I´ve been writing songs since I was about 12. Most of which fairly crap, but all in the way of developing a craft. Thankfully it was in my family, notably my father and Uncle (chordstrangler if anyone remembers him in this forum), to my view are great songwriters.

Chordstangler told me when I sang a few of my songs to him, told me to write something without the words I or me in it. At the time my songs were terribily teenage angst ridden.

Another person told me true art should be accesible at every level. A child and a professor should be able to take something from it.

You should never underestimate the stupidity and lack of attention of your audience, I was also told.



I would appricate your opinions on the subject.

Don´t know if people post songs here, but as an example here´s my lastest. A monster of a thing called "the Cereberus Blues"

When a song only exist in your head it´s hard to guage it´s merit.

Your opinions of it would also be very welcome, Don´t hold back please.


We´re the sons of bitches, nobody wanted
The runts of the litter at the hind teat,
Nobody gave us puppy love,
Raised on hate, we grew up mean.

You see our composition was something unique
but most merely saw some terrible freak,
When you´re so feared, you´re better off alone,
And three heads are better, better than one.

(Choras)
And our bark, bark, bark is worse than out bite, bite, bite.
but believe me son, you wouldn´t want to try it,
And if you want to get the hell out of here,
All you got to do is face up to your fear,
If fear had a face, it would need three,
If you want out, you gotta get past me.


So we lived in the urban undergrowth,
The dark seedy alleys where no decent soul goes,
We could be heard howling at night,
while you slept, we were sniffing outside.

Remeber three monkies, keep your nostiles closed
for we´ve left our scent on every lamppost,
And those in the light, try to deny it,
Their city so pure, was built on a sewer.

Choras,

In the gutter, we came apon a stranger,
A once beautiful, battered guitar,
His fine clothes, now thattered and thorn,
He must have fallen a long way down.

He sang a song so haunting
of a banished prince and a beautiful kingdom,
and before we know it, his three chord tricks,
Had leashes and collars around our necks,

He went for a walk and we were lead
from the land of the living to the relm of the dead,
He built us a kennel of burning steel,
Just outside the gates of hell.

Chorus