A self portrait.
Just trying to capture what it is like to be a singer/songwriter that fame passed over. The song creates its own dilemma as follows: if I become famous, the song will not be true any more, which will be disconcerting. I'm effectively predicting that I will fail, so if I don't fail, I'll look quite foolish.
Hey there, Internet
I got a song for you today
A tale about a boy
Who’s in the zone and on his way
He’s the one who sent a demo
To John Mayer’s agent Rob
All about an evening rockstar
Who kept his daytime job
I’m the reckless child of Dylan
Loudon Wainwright stole my style
Don McLean comes out my fingers
Elvis loaned me his own smile
You can even hear Don Henley
Play his drums on my CD
I’ve got a very famous family
Though they've never heard of me
I don’t read those magazines
That only feed the game of fame
Little need for limousines
And I don’t ride a private plane
I don’t grace a music label
I can make an mp3
But I’m better than the Beatles
Every song of mine is free