The Artist writes his best song for seven years, suffers mental breakdowns, heartbreaks, crazy life situations, misunderstandings, self-doubt, rehabs, and other things that people might encounter in 7 long years. The song is finally ready. He records it. It takes a week. He releases it. Nobody buys it.
In the meantime, The Kid makes a beat on his iPhone; it takes him 3 minutes. He drops it. Someone buys it for $50, to rap about „bitches” over the mindless loop. The Kid buys more chewing gum.
Driving (in the) snow from Kempten. I was supposed to put saucers and blondes together, but the reversable rider of Skye said „NO!”, and off he went on a rollercoaster ride of thrift shop guitars, carrying the torch for Lady Biba. The 4 A.M. Lamp kept burning, and sociopaths were rescued from their shady caves, turned into rainbows and oh! Butterflies „above the nation”. That was the dream of the Woodstock generation, now wasn’t it?
Glamour? Stardom? Fame? Money? Is this it? That what you’re in for? Then you’re missing out on the real thing. On the hardship to inspire you. On the failure that’ll make you stronger. On the losses that’ll teach you there is more to it than things. On all of what’ll make you put your soul into your songs. Believe me, they will understand. They will know by the way you sing them. And they’ll laugh and cry and weep and smile. Once you’ve seen this, you’re on the right track.