This is the good old-fashioned down home dirty rock that makes people wonder why some old crooners spend 50 years of their lives jamming in your neighbor's garage while others spend 50 years selling out shows in places like Chicago, New York, Hammersmith and Budakon. The difference between example A and example B is minimal, and comes down largely to luck and coincidence.
Alas, the good thing about all of that is the fact that I can honestly say that many people who are close personal comrades have written songs that, in my opinion, rival the best work of the likes of Deep Purple and Bad Company -- they just never had the happy coincidences that the Blackmores and Rodgers of the world have had. I'm good with that. Had they had those happy coincidences, I likely would have never gotten the opportunity to become a close personal comrade.
And along those same lines, I know quite a few writers -- including yours truly -- who have scribbled tales that rival the tales of Neil Simon and Tennessee Williams, and that is not an exaggeration.
It's like this -- the best rock band in the world is a band you've never heard of, jamming in a garage or little bar in Idaho or Kentucky or Iowa or Manitoba or somewhere, and unfortunately you will never hear them play because they are happy doing just what they're doing -- rocking the shit out of Bumfreak, Nowhereville.
The best singer in the world is singing in some church choir in St. Idontknow, belting songs out in honor of the Lord every Sunday, happy to be singing to an audience that is sometimes smaller than the choir itself. You'll never hear her, and neither will I, but every Easter she gets a solo and the congregation politely claps for her.
The greatest actor in the world isn't in Hollywood or on Broadway. He or she is faking a happy marriage somewhere and occasionally performing "Death of a Salesman" or "The Odd Couple" on some small community theatre stage in some small town in some small state. Occasionally someone says "you could be on Broadway," but he or she doesn't believe it.
The best writer in the world spends most of his time writing hilarious fake reviews on Internet message boards for various products, mostly hygienic salves and lotions. He has no desire to write a novel or play or movie script or even a letter to the editor, because he's happy at his job selling high-tech gadgets. But his words, on those message boards, are smooth and amazing and hilarious and tragic all at once, like Shakespeare and Dickens smoking hand-churned butter out of a shared bubble-pipe while listening to the recorded poetry of the adult love-child of Maya Angelou and Charles Butkowsi.
The smartest person in the world is happily installing cable television in some house in some place you and I have never heard of.
The most beautiful woman in the world probably has to hide her beauty behind some kind of mask or shroud for antiquated religious purposes.
Do you get where I went with all that?
As for my dognott buddies -- when you guys doing a video for "I Wanna Get High?"
And PPP MMM ... Please, please, please make more music!