No, I didn’t write a new chapter of New Mexico Noir today, and I’ve already been chastised by one of my regular readers for my wanton ways. I needed to do some research in order to continue and, sadly, spent my entire precious writing time looking for information that I couldn’t find. Frustrated, I gave up.
So I thought I’d tell you about my weekend. On Saturday, my brother-in-law took my husband and me to a five-band extravaganza metal concert. Let me admit something right off the bat: in the eighties, when my brother-in-law was wearing his Levis and listening to raw-energy metal, I was wearing my Levis and listening to Credence Clear Water Revival. I listened to Guns N’ Roses–that’s true–but, really, I was not a metal head. Oh, and I was frequently mistaken for Axel Rose when walking down the street in my bandanna, torn jeans, and combat boots, but that is entirely beside the point. He was my rock twin, I guess. I hope that I am a hell of a lot prettier; my husband tells me I am. He claims I’ve aged a lot better, too. Phew, what a relief! What a twin to have. And what an idea–a metal concert–hours worth of music that I might not properly appreciate.
Unbeknown to me, however, was that this concert was at an outdoor amphitheater on the top of a mesa out near Acoma. Here I was, with my Irish skin, wearing a tank top, with no shade in sight and with the afternoon, New Mexican sun blaring down on me at 7,000 feet. My husband bought me a Cinderella t-shirt to cover my shoulders, and I was set. I was ready to be a metal-head.
I must admit that I was not only inspired, but that the music awoke a desire in me that makes me ache all over. You know how most aspiring novelists claim they’ve been writing novels since they were in first grade? Well, I’ve been writing poetry and making up songs for as long as I can remember. Yes, that’s right. And the euphoria of the metal ballads awoke the dormant poetry in my soul. Ever since the concert, I’ve yearned to write poetry. In fact, I think I composed some verses on the drive back to my home town, at 2 a.m., while I lapsed in and out of sleep (thankfully, I wasn’t driving). Sadly, I can’t remember these inspired rhymes.
How could I not be inspired by the virtuosity of Winger and Cinderella and Dokken? Answer me that, already. How could I not be inspired?
I’ll tell you a secret. Metal head or not, I’ve always been taken by The Scorpions and Klaus’s vocals. Their music has always been a secret love of mine. I’m listening to their ballads, right now, in fact. I’m feeling The Winds of Change. I need to write poetry. I really do. I not only need to write poetry, but I need to stop analyzing it death.
As I listen to the ballads, and I feel the euphoria rising in my soul, I also feel myself dissecting the lines of verse. Aren’t they beginning every line on a trochee? I ask myself. Then I realize that many songwriters use trochees when writing songs, and, to prove the point, other lyrics begin filtering through my mind. Trochees carry the lines and add emphasis to every word. It can’t be a coincidence. The way to rock lyrics is to write in trochees with trimeter or tetrameter. . .
I want to cry, now. I don’t think I’ll ever write awe-inspiring verses, because I critique and analyze everything. Why do I do this? Why do I wreck everything? Why? Why?
The Winds of Change are afoot, Dear Readers. My dad understands, in depth, the techniques involved in painting. He is truly an intellectual, a master of his craft, and yet is still able to paint his own uniquely inspired paintings. There’s no reason why I can’t do the same with poetry. But I’m still trying to figure out how to escape myself.
Just for the record, the concert had four bands (Lynch Mob canceled at the last minute), but Winger and Cinderella were the most amazing.