Dear Record Executive,
I am aware of the immense number of demo EPs you must receive. Knowing that you are a busy person who does not have time to listen to even a fraction of them, I submit this proposal in order to not waste anyone’s time. Please note I have not yet produced these in any musical form. I leave the decision as to whether these tracks should be produced to your discretion.
Strong Opening Track/Mission Statement
An ambient crowd noise gradually yields to a soaring wall of orchestral sound, as if the pit were tuning up before a grand musical show—the final and most anticipated performance of the season. The orchestra becomes increasingly cacophonous and disarrayed until the listener cannot take it anymore. Just before she can throw off her headphones in disgust, the orchestra drops out, leaving only the quiet strumming of a lone acoustic guitar. The listener feels relieved, refreshed, welcomed into the track. My voice would then come in, singing lyrics that wax philosophical about unrequited love and the dreariness of suburban living. It’s a song about elevating the mundane to the sacred, with allusions to Jacobean tragedy and biomedicine (my dad’s a physician and can consult the songwriting process). The listener cannot remember the last time she heard such a simultaneously heart-felt and life-affirming testament to one’s singular identity.
- An orchestra
- An acoustic guitar (still holding out for one of my own)
- A studio musician who can strum an acoustic guitar
- A band (Instrumentation TBD)
(My dad knows the guy who used to French horn for the Pops (yes, the Boston Pops) so they’ll pretty much do it gratis.)
Solid Slightly-More-Experimental B-Side
A lone French horn sustains a low Bb, sounding remarkably like a duck on a pond, separated from the flock. A gunshot rings through the right earphone, and a frantic and complex drum beat (á la Bonham, Peart, Moon, or Starr) begins. A blaringly dissonant yet technically precise guitar joins in (á la Hendrix, Page, or Clapton), along with an unrivaled bass line—among the three best bass lines in rock history, if not the best itself. The listener feels panic, hysteria, indecision as to whether or not to throw off her headphones now out of sensory overload. But the instruments drop out, and in their wake is only my voice—soothing, comforting, reassuring—and the listener can’t help but orgasm in tantric-like ecstasy. The song continues to elevate her to a higher plain. By the strum of the final powerchord, she has achieved total enlightenment. It’s a song about ducks.
- A French horn (this isn’t a problem)
- Studio musicians of god-like talent
- A means of awakening the soul to Ultimate Truth in song
(Cost of studio musicians. The rest can be done on GarageBand. My dad won’t really get me anything more expensive, anyway.)
Bonus Track Die-hard Fans
Will Swear Should Be A Single
Fifteen minutes of my parents fighting remixed by guest DJs the Chemical Brothers and re-remixed by Deadmau5. With Dylan-esque lyrics such as, Why won’t you let him learn an instrument?/I’m not going to let him end up like Teddy/Boston Pops Teddy?/He’s a fucking failure—my son will not end up a fucking failure/He won’t end up a failure, Arnold!/He will if he spends his time on making music instead of studying to become something useful in life, the song will captivate the listener into dating me maybe.
- A laptop mic (have!)
- My dad, drunk after a 32-hour shift at the hospital
- The Chemical Brothers and Deadmau5 (I’m head of the Greenwich chapters of both their fan clubs, so they’ll pretty much do it gratis if we ask)
(Cost of a bed sheet to rappel from my room with and cab fare to Montreal.)
If you feel the world unready or my approach too rash and idealistic, do you have any internship positions open? I can work my way up to music legend from there.