Recently, I read two Cormac McCarthy novels back-to-back, in rapid succession. The first one, as I mentioned, was No Country for Old Men. The second one, which I didn't mention, was The Road. Both are stunning, moving. They're books that get stuck in your head and refuse to leave.
Now, a funny thing happened to me while I was reading these books: before I even got out of the first chapter of No Country… I found myself with a soundtrack running through my head—sparse, solo guitar in minor keys, slightly overdriven, reverb-drenched, plenty of tremolo. Think of the work Neil Young did on Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man if you're looking for an aural reference.
Anyway, this internal soundtrack stuck with me all the way through the end of The Road, fitting in perfectly and I knew I had to sit down and do something with it. So, I dusted off my trusty effects pedal, plugged in guitar and headphones, and started messing around with stuff. Eventually, I came up with something that made me pretty happy. In honor of one of the main characters in No Country for Old Men I called it "Mr Moss." Then I let it set for a bit.
Today, while I was driving around on my quest for Sunday breakfast and a newspaper, I realized that I wanted to put words to it. Not singing (I don't really sing well, even though I sing frequently), but some sort of narrative which would fit the tone of both works and the cinematic scope of the music. What follows is what came out. It's derivative and full of eye dialect and I make no explanations or excuses for it:
MR MOSS
A man grows tired in this country won't never grow old. Not while the wind blows, and the wind don't rest no more, neither.
I member goin' up I'd take myself to pond in the fall and sit 'pon the bank f'hours, watchin' the fireleaves shine the stillwater. Never did a breeze ripple neither: just the tadpoles, dragonflies flickin' down 'n' the pebbles I'd throw when the prettiness'd come too much f'me—when I needed to move in this world; to change things.
But stillness ain't nothin' f'a man nomore, not now. Not while the almighty gray dust sticks a water shut; thin mudcrust closin' up the shimmer and the ripple and the reflectin' such ways a man can't see.
You wouldn' wanna break that surface no ways, anyhow. Ain't nothin' worth it underneath.
Time was stillness was good f'man. All the restless'd drain from's feet to the ground he stood 'pon 'n' he'd commence to buildin', makin' a home a that patch, turnin' it his. And, sooner later, some'd come cleave to that place with'm: a woman, town, a feelin'. Even though he'd sometimes be lonesome, and he'd sometimes be lone, he never went without.
No. Stillness ain't nothin' f'a man nomore, leastways not a good man. A good man holds now they come—chop'm down, burn'm's fuel f'their cookfires—roast his children over'm, whilst he screams underneath.
Nowdays a good man, he keeps movin'. He keeps movin', he keeps livin'. But th'ain't no rest in livin' nomore, 'n' precious little sleep.
I liken m’self a good man…
But times I do wish to set m'back 'gainst somethin' 'n' not face the sun, close my eyes to the graytooth killers ever'where, 'cept in my dreams.
In other news, should there ever be a film version of The Road, I would like to lobby for Jim Jarmusch's directing it. It'd be too easy to turn that story into the wrong kind of movie. I think Jarmusch would stay very true to the author's original vision.
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