So here you are, my loyal fan. Eagerly awaiting the arrival of another Low Notes, thirsting for my insights and witticisms. It’s an awesome responsibility I have here, one that I take very seriously. And it appears, alas, that I’ve failed you.
Last month, I wrote a column called “Dan Blakeslee Is Better Than Me”, which, you may recall, was about, well, Dan Blakeslee. And one of you, my loyal fans, wrote and said, essentially, I don’t really care about Dan Blakeslee, and I certainly don’t care that you think he’s better than you. I’m subscribing to your Low Notes – says my loyal fan – because I like you. And, well, my loyal fan is right.
So I went back and read through my Low Notes, from the beginning. I’ve been writing to you folks for almost five years now, and I’ve had a great time, and this wasn’t even my idea – my pal David Fishken told me to do it, and it’s the one of best suggestions I’ve ever gotten. I’ve written about the songs I write, and the inspirations I’ve have, and I’ve given you a little window into the workings of my slightly odd brain, and I’ve told you about the nature of art in America, and I’ve told you about how folk music sausage is made. And that’s all fine, and kind of inspired in places – except for the sausage part.
I’m seeing now that I’ve kind of let you down with the sausage bits. See, it turns out that performing artists are obsessively introspective. We’re really good at picking at the smallest details of our performing lives, trying to understand it, trying to make it better. But that doesn’t mean that you, our loyal fans, want to hear it – not by a long shot. It’s like sharing a park bench with a stranger – maybe he’ll say something wise about the passage of time, or maybe he’ll point out how one of the clouds looks like Millard Fillmore, or maybe he’ll show you pictures of his kids. And you’d likely nod your head and smile. But I’m imagining that you’d probably draw the line when he starts telling you about his bladder control issues.
So my promise to you, my loyal fans, is that I’m going to shut up about that stuff. No more sausage articles – at least not in the Low Notes. If you’re still interested in my obsessive introspection, I’m starting a blog, called Inside Baseball. You can find it at http://sambayer.com/inside_baseball [Note from headquarters: it’s moved, and now the whingeing is buried among the other detritus], and it’s going to be all about the sausage. You can get an RSS feed, or bookmark it in your browser, or hire a carrier pigeon to pick it up and bring it to you – but it won’t be in your email inbox. From now on, I promise, it’s gonna be bon mots and Millard Fillmore and pictures of my metaphorical kids – the sort of wisdom and charm and quirky insight that sold you on me in the first place.
Because I really don’t want to be that bladder control guy.