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Talking to Myself Again (and Again, and Again…)

Yesterday, about ten thirty in the morning, I put aside the book I had been trying to read and decided to pick up my bass guitar. On Friday I had written a new song, and by yesterday (Tuesday) I decided it was time to make a recording of it. Before I knew it I had fallen down a familiar rabbit hole. Hours had passed in a deep flow state. It was two in the afternoon and I had yet to eat lunch. Nor had I drank the second cup of morning coffee that I convince myself on days when I am less interested in what I am doing is ‘essential’ for my cognitive functioning. Somehow that initial notion of picking up the guitar and trying to record it became hours of setting up mics and sounds, teaching myself how to play the song I had written on a bass on a regular six-string guitar so I could also record guitar parts (which I also had to write in the moment, as until that moment I had never played the song on guitar, nor considered what that other instrument might offer to the overall composition), and getting a decent drum track sorted to record to. Not to mention vocal take after vocal take, as I figured out how I actually wanted this song which I have only sung a handful of times before to go and invented ‘harmonies’ (not always as successful as I would like) on the spot.

After a hurried lunch it was back to the mixing desk to programme proper drums and replace the initial basic recording beat. Then I had to attempt the element of the recording process I am least adept at - mixing and mastering - so that the song could be ready to share. I also needed to cobble together some sort of cover for the release, taking a hurried picture of some flowers in my garden and scribbling the band-name - Strangely Shaped By Fathers - and the song-title - What Might Blossom - over the garden pic.

I was finished with the whole thing by about five thirty in the evening. Seven hours later. The whole day gone in a blur of creative endeavour.

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This is not the first time I have lost days - or at least several hours of a day - to creative work. Being a one-person band in SSBF, a short three minute song like What Might Blossom can take a long time to produce because I am doing everything myself (and am skilled at none of it). It is a true labour of love. Yet, as soon as I am done I do tend to ask myself why I do it. After all - no-one really listens to my music. I have no fan-base to speak of. People are not crying out for a new Strangely Shaped By Fathers song. Probably only I am aware that I haven’t written a new SSBF song since last July’s release of Anarchist Atheist Punk Rock Teacher, and that wasn’t really an SSBF song as it was written on keyboards the previous April as part of my weird and wonderful DaN McKee Playing With Electricity project. The last proper SSBF stuff was 2022’s Sick of All the Hustle EP. Worse, that EP, in the two years since its release, has, according to Bandcamp analytics, only ever had 83 track plays. And of those 83, only 25 were complete streams of a full song. Over on Spotify, only 34 streams from that EP were counted over the last year. The DaN McKee album I released, which was a project which spanned a whole year of my life, has fared even worse. On Spotify only 5 streams of it have taken place since its release. On Bandcamp the picture is a bit better - 140 plays, but still only 60 complete listens.

I am not complaining. Essentially that’s still around 60 streams for each release. 60 people choosing to listen to the self-made DIY music of one unknown guy who essentially recorded the songs in his bedroom, doesn’t tour, doesn’t really know how to play his instruments, doesn’t advertise, has never had his music reviewed, and doesn’t play live. Not bad!

But on the other hand it does often strike me as strange that I do so much communication directed outward to the world - the songs, the books, this blog - and seldom get back any feedback or acknowledgement that anyone is actually listening. Those numbers on the platform analytics don’t translate into knowing those who listened actually liked what they heard. There aren’t a lot of repeat listens. In fact, other than the occasional nice message from members of my former bands, I don’t think anyone has ever really said they’ve liked my music. Certainly when I release something new and share the links with people, I don’t get an enthusiastic uptick in people actually clicking the link. The play counts remain low to non-existent. No one is rushing to hear the new stuff.

I actually wrote about this on the Playing With Electricity album, in the song To Greet My Noise:

Isn’t it funny how long we wait

For so very little?

Shouting out our words loudly into the dark

Sharing ourselves into the void

Hoping for an echo back

To at least acknowledge all the effort

Put into making a sound

But once again I find myself waiting

And hearing only the rush of blood

In my ears

That greets

That greets my noise

How many signals do you need

Before you start to pay attention?

That there are no connections to be made.

No kindred spirits out there.

That your singular voice speaks only

To itself

And though you know you’d do it anyway

Even if nobody cared

You can’t bring yourself to admit

The truth that maybe no one does?

And once again I find myself waiting

And hearing only the rush of blood

In my ears

That greets

That greets my noise

How many signals do you need

Before you start to pay attention?


I reached the finish line, alone.

With no one there to celebrate,

I cheer my own success

In the silence of an empty room.

And move on onto the next fight,

Convincing myself that this next one might…

Might finally be worth it

That this next one might actually count.

And once again I find myself waiting

And hearing only the rush of blood

In my ears

That greets

That greets my noise

I do it for myself.

I do it by myself

But still I’m doing it for you

To greet my noise

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And then there was the poem, Secret Songs, I wrote a few years previous to that. One which, ironically, I submitted to several poetry places and got rejected from all of them (a poem so secret I forgot to even add it to the poetry section of this website).

Playing guitar, in front of a bookcase,

I sing a song nobody knows but me,

Looking at books I’ve yet to read,

Haunted by a passing thought

That nothing will change when I do,

And no one will care if I don’t.

And if I died right now,

playing this last chord,

Never reaching the end,

No one would know if I had been thwarted

Or if it was just a really short song.

 

And if I never read another book again

I would be just as ignorant in places

As I would be if I read everything on the shelf.

Because there aren’t enough hours in a lifetime

To read it all.

 

And if I tried to read it all

I’d have no time to play guitar

And write more secret songs that no one will ever know;

Hiding in plain sight

On every streaming service.

 

So I accept my limitations

And make peace with disappointment.

I strum a little faster.

Avert my eyes from the wall.

And lose myself in another secret song

Written to change a world that’s content with never changing,

And hides solutions to its problems,

In plain sight,

In every book

That sits ignored upon our shelves.


Secret Songs, indeed. Hiding in plain sight on every streaming service. I admire my wit, but do have to ask myself sometimes if creatively screaming out into a void only to continually hear nothing back is as much self-harm as it is self-expression. ‘How many signals do you need before you start to pay attention?’ If no one is interested - why bother?

The answer, of course, is that I bother for myself. I bother because I feel compelled to do this stuff. There I was, happily reading a book and minding my own business and suddenly it was many-several hours later and I have (poorly) recorded a new song. Taking the sound from inside my head and trying to bring it to life in reality. Whether anyone else listens to it is beside the point. If I were creating music to be listened to by the masses I certainly wouldn’t be self-producing DIY punk rock (and I would probably have taken a singing lesson or two…not to mention actually done some research into recording techniques instead of trying to figure everything out on the fly, by feel). To quote the great Dr Frank-N-Furter: “I didn’t make him for YOU!”

All creative art is self-expression of some kind. We want to express and communicate. But even verbal conversation can fall on deaf ears sometimes. There is never any guarantee that anyone is actually listening. And even if they listen, that they hear. Art that fails to find its audience still has value in the trying because it is never really about the audience. It is about talking to yourself as an artist. Giving birth to ideas. Kicking them about. Giving them shape and form. Maybe being pleased with how they emerge, maybe wishing you could have done better. Sometimes it sparks dialogue, sometimes your words just disappear into the ether. Sometimes it’s years later and it turns out what you chose to express saved someone’s life. Other times it’s years later and not a single person even listened. None of it matters and all of it matters.

Expressing disappointment that more people don’t care simply becomes part of that same ongoing artistic conversation of self-expression and trying to figure out the world that you are having with yourself. One more element to consider, but not necessarily the most important aspect. A feeling which passes through, is acknowledged, is given shape and form, and is then set aside so that the next creative project can be worked on. Art is compulsion. And compulsive behaviours seldom stand up to rational scrutiny. What rational reason is there for an alcoholic to take another drink? A drug addict to shoot up? An eater of Pringles to keep putting their hand back in the tube? Such acts transcend reason. But compulsion is not always self-harming. There is little rational reason either for the person compelled to run towards danger to help those in need, to sacrifice their time and energy in the name of service, or to do whatever they can when they hear of a stranger in trouble. Some are compelled to do good in the world, some compelled to do bad, and others are compelled to make art. Wonderful, beautiful, life-affirming, yet arguably pointless, art.

I was thinking about my book, Anarchist Atheist Punk Rock Teacher, earlier this week in similar terms. Reviews for it from those who have read it - especially teachers, or people who have school-age kids - have been really positive. Alongside the private communications I’ve had from people who have read it and found it useful who I actually know, Dr David Chalton on Twitter called it “A brilliant piece of writing…Informative, emotional, hope-giving, rage-inducing, insight-giving…I hope both my wee ones, at some point in their time in the English schooling system, get a teacher like him, even if for a short time…Recommend the book for parents of school-age children (and obviously teachers #BeMoreDan)”. On Amazon in Japan, there was Ka0richan who said “I’d recommend this book to anyone who’s involved in education and wrestled with doubts about the system.  DaN McKee doesn’t have all the answers but he writes compellingly and fearlessly about life inside and outside of that system.”  Craig L on Amazon here in the UK called it “an incredibly moreish exploration of the teaching profession from someone deep in the belly of the beast”.  On Goodreads, Paul called it “essential reading…written in a fiercely accessible way”, and Jack said “As a teacher struggling to act with integrity, I am always seeking out stories like this.” Meanwhile, Noumahn - a former student of mine - described it as “a fantastic autobiography that explores pretty much every facet of living a meaningful life...which had me re-examining what it means to be a functioning human being in modern day society while balancing responsibility, a career, your passions and personal relationships…I opened the book for the first time hoping to read just a few pages but ended up reading more than half the book in one sitting.” Indeed, a similar (and slightly more worrying) version of this was said last week when my current boss revealed that he was reading the book and had been gripped after another member of our school’s senior management team had intended only to skim through it and found themselves hooked too. Hopefully there’s nothing too awful in it that I have forgotten about because I really like my current job!

The book has sold only modestly, the punk scene into which many review copies have been sent has been largely silent about it thus far despite having over a year now to read a copy, but these wonderful reviews - though there are only a handful that exist - show how that strange compulsion of mine for creative self-expression doesn’t always fall into a total void.

I wrote that book for me. To process what I was going through with my job, with my grief, with my life. And I found a publisher in Earth Island who saw that others might like to read it too. But the book was already written when they were sent it. It wasn’t pitched and then written for an intended audience. The audience I was writing for was myself. Always.

It’s the same with the songs. I am getting out my thoughts and having fun bashing about on a bass first and foremost for me. I am my audience before I share what I’ve created with the world. And I share it because why not? If my words or sounds hit someone in the right spot, all the better. If they pass on by unnoticed - no harm done.

In many ways, this is sort of what the song I recorded yesterday is about. Of course it isn’t - but also, it is. The song was actually written about anarchism. One of the common things I get asked when I speak publicly about anarchism is if I think it will ever actually be possible, living in an anarchist utopia.

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My reply is always pragmatic: not in my lifetime. Anarchism, at its heart, is non-coercive. So cannot be something people are forced into embracing. They have to choose it. And we have been so corrupted and fucked up by the states we inhabit and the economies which influence us that it will take generations to undo the damage of capitalism and pseudo-democracy. If we simply got rid of government today, we would not necessarily flourish because we are full of learnt-dependency on the state and have had our natures nurtured to bring out many of its worst aspects. Anarchy will take time. I will not live to see it. But I feel it is our moral obligation to do what we can in our lifetimes to push us in the right direction. To get us there. We can also embrace those moments - those cracks - where there is space to experiment with anarchism in the here and now. We can prefiguratively show anarchism’s possibility, and remind ourselves that anarchism is the mode in which most of our daily lives are lived (we seldom consider what external authorities have explicitly told us to do when going through our day-to-day lives) even if it is not the framework of our formal political existence right now.

My anarchism is very much like my art: something I feel I have to do. Something I have no choice but to do. But something which will likely never yield a harvest I personally will get to experience. But that doesn’t make it any less worthwhile.

I work within the gaps

One mind at a time

Seeds sown into the dark

On ground infertile and malign

 

My progress rate is slow

And mostly I’ll never know

If what I’ve sown has taken root

If what I’ve sown will even grow

 

And though it likely will take more than my lifetime to yield the harvest

I’m nourished by the thought of what might blossom after I am gone regardless

 

The world that’s always been

Sometimes it looks the other way

That’s when I find we can slip in

And try to show another way

I am the change I want to see

A living elevator pitch

 There’s something’s broken underneath

But it is something we can fix

And though it likely will take more than my lifetime to yield the harvest

I’m nourished by the thought of what might blossom after I am gone regardless

Other worlds than these are possible, and we just have to show them

And recognise that they’re worth fighting for even if we won’t live to know them

So yeah - I wrote and recorded a new song in the first few days of the summer holiday and probably no-one will even listen to it. Then I wrote this long blog post about it which probably no one will read either. And to me, a compulsive self-expressionist artist, none of this feels like a total waste of time even though on any objective metric, it probably is.