that my friend is a song

For a wide eyed hopeful young songwriter to follow the dictates of the pap smeared offerings of what one hears on today’s so called country radio is pure artistic suicide,.One might make gobs of money, but if they had ambitions that ranked up there in the category of a John Prine, Kristofferson, Hartford, or any other raggedy misfit that defied the odds and changed the culture by brazening it out withstanding insults and finger pointing, if they don’t follow their dreams, they will be relegated to the basement of Yuk and Deplorable. If a young singer thinks that the only way he or she can make it in the world of vocality is by belting out notes so loud and high that it makes little animals bolt into the night with drooping tails and the ears of human beings wilt into the shapes of crinkled lopsided wet potato chips, then they have missed the mark of being able to impart a simple truth in a simple unassuming manner to a crowd of people hungry to be fed something honest, true and real. When Kristofferson takes the stage, a man in his eighties, and in a low passionate voice sings a song of incalculable truth and beauty, holding his audience spellbound, transporting them into a space beyond their own recognition, it says something about the true responsibility of the role of the Troubadour.

Are we not to aspire to the highest level of our Godly gifts, or are we to sell out for the short end YaYa’s and then twenty years later have the stunning realization we sold ourselves and dulled our talents, flattened the edge of our blade to nubs,.So, this day young songwriter or old or any songwriter, doesn’t matter,.steer your ship toward the horizon of the Holy line and the Sacred verse, the ones that tear the listener down and builds them up in minutes, leaving them changed and edified in the way God intended, that my friend is A SONG!