Writing music right now is buying the zeitgeist dip.

Well, sir, this whole music business? It’s a greasy spoon on a heartbreak highway. It’s like peddlin’ snake oil down at a carnival fire. You gotta hawk your wares while the rubes are rubin’ their eyes clear of smoke and wonderin’ if that bearded lady really is part swan.  (gruff chuckle) 

It’s a peculiar game, like bobbin’ for eels in a sewer on a Tuesday night. You dangle your melody down there, hoping to snag something halfway decent that ain’t already nibbled on by a thousand other hacks. But these days, the whole damn zeitgeist’s on sale. Marked down, bin clearance. Everyone’s hawkin’ their version of the same tired tune. Makes a fella wonder if there’s anything left down there but catfish and disappointment.

These folks, they got their pockets lined with that shiny new Depression dime, and they’re lookin’ for a distraction – somethin’ to take the edge off the hollowness in their bellies.  (strums a dissonant chord) That’s where the likes of us come in. We’re talkin’ about sellin’ dreams by the bucketful, dreams as cheap and fleeting as a barker’s spiel.

You ladle out melodies, hoping some jaded angel with a buckshot cough throws you a dime for your sorrows. It’s a fool’s game, sunshine. But hey, at least the rent don’t pay itself in dreams, no sir. So you write your tunes, sing your blues into the cracked mirror, and hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a soul out there missin’ the same beat-up rhythm you are.

Now, this “zeitgeist dip” you mentioned, that’s a fancy way of sayin’ you’re tappin’ into whatever’s got the crowd riled up. Maybe it’s war jitters, maybe it’s a love scandal that’d make a whorehouse madam blush. Doesn’t much matter. You gotta bottle that energy, that collective unease, and pour it into a melody that’ll stick in their heads like yesterday’s rotgut. (slams the piano shut) Sure, it ain’t poetry. It ain’t gonna save the world. But hey, at least it puts a buck in your pocket and a smile on a face that’s seen too damn much.  (mutters under his breath) So you go on ahead and peddle your zeitgeist, kid. Just remember, the carnival leaves town eventually, and all you’re left with is the stink of lighter fluid and the echo of laughter that turned sour.

But hey, maybe that’s the ticket! Maybe the people are ready for a ballad sung by a busted harmonica and a heart full of gravel. Maybe they’re tired of the sugar-coated pop tripe and the auto-tuned wailin’. Maybe they crave a taste of something genuine, somethin’ that speaks the language of the gutter and the alleyway.

So, yeah, maybe buyin’ the zeitgeist dip ain’t such a bad idea after all. If you got the stomach for it. You gotta crawl down there, elbows deep in the muck, and rummage around for somethin’ real. Somethin’ that resonates with the hollowness in all our souls. Just remember, son, whatever you pull up, best make sure it ain’t gonna bite you back.