Man, The Wounded Son, my fourth riff, echoing with religious whispers and visions. Wrapped up tight in a church youth crew, chasing comfort and peace in the haze of my world.
“Point of View,” sparked by U2’s fire, especially The Joshua Tree, painting the canvas with religious hues. “With or Without You,” that love tale, seeped into my veins. Dug deep, dropped the line, “you are the stones from which I build my church,” laying the bricks of love’s cathedral.
“I’m Without You” and its echo, “I’m Still Without You,” danced with a Morley Wah-Wah pedal, syncopated with an old keyboard, borrowed vibes from a pal.
Then, “It’s in His Eyes,” a tale spun from St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Peoria, Illinois. Me, lost in the pews, locked eyes with Jesus in a stained-glass mural. Wild thing – Jesus sported a Beatle bowl cut, just like I did as a young cat. Life’s crazy, man, even in the stained glass, you find echoes of yourself.
“It Brings Me Home,” a tune born from a spring romance with a country girl, orchard owner, and dream weaver. Her world, a patch of earth out in the wild, the roots of our love tangled in the rustic orchard air.
“New England Town,” a fiction spun from the fisherman’s life, a simple song dancing with the memories of a 10-year-old kid wandering Massachusetts and Cape Cod, visiting kin. 1988, a bitter return for my grandmother’s farewell.
“Do a Little Love,” a vibe borrowed from Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean,” a melody carrying the yearning for that first dance with love, the journey into the unknown territories of grown-up realms.
“In Our America,” a dream painted in the late 1800s, an immigrant mother’s voice echoing through Ellis Island, guiding her son into the heart of the United States. A tale of hope and the promise of new beginnings.
“Lost Gypsy Train,” my riff on the preppy “goth” cats at school, the “corn chips” in their unique dress and hairstyles – bangs cascading, short in the back, eyeliner flicks. Back then, I might’ve judged them as “lost,” without a roadmap. Yet, within a year, their groove became my inspiration. Funny how the rhythm of judgment can flip, man.
“And I Cry,” a playful dance between classical guitar and keyboard, a whimsical exploration. Yet, in the outro chorus, I got carried away, lost in the monotony of my own making.
“It’s in Our Heart,” a mirror reflecting modern society’s surface, a commentary on the hollow echoes of meaning. This album, it was my canvas, my shift from seeing music as mere songs to viewing them as pieces of art, if you catch my drift.
Back when I birthed The Wounded Son in high school, I was the outsider. Not snug with the smart preppy crowd, nor really vibing with the artsy cats. Lost in between realms, searching for my spot in the cosmic jigsaw.
But man, music – that was my lifeline to the world. Penning down my tales, my emotions, a language that spoke sense to me even when the world seemed like a riddle. Music, my code, my secret expression when words stumbled.
The Wounded Son, it bared my soul. The struggle with religion, the love’s haze, the lonesomeness. A creation born out of necessity, a journey to make sense of the chaos.
It became my companion, a raft through the stormy seas. It whispered in my ears, “You’re on the right track.” It felt good, like my music was growing up, maturing with each risk, each added layer.
So, to you, the listener, a heartfelt thank you. For riding the waves of my music, for letting me spill my story into your ears. It’s a journey we share, and I’m grateful for the connection.