When I write a
song, she says, “Is it about me?” When I say no, she says, “Why
not?”
She's busy. She
likes to work long hours, and she likes to go out afterwards. She
likes to travel on the weekends, or do more work. She works in
Kosovo, and that's why I'm here. She works at her office, and I work
at home. When I record a song, she says, “Can I sing?”
I said, “OK.
Here's some music for you to practice.”
I sent her a few
tracks to listen to, but I don't think she really got around to
practicing much. She's busy. But she did well even without
practicing, because she's that way. She recorded all her parts in one
weekend, between going out and working. I thought it might be hard to
work together, but it wasn't so hard. I thought it would be hard
because she knows my tricks. Occasionally she said things like, “Are
you just saying that to be encouraging, when in fact I'm not doing so
well?” And it's true. Being encouraging when things aren't going
well is a good way to be in the studio. It's a good trick to use.
But I didn't need to trick her. Things went well.
“We need a record
cover,” I told her. “We'll pose you like Cyndi Lauper on the
cover, except we'll do it on the beach, or in the woods.” But we
never got around to it. She's busy, working long hours and
traveling. Instead I pulled some lamps into the bedroom and posed her
on the bed in front of the only blank wall I could find in our whole
apartment. It was late at night, and I imagined our silhouettes
spilling out into the parking lot.
I didn't write
these songs, but whenever I do write a song, she asks me, “Is it
about me?” Sometimes I say, no. But usually the real answer is—to
some degree at least—yes. Yes they usually are. Why not? She's
why I'm here.
