Photogenic Failure

Hey.

I have grown so goddamn sick and tired of keeping this barbed wire coat of failure wrapped tight for more than two years now.

I'm not ok.  I need help out.  I don't know how that comes.  A mentor or booking a gig or taking one of my shows out of the closet and giving it life again, maybe.

Researching this essay, I wanted to start off with a quote.  A footprint from someone or something in poetry or literature which did more than your typical "turned my failure into cobblestones for success" pablum.  Somebody who really knelt down, took the punches, coughed the blood. Shivered in the silence. And was left there with nothing but their thoughts.  For ages.

Couldn't find that.  So I guess I'll write that.

The story starts November 2015.  King of the Hobos , the result of three year's workshopping, brainstorming, and obsession, was now a three week run in Brooklyn.  I formed a production company. Got a real grown up publicist.  Went over budget, but felt optimistic that I could turn a corner, make this work.

By November's end, it was a terrible, terrible bomb.  77 people attended in total those 11 shows.  I got hit hard with debt.  Nobody bought the music.  

I remembered the flat, cold in my father's eyes after his second bankruptcy, when his bike shops closed.  He was so damn proud that one Christmas he got a front-page spread in the local paper, having us deliver bikes to the even more disenfranchised (which until that day, I thought wasn't even possible)  And now, it was over.  He kept trying, one get-rich quick scheme after another, but he never swung with the full strength ever again.  Fear sat on his chest, held his throat.  Made a quiet man even more taciturn.

Same with me.  I couldn't bear to look people in the face after being such a failure as a producer, as a performer.  Starting refusing invitations to see folks.  I'd creep into social media less and less, each time in disbelief over those who still had the gumption and the spirit to hawk themselves so ardently -see my work - read my twitter - buy my stuff -  Didn't they understand?  I thought, tears coming to my face.   Didn't they know somehow in the root of their bones that we're so horribly broken and withered up and nobody wants what we're selling?

I couldn't make work anymore.  Every song attempt make me flash forward to the ramifications of production costs and audience accessibility  - is the subject matter going to be too goddamn weird?  And I'd stop before I'd even plunked out a draft.

I auditioned heavily in the vise of failure, but it felt so useless.  I'm sure I wore it on me like a bad cologne.  A blunt, weary focus.  Fifty auditions in 2017 alone and nothing - no callback, no work.

I am so, so sorry for being cold and distant to everyone.  I'm sorry for not being more open as a friend these past few years. I'm sorry for not seeing your shows, for not being as supportive and kind and welcoming as I should have been.   I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk about this oppressive weight.  It still makes me fall apart when I think about it.

I want to get better.  I want to be free from this failure.  I want to be able to make things again, just enjoy making them.   I hope making this public opens a door to that growth.

Love,

Jara

Hobos, Tramps, and Bums - Newest Song for KOTH

Hey.

Here's the last new song for the show.  One Gilly sings to distinguish between hobos, tramps, and bums.

Can't wait to put it up again and see what you think!


lyrics

hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

well
a trampll beg
and a bumll steal
but a hobos steady
like a wagon wheel
pick the crop
carry slop
take whatever meal
be it steak
be it ole wind pudding

oh those
hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

well a tramp

hell be sleeping

through the break of day

and a bumll

pick a scrap 

if you look her way

but a hobo keeps working

till his fingers fray

he keeps busy

his heart aint dizzy

hobos
tramps
and bums

in this poor lil world
more common
than your thumbs
but they aint the same
they got a different flame
that burns them
through their gums
those hobos
tramps
and bums

bridge

well a tramp

he aint but loaf and wander

and a bum

she drinks and wanders

a hobo works

and wanders

if you cant suss out the difference

well i guess youre pretty dumb

those hobos

tramps and bums

one more time

well a tramp

he aint but loaf and wander

and a bum

she drinks and wanders

a hobo works

and wanders

if you cant suss out the difference

well i guess youre pretty dumb

those hobos

tramps and bums

hobos

tramps

and bums

Smokey -First Draft of New Song for KOTH

Hey.

Slowly but surely working on an updated version of KING OF THE HOBOS.

Here's the first new song. Gonna be the second song in the show.  Gilly sings it as an ode to his new love, a red six-string cigar box guitar named Smokey.


lyrics

every heart got a song to sing
every object got a whisper o time
found the box what a shiny thing
on the tracks bout a mile
from the saint louis line

she was fire red hot
and i couldnt let go
later that night
caught a country show
strum by a fella
named les paul
and it came clear
and i understood
got me to thinking
found some wires and wood
now id have a girl
at my beck and call
id call her

chorus
smokey
gentle like the
mother
i never had
unassuming
smokey
simply speak your chorus
and ill be glad
all the friends ive known
now dust and bone
and my empty little guts
like a sack o stone
yet merrily ill play
oh smokey
were whats left today

second verse
every heart got a song to sing
if you dont whats the goddamn reason
you rise
sing it soft for a nick o courage
loud
kick the devil right square in his eyes

well ive sang each days
when my arms were sore
only rhythm was my sleeping snore
waking off the weight
from another night
fore i sang for anybody else
you see
these little ditties they were meant for me
now i got a girl
feels so good and right
i call her...

chorus

bridge
if i breathe
and i just start moving
smokey heals me and keeps me fine
hear her speak while my fingers sliver
feel them bleed as our souls entwine
if you cant be handsome be useful
its what james always said to inspire
hell i aint one for smarts or manners
smokey and me were a house afire
if i breathe
and i just start moving
smokey heals me and keeps me fine
hear her speak while my fingers sliver
feel them bleed as our souls entwine
if you cant be handsome be useful
its what james always said to inspire
hell i aint one for smarts or manners

smokey and me 

were a house

were a house 

were a house afire

third verse

every heart got a song to sing

listen close

hear the sound

its the kindness you weep

add some words from the book o suffering

put them together

its a fortune youll keep

she was fire red hot
and i couldnt let go
later that night
caught a country show
strum by a fella
named les paul
and it came clear
and i understood
got me to thinking
found some wires and wood
now id have a girl
at my beck and call
id call her

chorus

every heart got a song to sing

every object 

got a whisper o time