My letter to Gwyn

Hi Gwyn,
I’m one of those proud and self-righteous reddit-fans you acquired a while ago. I’m fairly certain, this will become a long one.
Wrote a message yesterday, then Facebook or me did something stupid and it was gone. Now I know better what I want to talk about and that doesn’t shorten anything.
I will ask something of you and the least I can do is enabling you to get to know me.
If you are not interested in me, explaining myself: The last paragraph will be mostly me praising you. But the effect of it will be more enjoyable, if you know who I am and what my words mean to me.But in the end it doesn’t really matter, feel free to skip if time or strained nerve can’t afford the effort.  I have a problem with the use fancy words and shutting the fuck up. Oh and I curse a lot. I mention this because I made experiences where Americans felt majorly insulted by a simple swearword. You are a funny but strange and misled nation. I refuse to accept political correctness. I am sorry for an eventual misplaced insult. It’s not because of you. I simply am an angry man and this is a short version of my personal history:

My name is Jona, I’m in my mid-twenties and from Germany. I never visited an English-speaking country or talked this language for a period of time that could be described as substantial or sufficient, so please excuse my mistakes or lack of knowledge.

I am a depressive, not the developed, the intrinsic kind. Since I was thrown into thinking existence, my mind was my enemy. I suffer from various mental illnesses. That might bore you to death, so I’ll skip
detailing the matter. But you are allowed to ask, I won’t hide anything anymore to anyone, you need to trust me on that.
Only this last sip of madness: All my life I have certain humming in my head, that distracted or prohibited me from concentrating properly. School was a horror. I’m fairly intelligent, so I got through, but one could imagine the unwillingness of teachers to accept different ways of thinking. And I mean this not in a political or ideological manner, but in a psychological and neurological one.
Someday someone introduced me to whiskey and from that point I drank as much as I could get my hands on. So I don’t really know,
since I was six- or seventeen.
For over three years now a deep life crisis keeps me in suspense. I quit university. My affectionate but deficient relationship fell apart. She couldn’t stand, carrying me further nor watch me suffer
through our days and nights. I Had to give up my first own created home, because I couldn’t leave bed or confront human beings, I am or was not highly accustomed to. Through all this I drank and took every drug I knew. As much as possible. I love them and they adore me celebrating them. I seem to work better in society, when intoxicated with, well anything. My long-term studies indicate that as fact. I cut most ties to friends and family. Only the really persistent little creatures remain. The best, one like me could dream himself into reality.

Let’s skip to this year. I quit drinking and doing most drugs. Still have a thing for weed though.
I started therapy, taking happy and sleepy pills, got a new job and am now I am trying to become a decent, honest human being, that is able to live with itself and assert a functioning role in society. To be true, with very little success, minor advances and major setbacks.
I still am delusional about my state of mind. I gained knowledge about every aspect of my illnesses, but it somehow it doesn’t sink in. A raging part of mine fights against it. With all it’s force and it’s
a huge, mighty fucking asshole. It’s a dangerous combination of consistent and nurtured hate on humanity and, because English lacks any comparable word, Weltschmerz, it’s a German word and not existent in any other language I have heard of. It is a kind of pain or grief. Someone having Weltschmerz thinks, he sees the
world and mankind as it is. In all it’s complexity, glory and cruelty. Therefore realizes ones own incapability to alter the big picture, it’s course for the better.
But despite that hindrance I started recording myself, simply to hear my own voice in it’s variety and beauty. I am indeed a narcissistic and arrogant asshole. A nuisance to my socioenviroment. So if you decide to reply. Don’t censor yourself, I am able to take criticism. Honestly? It will not affect me for at least one or two weeks, if at all only peripheric.
I stopped doing so, because I came to know what I had to do. In retrospect this is clear. At the time it was pure chaos.
I desperately tried to get my hands on a piano, we had to sell ours, when I was twelve. But my faltering ego didn’t manage to bend others to my will consistent enough to force them to stick to their decisions favourable to me.
Perhaps I don’t really want to manipulate anymore, if I am not, who could be sure about that?
I learned playing piano for two years, at the age of ten. This year I had the possibility to play one two or three times. With seventeen I got myself a guitar and a most formidable, great and compassionate teacher for three years.
I sang my whole life, for myself simulating a guitar with a tennis racquet, in the shower, in bands, choirs or around bonfires and was praised for it to the heavens. You can not imagine what it did to that little, insecure, dumb boy. Hearing over and over again, that he sings like an angle, exceeding them in beauty and innocence. And additionally is the most intelligent child one has yet met. Stupid self-indulging, pretentious adults, who do they think they are to judge that? I am, in my mirrors, a genius and would not dare to give someone such attributes . I wish I would have invented this story but grown up people, like we all have to be or become, are like kids, stupid and unfinished, but without their adorable innocence and veniality. So I will hold them accountable for their words and actions.
Nevertheless various people told me exactly the same thing. Repetition makes you believe anything, so I believed them and still do to a substantial degree this up to this second. Stupid me.
I lie and lied very professionally. I don’t want to and am trying to get that in check. But others are not helpful. They lie every day, big and small. I know and recognize it, when they do. But they still refuse
to accept reality when it punches them with a hammer in the face. Well perhaps the hammer is an arrogant, presumptuous loudmouth with a tendency to make others feel aware of their intellectual limitations. Not friendly and almost surely not helpful.
When I write songs or short stories I can’t lie. Written words are my anchorage in truth. Sometimes a slightly altered, artistic truth, nonetheless the truth. One just has to pay attention.
I appreciate nothing more than honesty. Feeling and experiencing it makes it easy to identify it’s consequences and meaning for me. So I can learn to implement my ambition.
That’s why I don’t erase the written. It would be treacherous to my cause, it would be like lying to others, censoring another ones view on the true me.
All in all mendacity is a great wall in front of my path to liberty and independence.

That’s my musical and literary “career”. It brings me to the cause of me reaching out to you.
The last month I managed to borrow and collect a fair amount of equipment. Bought a midi-keyboard, borrowed a used, incomplete drum-set, two adequate microphones and other stuff I needed. For the sake of my purpose I had to collect energy (Everyday is a dance with the devil. We gamble in a tango for my life-essence.) and most important will, to torture myself to the brink of madness and social intolerabillity. My music has this effect on me. Hearing myself being trapped in agony and helplessness is excruciating. But it gets the humming in order and lets me think clearly for a short period of time, although in a mental overload. In these times I hear everything, every tone, every harmony, chord or change in tune, tact or tempo in my head. But my physical abilities are limited still.
Here is my first question. Do you have that to? That you hear what it should be, before or while you play.
My other question is more of a request. Would you listen to one or two of my songs? Perhaps give me some advice on how I can get better in quality and whatever you deem suitable?
Everything you will then hear is learned and recorded in the last month. I never played drums before or bass or arranged anything. I didn’t knew I could do this. So the entire thing is very rudimentary. These are not the audio-tracks I can identify out of the constant undertone. They are blurred outlines and a sad excuse for my immanent sound, for my reality.
To make this perfectly clear. I don’t want to be famous nor rich. Not now, not in the near future. If so I would have won a casting show long ago. My ego would burst with such an amount of approval and praise. These things fuck with the heads of humans. I observed it driving friends mad and unkind. I see it every time I walk by a TV or read something on the internet. I just want to be no longer partly dependent on my families, already stretched finances or have to rely in the future on state well-fare. I appreciate it, but it makes me feel bad, worthless, not at all wanted and most of all it puts me under pressure. I can’t make music under pressure, it’s getting harder and harder to focus. The humming gets unbearable.
I desperately want to be understood. I want to help my friends and family to inherently grasp the roots, causes and intricacy of my constant grief. But I want it to be as beautiful as possible. I can’t repay affection any more. I never have or could express my feelings, emotions in any way and I only learned very recently how I can. Some might argue against that. But they always fall silent, when I tell them, that I said what they wanted to hear or I wanted them to hear.
So that’s it about me. It is insane how I love to talk about myself. I hate and adore my existence in ubiquitousness.

Now of to the fun part. Me praising you for being an inspiration and one of the few candles in my darkness.
It is a special gift you bestowed upon me. I learned to love getting up before sunrise, fix myself a coffee, a joint or cigarette and watch the sun rise above the trees and listen to “Bury it”. This song tipped the balance in favor of my progress more times, than I am able to count and thank you for it.
The unique feeling of being understood is something I only experience through the music of others. I usually don’t like to listen to women sing. I don’t know, their frequency is strange and oftentimes alien to my ears. But I do love your voice. It is so soft, elegant in a very primal way and simultaneously incredibly determined. I lack the proper words and that doesn’t happen very often to me, as you can imagine. I would propose to marry me and grow the most beautiful, terribly musical and intelligent offspring. But instead I think I should congratulate you on your engagement. You and your fiancé seem to be, through the virtual window, a most formidable and successful team. Even from a very far distance, it is more blessing than pain to witness something like that from time to time.

If you read through. Thank you Gwyn, for your patience and interest.
If not. Thank you for your art and inspiration. It is appreciated and I can’t await to follow your musical gift develop further and further in it’s admirability.

The pleasure was, is and will be all mine.

All the best, have a nice day and if demanded stand upright


P.P.S: I read through it one last time. Fuck this is incredible long. Maybe a bottle of wine and a knockout pill would be a better
waste of time for you ;)

If you should not know her, you better change that fact.

Gwyn Fowler on Bandcamp

Her on Soundcloud

Her on Facebook


Get to my head!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s