—Too, Plus One Monster (Danny's Delite)
So, MONTHS ago I put out a call for instrumental tracks that I might slap vocals on. The last lingering track has kept me struggling… Danny Wallace sent me a forty second piano track (as well as some sage advice about slowing down on my song-a-day binge) that I couldn’t, for the life of me, supplement with any kind of melody.
However, I was recently inspired to pull a piece of prose and make it music (as I’m want to do), and I finally used Danny’s track. I made this yesterday, after I made the song about my face bleeding (which makes COMPLETE sense, if you don’t get it than that’s on you).
Here’s the short story from which I pulled the song, with the song section cut into identifiable lines:
A Man in a Room with his Back Turned to You (Too, Plus One Monster)
It wasn’t a man, that’s for sure; He was mostly just a suit, lined inside with living human skin, but it wasn’t a man. He had short dark hair and broad shoulders, a mole on the back of his neck. He had gold shiny cufflinks, and the sleeves of his jacket almost covered his hands. A small dripping of blood fell from within the coat, trickling down those hands and fingers, dropping almost silently to the white carpeted floor.
The room was empty; the walls were bare, save for one electrical socket. Nothing was plugged in.
He could almost pass, but if he turned around and you saw his face, you’d be able to tell by the eyes, it wasn’t a man.
But he never turned around and you never saw his face. Whatever he was, he was making a mess, and that was his story.
“From the other room, someone sings a song.”
And you panicked, because there weren’t any windows and there weren’t any doors. And you couldn’t remember how you got in the room in the first place, and- wait you know that song- oh what a night- what a lady what a night- and you can hear him humming along, his empty head swaying just slightly, like a cat sizing up its prey before it strikes. And you think, “now, now he’s going to turn around,” even though I told you that it wasn’t going to happen.
“What does he want?” you ask, when you finally find your voice.
“He doesn’t want anything, he isn’t a man.”
The room is quickly losing tangibility. The walls keep decaying, losing texture; they’re flickering gray to plain, and you can’t find the electric socket anywhere.
“Eventually, someone breaks down the door and enters.”
A stranger has come to his own demise. Wherever he found that door, he isn’t going to find it again. “Give me your money,” he demands of you, and you kiss him, because you’re very lonely.
“Don’t you love me anymore?” I ask, but it isn’t my place to know, and you ignore me.
The stranger kisses you back
and together you hatch
a plan
to rob
the man
(and you keep telling the stranger,
it isn’t a man,
and you keep telling the stranger,
he would know if it ever turned around).
And the stranger demands of the back of the head of the thing in the room:
“Give me your money you fucker and god dammit why don’t you turn around, don’t make me have to shoot you.”
And the stranger pulls out his gun
and he fires a bullet into the back of the head of the thing in the room,
and the thing in the room doesn’t turn
but in fact unleashes the tiniest, most quantum fraction of a sigh.
“Somethings wrong with this thing,” mumbles the stranger, who drops his revolver. He begins to look for the door, and turns in circles, wondering how he ever got into the room in the first place.
I’m out! Coney Island beach party time.
