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Mar 11 2022

TO WHERE I AM NOW

In the dark light, the litmus paper glows, crumpled and jumping in the wind. The rain smears the message and the evidence of the experiment. The forest hides the truth, the proof and aloof the trees bow to their own branches excoriating the leaves waving and catapulting caterpillars through the air for the birds to catch in their beaks. The butterflies are never born in this place, their transparent wings of dust don’t flap or fly, no pollen to attract them, no bees to sting the pin-prick eyes and no water to drown their beauty. They are saved by not existing. The bark blackened by the soot from the underground chimneys that spill glue on the open flick knives and salads upset the bags of nails and spread the lies on the airwaves as the Earth commits suicide through ambition.

In a quiet moment, the spell is rehearsed and then executed like the innocent, guinea pigs, unleashed like rats into the sewers that lead to both the elite and poor who in war finally become one. Suddenly the truth sprawled out like its being skinned begins to tell its story to the ears that eventually notice the smell. Black smoke, lips red with blood instead of lipstick, kindness shattered into pieces on the straw. The lake rises beyond the hills until the water leaves behind a muddy crater of lost souls, prams, skeletons of horses, machine guns and people with their hands tied behind their backs.

The snow flutters down in unique crystals but instead of joy, it’s just freezing small hands, like spikes tearing holes in grandma’s knitted woollen mittens, a present at last year’s safe Christmas. Dog-eared books are burning in the drenched libraries, books that one day will be replaced with the cause of the destruction, accounting for how but never accounting for why. The pets equally frightened roam the streets, equally looking for food and warmth. The death of civilisation, sanity fleeing, flying like stray bullets in all directions, where all directions lead to hell.

The thunder isn’t the sound of the sky, it’s the sound of the machines. Choking, coughing, interrupting, confusion in the coil of a snake. The words disappear into bravery, followed by propaganda until you’re so disorientated that you no longer distinguish which side of the horizon is the sea and which side of the horizon is the sky. Armchair experts give running commentary without being there, insisting they know every twist and turn, suspicious and unable to really know. The face tells its own story, unable to release the facts to the world for fear of accusation, and left with playing as dirty as the other side or playing fairly, losing either way.

Back in the brain of the shrunken despot overrun with fear that he won’t be noticed, a king with no history, is no king, anything, anything will do, behead the wives. But back in the imaginary world of gorgeous fantasies where the sunset is pink sweets and the fields a lush green shake, where the luna moths have you riding on their backs and the daffodils dance in the moonlight. Silkworms spin your clothes and the roar of the river is the loudest sound. A place where lovers have the time to gaze into each other’s eyes, looking for unknown mysteries, in a mutual jewelled bridge of shared feelings. Sunday walks, art galleries, coffee shops, breakfasts by the weir, children drawing yellow suns and tulips.

Craven wizards, their powers complete but their minds mush, occupying the seats of destruction in the name of theory, hearsay, paranoia and the threat of freedom. What evil oversees the death of children for a theory. Who clings to the past by destroying the future. Subjugation cannot prosper after freedom’s nectar has been sipped. To melt back into the forest of impossible ideas, the clamour of the ants against the diaries, chewing through the words, the bleak spotlights, the coloured grit, the burning ice, the torrent of stillness, the broken perfection of the ordinary, shattered at the end of a table that stretches from reason to vainglory.

Music today has been my seventies song playlist but John Lennon’s God from John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (1970) stood out.

Music Of The Daze

Written by Marty Willson-Piper · Categorized: Blog

Missing

This is my stolen 1965 Rickenbacker 12-string, serial number EB157. If there's any chance of this guitar coming back to me before I go to meet my maker, then that would be wonderful. Please contact me if you have any information.

11209512_1669022976719710_7288437867089763325_n

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Redeyed lad of the lowlands 🎵 📷 @oliviaelek Redeyed lad of the lowlands 🎵

📷 @oliviaelektra 

#danelectro #danelectrobass #redeyerecords #pleasantrylane #pleasantrylanestudio
You usually don’t spend the day in the studio an You usually don’t spend the day in the studio and the night at a gig but if you put the studio next to the gig then there’s a greater chance. So @salimnourallah did just that, he put the gig and the studio next to each other and made it possible for me to spend the day recording and the evening playing live 🎵

📷 @drewliophoto 

#galacticheadquarters #happinessarecordlabel #pleasantrylanestudio #salimnourallah #oliviawillsonpiper
TO WHERE I AM NOW A visit in the studio today fro TO WHERE I AM NOW

A visit in the studio today from old mate Mark Burgess from The Chameleons who has been hanging in Texas recently. I was thinking about the two of us growing up in the northwest of England and all these years later finding ourselves in such an unlikely spot together. We fixed a few issues in the universe and I carried on recording some guitars until Mark had to leave. Mark had played at the Galactic Headquarters next to the studio this year as Olivia and I had four years ago and this reminded me to remind myself to remind everyone to remind their friends that we will be playing there with Salim on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, for the ultimate in intimate performance. You can get tickets here (follow link below).

CONTINUE READING: https://martywillson-piper.com/2022/12/to-where-i-am-now-1045

KEEP IN TOUCH: https://linktr.ee/mwillsonpiper

📷 @salimnourallah 

#markburgess #thechameleons #chameleonsvox #pleasantrylanestudio #happinessarecordlabel #martywillsonpiper #oliviawillsonpiper #moatband
📷 @argirgirl 📷 @argirgirl
TO WHERE I AM NOW Sadness manifested in a buildin TO WHERE I AM NOW

Sadness manifested in a building, today we went to visit Paisley Park. Prince built Paisley Park in Chanhassen, about twenty minutes southwest of Minneapolis. It opened in 1987 and he recorded his later albums there. Apart from Prince, REM also recorded and mixed Out Of Time there, recording Kate Pearson’s vocal on Shiny Happy People vocal. Madonna had Prince play guitar on three songs from Like A Prayer and the two co-wrote Love Song, finishing it remotely due to Madonna not being able to stand the cold weather and the rather desolate location of the studio. Of course, there are things around but it’s not in the city and it’s not in the countryside, it’s in a suburb, no distractions, just what Prince wanted.

CONTINUE READING: https://martywillson-piper.com/2022/12/to-where-i-am-now-1032

KEEP IN TOUCH: https://linktr.ee/mwillsonpiper

📷 @argirgirl 

#paisleypark #prince
Marty & Pablo! 📷 Rod MacQuarrie Marty & Pablo!

📷 Rod MacQuarrie
At last, a proper door stop. 📷 @judgeschamber At last, a proper door stop.

📷 @judgeschamber 

#grammysitting 👵
🌵 Texas Acoustic Dates 🌵 31 December - DALL 🌵 Texas Acoustic Dates 🌵

31 December - DALLAS
7 January - CELINA
12 January - HOUSTON
14 January - AUSTIN
15 January - SAN ANTONIO

With @salimnourallah and @joereyesmusic

More info here: https://mailchi.mp/e47ede06acd6/texas-acoustic-dates
Doors & Delays 🎸 @workshop21_guitarclinic #the Doors & Delays 🎸

@workshop21_guitarclinic #thedoors #fenderstratocaster #fenderhotroddeville #nashtelecaster #rickenbacker
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Songwriting & Guitar Guidance with Marty Willson-Piper
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"These are awesome sessions that I highly recommend for guitar players of all levels. Very informative, frank discussions on everything related to guitar and music in general. Definitely a must for anyone pursuing songwriting."
(Stephen G., VA, USA)

"Marty knows how to bypass scales and get to the heart of feel and timing. His musical knowledge spans multiple cultures and genres. Perhaps most importantly, Marty is a cool dude. I highly recommend his guitar guidance." (Jed B., MN, USA)

"Ok, so you’re sitting in your home and Marty is across the world but is actually right here teaching you how to play guitar and write songs. He is a delight to talk to and he is your teacher, meaning he wants to see you get something out of his lessons. You know he’s paying attention and wants to steer you in the right direction. I am so grateful and humbled that he offers his time in this manner. This is an amazing opportunity for anyone who admires anything from his enormous body of work. How often do you get to learn from somebody that inspired you in the first place? Amazing." (Ann S., CA, USA)

Missing

This is my stolen 1965 Rickenbacker 12-string, serial number EB157. If there’s any chance of this guitar coming back to me before I go to meet my maker, then that would be wonderful. Please contact me if you have any information.

11209512_1669022976719710_7288437867089763325_n

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