Sometimes people point out that the video for the song Spring is "kindof a really blurry video". Sometimes they point out that my mandolin is "kindof pretty out of tune".
I look at them, every time I am sure, with a slight furl to my brow that I hope shows my interest in what they are saying, and hides a great involuntary internal shrug.
It's blurry and it’s out of tune.
My mom helped me record the video from the second floor of a house frame, mid build. I sat with the wisp of a Yukon summer wind behind and stared into a plywood shell. I sang to the the echo of a home not yet lived in and voiced my young fears with great gusto that deflated as I went: my mom gently adjusting the focus to the natural blur of her eyes without glasses.
That evening, we looked back at our blurry days work and laughed until tiny blurry tears leaked out of the corners of our eyes.
Five years later in a different Yukon life; near-end Yukon winter, I was asked “what will happen to the songs that don’t make it on the album”?
“They die!” I declared with what I felt was self liberating authority.
But that earnest human planted the tiniest seed of doubt, so I said, “If I do, it will have to be completely different.”
The next morning, I walked my long commute from the riverbed town, up the clay cliffs, through melting snow drifts along the chain link fence that wraps the airport runway in a protective cage. I sat down in the studio and placed the song on the table and said. “I am not saying we should… but...”
“Well..." He said, "it would have to be entirely different.”
We went to work
the focus of the song
of my aging (but not old) ears.