever sought, just out of reach, concedes of futile, now
confounded hopes.
So what of forward self projection, folding the creases back behind
And out of sight to speculation on future solaced peace of mind?
Perhaps again the crashing wall of fast reality, solid bricked
Determines upward focus but to fall, as if to gravity’s grounded truth
Tricked of consequential solitude, rimed of age, aching of the aged sick
No respite there nor rectitude as once you found in torrid youth.
But perhaps I’m speaking out of turn and out of place,
For though your memories sear and burn as if to carbonise some
worthwhile trace of validity
On that unholy visage lit by lives lived long before….
It matters not and changes nought, not a jot nor yet a thought
For you and I know better than to seek a settled score from comment fair
After all, you are I, staring back at me from the mirror mounted there.

Inspired By Mr. Pärt's "Spiegels" (Peter, Debra Buesking, David; final production)

....I hope he will forgive the presumption...
____________________________________________________________________

This little project only stirred into life when graced with the pulse of Debbie's wonderful accompaniment and the breath of David's visionary arrangement and production.  Thank you both, dear friends.

Find Debbie's piano music here: https://soundcloud.com/debra_buesking
and David's guitar music here: https://soundcloud.com/david-dunhamuser589535203
_____________________________________________________________________

.... Inspired By Mr. Pärt's Spiegels

Dear God, just look at the state of you - what the hell happened?
Did time do that all by itself?
Chiselled and scraped with gentle, temporal strength?
Yesterdays now patterned well with telling tales of wear and tear.
Always took such good care that you ticked every health kick box
But all the ticks collect their tocks, bundling up the time we thought was dangling spare.

And wrinkly skin comes out to play, crafting plots with crumpled neurons badly frayed, and
Liver spots about the edges worn of happy recollections,
Waltzed away, invisible to the swinging of that penduled clock.
Take your eyes off it for just a minute and you’ve lost a day, 
And then a decade’s worth of wry reflections,
Lovingly to fold them up and let them lie in memory’s pocket.

Those lines that contour of your brow, a biography of creases now
And all cut down so very deep.
Each epidermal void crevasse life’s stylus tracks a scratching past
Evinces of a record no mortal hard re-format could delete.
And of your eyes, sallow yellowed at the margins, framed by corvid feet
Rigid-set to well outlast whatever bargained span of life your good Lord deems replete.

As if your face lampoons of age itself, wrecked and bent
Of scars that trace minutiae, carved in master sculptors’ stone
And none too soon, for just that task and that alone, recording compressed of the past..
We both know well which ones are smiles and which the pain that heaven sent,
The former few, soft of the flesh, the many others sunk unto the very bone,
The harshest welt of any sole upon the universal cobbler’s last.

But does it help to so reflect, or but to hurry time’s neglect?
Of such consideration circles wrapped in worry tearing down
All edifice of self respect, the towering pit of pity comes once more to town,
Parades a circus fine of talents, self deprecating jestered clowns
And galloping horses all the while stampede about the rounded ropes
Vespered peace forever sought, just out of reach, concedes of futile, now confounded hopes.

So what of forward self projection, folding the creases back behind
And out of sight to speculation on future solaced peace of mind?
Perhaps again the crashing wall of fast reality, solid bricked
Determines upward focus but to fall, as if to gravity’s grounded truth 
Tricked of consequential solitude, rimed of age, aching of the aged sick
No respite there nor rectitude as once you found in torrid youth.

But perhaps I’m speaking out of turn and out of place,
For though your memories sear and burn as if to carbonise some worthwhile trace of validity
On that unholy visage lit by lives lived long before….
It matters not and changes nought, not a jot nor yet a thought
For you and I know better than to seek a settled score from comment fair
After all, you are I, staring back at me from the mirror mounted there.

.... Inspired By Mr. Pärt's Spiegels ... With Debra Buesking and David Dunham

Earlier this year, the Eclectic Collective and Ross Smithe together covered the classic Grateful Dead tune, The Wheel. The song is essentially a kind of musical metaphor for the relentless cycles of life we all experience. The first release was back in August, and here it comes, rolling back around again for yet another take! One of the great things about the Grateful Dead is that the music is always open to different perspectives and interpretations. The original mix from August has the definite raw energy and intensity of a live jam. Ross' intention with this remix was to try and capture a bit more clarity and definition between parts (as soundboard mixes of live concerts often do).
Cast of characters:
Ross Smithe-- @ross-smithe – Lead vocals, harmony vocals, piano, synth, arrangement, mix/production
Josh Clary (Entheogenic Psychonaught)-- @josh-clary-1 – Lead guitar, rhythm guitar, four-string fretless bass, harmony vocals
J.J. Terrell-- @j-j-terrell—Electric piano, organ, harmony vocals
Ken (K2 and the Three, K2 and the Four)--@k2andthe3, @k2-kara – Drums

The Wheel-Grateful Dead Cover by The Eclectic Collective & Ross Smithe ("Soundboard" Remix Version)

I wrote this forty years ago as part of the "Scenes of St. Francis" small-town song anthology and thought it might be fun to post as fall is winding down but before the Christmas season gets into full swing.  St. Francis, Kansas is a little prairie town nestled in a shallow river valley and has an abundance of trees, mostly cottonwoods, but a few hardwoods that stand out especially in the fall. And with the trees was an abundance of squirrels always playing chase or hide and seek when they weren't getting into mischief.  They needed a song, and with my daughters being so young, I wanted to make it in the form of a children's song that they could sing along to.  As adult women, they still like to sing along when they hear it which is a good thing since my own singing voice has largely depleted with age.  But it is a nice reminder that once upon a time I could sing:) Rescued and remixed from an old but faithful cassette tape.

Squirrel Song lyrics:
Hop, skip, and jump, and away they go,
Haven't got a care in the world.
Playing hide and seek 'round an old tree trunk,
I'm talking 'bout my friend the squirrel.

Gathering nuts is a way of life,
But even they know when to play,
And though winter's coming before too long,
They still live life day by day.
Chorus:
Just let their antics entertain you,
From a high-wire act to a tree-top stunt or two,
There's not a dull moment when you see them around,
There's fun wherever they're found.

Instrumental hums then repeat chorus

Hop, skip, and jump, and away they go,
They have something we need to learn;
That a happy life is made of work and play
When each one gets a turn.

Squirrel Song (from Scenes of St. Francis)

New start after finishing SC and Spotify Album - Eccentricity so Beautiful.
This title jumped off a page and lately in the live act we've been doing some 80s songs: I think that influenced the approach here.
 
Decarbonizing Aviation
Decarbonizing Aviation
 
It’s a new concsiousness
Vapor trails gone West
Sometimes you got to make a change
To keep love on forever’s path
Your shaking trees are exhausting me
Better a sundown heart to heart
 
Decarbonizing Aviation – night swimming and seeing it spark
Decarbonizing Aviation – going steady yeah not too fast
 
Glaciers and shrinking
Habitats and mourning
Can we glide the plane back home
Gotta give up on bad bad stuff
Seven days of denial nights
I think we know that enough’s enough

Decarbonising Aviation

scratch off ticket

I am a finger-style guitarist living on the Texas high plains.  At the core of my music is melody that is inspired and informed by my Christian faith, family, friends, and countless influences through the years from the great composers, to jazz, folk, rock, Latin, Celtic, and the many fine musicians I have come to love on the Cloud, some I have been privileged to collaborate with.  Thanks for stopping by to have a listen. Comments are always welcome. Feel free to click on the picture of any track to learn more about it.

Inspired By Mr. Pärt's "Spiegels" (Peter, Debra Buesking, David; final production)

David Dunham

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DAN - DT repost

DAN - DT

Midisound

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