I was asked by the fellow buying more of my CDs why I hadn’t been discovered yet. My stuff, he said, is better’n what’s on the radio or in the record stores. (Thanks.) There are two answers, a curmudgeonly one and a non-curmudgeonly one, and I’m not sure which is right.

The non-curmudgeonly answer is that success in the music business as it’s configured today depends entirely on whom you know (or rather, who knows you) rather than what you can do, and not enough people know me. I keep playing every chance I get, everywhere I can, and get my records into as many hands as I can, and maybe the right people will notice me. In the meantime, there is a living to be made (I think) on the fringes of the music business, and I’m pursuing that.

The curmudgeonly response (my usual answer) is that success in the music business as it’s configured today depends entirely on whom you know (or rather, who knows you) rather than what you can do, and not only do not enough people know me, they’re not really interested in knowing anybody new. I keep playing every chance I get, everywhere I can, and get my records into as many hands as I can, because it’s all I can do. There is a living to be made (I think) on the fringes of the music business, and I’m pursuing that.

Note the two answers sound an awful lot alike. They also result in the same work plan, so which one is right doesn’t matter an awful lot.

It’s tempting to follow that with “there’s a song in it,” but a lot of times, I’m not sure exactly where inspiration comes from. I only know that after I’ve written something, I feel better.

The latest song was in response to a challenge from that British writers’ bunch assembled by Jon Harrington, that I’ve been sort of following. (“Sort of” because they get together in person, and I can’t afford monthly trips to England. Yet.) We (they?) were charged with writing a song about a river flowing to the sea. How—or why—mine turned into an anthem about a serial killer, I am not sure. (A river is a good place to dispose of bodies, of course.) So I have a bouncy, foot-stompin’ little number that might get people up dancing if they ignore what the song’s about. It even has an eye-catching title: “The Dead Sweethearts Polka.” (It doesn’t have to be a polka, of course—I can hear “Deathgrass” playing it as rock ‘n’ roll, and it sounding just fine, and every bit as danceable.)

As this is written, the lyrics are getting peer review from the other writers at Just Plain Folks, and depending on what they have to say, it may be time to record it. In the same vein, it may be desirable to perform it with the Friday Night Group—I’ve confronted them with weird stuff before. I am bothered a bit by the song, because I’m not sure what prompted it; songs always reflect (sometimes very dimly) something going on in my life—but a happy song about a serial killer? What brought on that? At least I don’t have to worry about ruining my reputation—I don’t have one. One of the advantages of not being famous is I don’t have an image I have to protect. I can write anything.

UPDATES: Not a word from the 2nd Street Public Market folks in Tillamook, who were soliciting performers on Craigslist; I’ll have to phone them and tell them I would really rather be rejected than just ignored. I did get a solicitation from one of our burlesque performers in Portland, inviting me to an open mike she was hosting—and I had to beg off, because I’ve got a meeting to cover for the paper that night. I do hope she does it again, and on a night I can go. I’d even make more thongs for that one. Music Wednesday, Friday and Saturday this week, and another “Gang of Four” meeting Wednesday morning at the Arts Center. (And I did sell two CDs at the open mike in Bay City Friday.)

Joe