matt pond PA

June 5, 2017

Industry Rule #4080.

Here is the inner monologue of Captain Mumbles. Upon gears of discombobulation, I set out on a hunt for meaning, warmth and whiskey. Always getting in the way of my own damn hooves.

Perhaps I’m not always entirely clear.

Before we enter the crystalline world of sharp angles and actuality, I would like to say that I’m happy where I am. I mostly enjoy being the bewildered president of my miniature kingdom — my successes are modest, the failures are mine. From the splash landing in Lancaster, New Hampshire, to this moment on my scruffy denim couch — I am king misfit of my domain!

Isn’t that the way we were supposed to reign the recesses of our minds. With clumsy purity, with valiant mottled souls. Where the heart lives happily upon a mustard-stained flannel sleeve.

Prior to leaving the murky past, please allow me to make a crayon illustration of the world that I’ve trusted and existed in for most of my life.

(Just as the drawing begins, the walls spin, the head lightens, the scene changes. A strobing montage, where I wrote it all out, all the devils and their deeds. Many angry fingers pointed at life-sized cardboard cutouts. With pseudonyms and minor exaggerations. Swarthy city pirates with fake mustaches, pulling the levers of a world that’s intentionally senseless. Stop.)

What’s the point? To whine and wail out over the internet? I would so much rather pass around the virtual vintage, the ersatz biscuit and cheese plate.

Here’s the basic bolts and nuts: Most trade is shady. In nearly all transactions, the eventual goal is to triumph, to trick a human being into being subservient to the financial or emotional desires of another — isn’t that how it works? And by winning in the music industry, it means controlling both the overblown egos and financial streams of the least savvy players. Since I was born with a “kick me” birthmark on the back of my neck, I’ve been wandering through the valley of the vacuous. Until now.

Now. We have mutilated ourselves with money and fame. We can stop anytime. Now.

Pardon. All these blathering, mis-forged majesties must be put back in their towering bunk beds. Because somewhere in all of this, the music is lost. The very thing we all believed in has become a lie — if we let it.

Without being the preacher my father once was — we should play because we want to play, listen because we want to listen, speak because we want to speak. I’m wicked simple. I’m built to live. And eventually die.

I look forward to all of it. (Or at least, to live through one last restless, lupine night.)

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