The Making of (a) Menace

There were colors bursting at the seams. I was bleeding blue and green in the springtime. I felt my vision shifting into a world that I needed to write, scream—sing—into existence. I had had the briefest excursions into this world in the previous year and had the gravest trepidations about returning. It had all passed by ever so swiftly. As brutal as skinning knees on the sun—I got a taste for what’s to come.

I would wake with the forethought of this shapeless project, my hands reaching for a physical act to disentangle these visions in my head. Like a red sock in a white load of laundry—my world was colored by the grave splitting of my conscious mind and my creative eye. Where fissures were erected, friendships were perceived. I stood at the cavern of this possibility—not knowing the truth I’d seek.

As I grappled with what would enable me to write this project, I purged the last of my familiar conflicts in a writing spree in the beginning of May. Gutting my emotions of heartbreak through somber ballads and scathing wit across seven songs (such as better than your husband and Not My Body)—I wound up writing a song seemingly perfect for the typical pop song structure… and which seemingly minimized my own feelings in the process.

I was hungry and ready to sink my teeth into anything at the time. I knew this project, once the ball started rolling, would roll right on through. I just needed a place to start. A place for others to see me and meet me. And this pop ditty—as structured as it was inoffensive—was the perfect place to start.

Written on May 19th, 2023 in response to a night out with friends—it said what I could never say in the day-to-day. With the idea flailing in my head and propelling me forward, I found myself the next morning with a guitar in hand, sat beside a friend and their bass. The faintest trace of collaboration whispered onto the page. It froze the idea I had of this song—the truth along with it—and encouraged me to go forward with full force. So we did.

The summer saw my collaborators and I tirelessly chipping away at the block that was this song. As other projects, events, and tensions began to litter these moments, it became clear that progress had stalled. Though we tried a final push—the recording as it was developing wasn’t working… it wasn’t even close to sounding right. 

I was living in a delusional state of longing. A utopia of lasting connections and The Sound of Music fields where I could twirl about. I was so sure this was enlightenment. I was fierce and steadfast to invite those closest to me into this world. To help decorate, cultivate, and cherish this perfect environment where I found creative refuge. Only my perception was shifting. And the friendships I had ran to were fissures I then fell through.

There was always a worry in the back of my head as all of this was happening. A worry that others might not quite see what this song is about. For it’s not the act of looking at an object and deciphering what it is. But to look at it and to see more of yourself. Art, relationships, the beautiful, the mundane—the sadness, the sound of rain—are all mirrors that we should hold to ourself for the betterment of our self. It’s about seeing the differences and the contradictions and through-line that connects us all. It’s about having the humility of being both a god and a beggar.

As I awoke with the weight of this truth, as sure as my own skin and bone; I made the decision to shoulder the weight of the project all alone. It was early October—the summer had torn right through me. I would take on full recording and mixing responsibilities and would aim to flesh out the idea we were working so diligently on: a tight, punky tune that still needed much work. 

Having been so devoted to my collaborators during those months, I was certain that the direction we were headed was the best possible course. I was excited to clean up the recordings and define how the song was going to be heard. But I was also beginning to feel insecure about the song itself. Upon my first step outside this hellishly insular world, I was hit with reality once again. I had invited another trusted ear to grace the process and assist in release, but was underwhelmed by their reaction to the demo I shared. The response sent me. I spiraled and became overwhelmed about why I was spiraling. I had shared plenty of art to a lukewarm audience before. But never had I then questioned the art in return. I knew then that something needed to change. My process for writing and creating was put into question—and I was better for it. I decided to return to the drawing board where “Menace” was first conceived… and start from the ground up.

In nearly every poem I’ve written, and each experimentation with music, I’ve allowed my work to fall victim to the whim of which it was written/recorded. While this is a beautifully cathartic act, and a method which most certainly captures the flurry of a feeling, frozen in time—I have found that emotional purity may be compromised if the work is not allowed to speak for itself. Specifically: the process of writing a poem, morphing those words into melody, then building a sonic world around it is far inhibited if one proceeds with their own desires, brute forcing a square peg in a round hole. This entity—this creation—is a life force itself. Why not listen to it? Let it tell us what it needs.

My previous writings all reflected this matter-of-fact, in-the-moment style. Capturing the wide wrath of a writer scorned without room for reason. In a similar fashion, “Menace” was written as this hungover reflection on the way mental illness inhibits my relationships; and prevents me from understanding if my deepest fears are in my head or the truthful projections from other people. Having written for three quarters of my life, I became blasé regarding these inner dialogues and the way they’re delivered. In the anticipation, however, of a thoughtful introduction to my sonic pursuits, I realized this indifference to be jeopardizing the statement itself. Putting “Menace” into question of what it meant to be one—and for someone to know it.

As time wandered into oblivion—as sweetly as Ophelia drowning—my senses began to heighten as I hearkened to what the song was seething at me.

I found myself slinking into a comfortable rhythm with the first and second verse. Empowered as I was soft. Deadly as a fluffy bunny. The chorus began to feel like crumbs in my mouth… as the bridge similarly crumbled into the river below. The exposition, a distant cry as I fell. I was losing sight of my self. As my body became bruised—the green hues turning red hot—I found myself in the mouth of a cavern that echoed back the necessity: to remove the knife from my chest.

We always talk about how change is hard. How even leaving toxic relationships can be so disgruntling because we’d rather the familiar than face the unknown. Similar was this act of dislodging the knife. Knowing its placement might be what was saving me… I had to bring myself to rather risk dying than staying the same.

As the knife became unsheathed, so “Menace” renounced the title of a self pitying mantra. It was turning—albeit slowly—into an assured statement. It became an active participant in emotional intelligence. Holding the last, gasping breaths for air in a relationship as the clarity always needed but never accepted.

One night, late October, I had already shifted the production from a band-centric, three minute bop to a six minute ambient piece; and I was tinkering with the closing passage of the song. It was originally a loose singalong that included various “oh”s and the uplifting line “holding out for the possibility of hope.” But as I shifted this sonic landscape, I found there to be no hope left to hold out for.

I found liberation in the same despair in which I had written “Menace” within. The restriction of depression which prevented me from forming better relationships started to unravel. The original chorus “I was a menace and you knew it / Twisted my words so you could screw it up / It’s 3AM, no one can call my bluff / As I reach for the window and start to jump” was a half-assed suicide attempt where I longed to be seen for the weight of my troubles and my inability to sit idly by them. It turned relational frustrations inward, fingers pointing the blame back at me. Not once did I have the self respect to be seen for these dichotomies. Not once was I slighted where I didn’t also take the blame. And as time waned the relationship that influenced this piece—where it was once so vibrant—I had to reckon with it being a hopeless enterprise. I had to reckon that I’ll be seen in whatever way one wishes to see me as.

As I dug deeper into the ground and sound around me, there was a newfound harmony between my soul screeching for mercy and the seeds imbedded in soil. Held captive by this dirt clinging to my extremities; echoes of the original lyrics haunted the sky around me. My identity and perspective in this scene shifted from a peer of towering trees to an inferior weed littering the forest floor.

In layman’s terms, I had finally understood the lyrics to be a placeholder for the truth I had yet to face. The original bridge twice repeated the line: the rest is unwritten for you and me.  At the time of its writing, and the initial recordings, I felt a comfort in the idea of keeping a door open for uncertainties—hoping for the best, knowing that the future is still up in the air. But as I approached the piece again, I found myself literally screaming the bridge, wanting to release the words that were banging at the door, locked by ambiguity in the song’s original form.

Without wanting to pigeonhole this piece—or the relationship which inspired it—I took to the outro to dispel my irritations, with a keen will to no longer mince words. The hope I was holding out for was truth I didn’t want to accept. By removing this internalized blame, I allowed myself the ability to leave relationships that no longer serve me; and accept that that isn’t a threatening act. It’s an act of self preservation.

With new lines like “was it resentment or jealousy / that jeopardized your identity?” and “I would never talk shit without reason for it / but I’ve got a long list and it keeps growing” decorating the final moments of an at-once reserved song; I felt a further dissonance in how the story progressed in its six minutes.

The bridge still ricocheted in my freshly-hollowed chest. How does one go from “feeling kinda jaded” to “in your eyes, it’s always true” when the crux of the song is a pleading point of “the rest is unwritten for you and me”?

The answer, I found, was the deepest point of self-reflection in the story. How did I actually view myself? What were the efforts I was making to be a better person? How do the worst parts of me benefit yet berate my image?

Essentially, “Menace” boils down to one line in the bridge: “I fear the written word will leave me in vain of all the memories that you erase.”

This fear has driven hundreds of writings which preceded this song. But for the first time, I acknowledge it. I plainly state that the detailing of these trials and tribulations place me in a point of vanity amongst memory’s sake, particularly when those involved choose to disregard the gravitas of such occurrences.

I speak not of these exasperations in an effort to air dirty laundry past due time. Rather, I write of this to stroke the flame and entice the desire of these creative acts. Writing, editing, speaking and sharing poetry for the past five years has been a wholly isolated experience. Even as words from my mouth graced a peer’s ear—never was I fixed in the subliminal state of one’s being. I was an image on someone’s feed. A text to respond to. All transactional affairs that left no room for the sound of a passing car or creaking air filter to permeate these defenses. Now, laid barren to these devices, I forfeit the notion of transient connection. And instead strengthen the wrath and broaden the horizons of thought held suspended via sound.

I laugh at my own insanity as these words fill yet another page. This process—of writing, of melody—is one a near lifetime familiar to me. But it is only of late which I recognize the separation between thought and art. Between the personal and the creative. The identity—while so deeply intertwined—clearly differs. Not only is the creative perceived in a more public light—but its intimacy is even exploitative. The same revelation on a personal level may hold only a fraction of influence as that of the creative’s. One brings life to those it intercepts. The other is the life that others can partake in.

For the longest time, I felt the ache in me like a demon cratered in my chest. I felt the need to live for the entertainment value of other people’s enjoyment. Not for my own stability or joy. As creative boundaries were pushed (the idea of being a menace through substances and sex, for example), the lines bled further until I could no longer differentiate the art from the artist. Furthermore, my identity as a supposed artist in its entirety was in jeopardy. It was a fork in a river which wouldn’t stop rolling. I was being ushered down one path or another. Either I owned and embodied this artistic identity. Or I drew away and allowed my writings to become nothing more than publicized diaries and letters of a disgruntled recluse.

Stepping into my own power was a much more profoundly selfless act than I could’ve ever imagined. It wasn’t about wielding the sword that would take down an empire. It was about kneeling before the process. Becoming a conduit for the energies—the creative powers that be—that flow through a creative and can madden the individual. The process—the practice—of art is a shared experience. We, as creatives, are all visiting the same spiritual well to find life and inspiration. Though we approach and retreat and market it all differently—at its core is a shared divinity that transcends self and the momentary, scathing lacerations of a person scorned.

As I breathe deeply for the first time, I feel the entrails of “Menace” sputtering its last seconds in the twilight of this chapter in my life. There are still countless variations and ideas and could-have-been’s that plague this song’s existence. But no longer am I navigating this serpentine labyrinth.

The blues and greens I originally bled turned red over the summer, christened into fall. “Menace” marks the beginning of this excursion—from whence I first noticed this cut and decided to peel an entire layer of skin away. In its wake, I wrote a project that was splicing my senses and rewiring my brain. I voided my own life to give seven songs a life of their own. Addled by the bounty of ideas—fresh, articulate, urgent, exciting—before me, I entered into a tailspin of what was once a routine flight [recording “Menace”].

In the midst of this downfall was a momentary glimpse of a summer fling that was just out of reach. Before I knew it, the writing sessions of this distant project were bookended by two drastically different songs in sound and subject. And I knew at once they belonged together.

While keeping the initial intent intact, I wish for “Menace” to bridge the gap between my Bandcamp voice memos and future recordings which aim to embrace a bit more polish. As the project gets underway at the start of 2024, I felt it important to deliver a short, decisive statement of what this year meant to me—with two tracks that bookended the writing process.

In the larger picture, 2023 has been about pushing my own boundaries while protecting my self. Entering new territories in relationships and putting myself out there in the most personally and creatively vulnerable senses. Holding myself in my own gaze and seeing the truth for what it is. Setting deadlines and goals—and actually following through with them.

I knew from the start of the year I wanted to share a single before the months repeated themself. I was nowhere near to that happening when I first felt that desire… but as my steadfast, sentient encyclopedia and endlessly talented confidant of a friend says: the doors keep opening, keep walking through them. So I did. And I found time to wait for the right doors to open. To knock on the ones I care about. To deadbolt the shit out of those I never want to return to. And to blow up those that I just needed to get through.

Quite simply: that was what this process has taught me. To listen to the words I wrote speaking back to me. To hear them sweetly, serenely—as if we were conversing. Without the fury of a moment untouched. Without the delusion of longing; but the active state of being. Breathing art as it breathes me.

It’s funny how time brings clarity, eh?

The final push for recording “Menace” was met with a tsunami wave of emotion. Quite insurmountable—in awe and terror—I found myself shrunken in the corner, alone, disheveled and shaking. In a valiant act of commitment, the single was finished within my self-imposed deadline. And while there is a pride salvaged in the mere act of completion… I shudder at the thought of the poor performance, subpar recording/mixing, and atonal vocal. I wish I could stand by it or pass it off as a creative statement… but I can’t. There is as much disappointment as there is pride and relief. And I look forward to moving forward.

As the hours waned and the day of this single drew to a close, I found myself in a lonelier state than ever. My collaborators and confidantes—whether in creativity or friendship—were gone. The world I had built so purposefully over the past year had disintegrated once again. As sadness rang through this empty town, I found myself crouched over a fire. Keeping warm and keeping self. A reverberating stillness broke me then. I opened my mouth to not a sound. Reaching for the flame in a world no longer the same. The past was behind me and, in that death, my reputation ceased to matter.

I walked through this flame like a door into a new home, a new life. No longer the same.

Another several days passed as I scurried for comfort with the impending release drawing ever nearer. The single that was supposed to bridge the gap between writing tapes and professional recordings continually fell short. Panic began to creep into the night like the shortening of days. What was I to do but to admit the truth?

In a last ditch effort, the entire single changed.

I had written “Menace” in May, never meaning to bat another eye to the idea. My focus at that time, over the summer, and particularly now, was the project written in that space. “Menace” was so much a product of external validation and “staying-together-for-the-kids” that I never took a moment to take a breath. Take a step back. And listen to my own thoughts about it.

The final product is an 18-minute EP titled The Menace Memos. Three voice memos—two recorded with improvised outros and one originally intended to be a Bandcamp exclusive—detail the process of self-reflection and preservation in a season of uncertainty. An uncertainty which swirled in locked lips, friendships, drunkenness, and prolonged glances.

I am elated to release these songs. And for these songs to release me.