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  • I often pore for hours over a bridge for one of my silly little homespun songs. It’s something I’ve never been able to construct as easily as they’re meant to fit into the process. I can get a nice tune, no problem; I can build a first verse with all of my heart and a second in my sleep. I can wrap it all up with a chorus that maybe I’ve been holding onto, maybe I built last night because it needed to be fresh.

    But when it gets down to some digression, some abnormality to balance the rest and contrast the A’s and B’s with a clever C, I’m often lost. There are weeks when I lean so heavily on a folk tradition of fucking the bridge and just sticking to the verse-chorus, verse-chorus style of chopping that Woody gave us and that all of my dear friends have always calmly settled for, but I lean on it too often out of laziness and I’ve never really put it so honestly before.

    Boy I sure hope you’ll keep listening!

    Sometime last week, I came off a flight and into a fight, and out of the fight and onto a bus, off of that bus and way down into the canyon, onto that raft and down that long and lazy river in love. And that torrential water brought so quickly to me a bridge like none I’d ever constructed. It came along like the verses do, based on a heartbeat and a melody, but escaping and drifting off and bringing back unused tones that questioned the integrity of the first lines, then sensible but now just lazy too.

    That bridge really stuck, and I rebuilt the whole tune around it, because I knew it was made of a rare substance and I want to see it in twenty years, still making the connections, still alive, not some monument but some utility, some way to feel like I’ve put something up that’s worth a damn.

    So I guess what I’m saying, baby, is thanks for the fight. Thanks for the bridge.
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