Somewhere Out There, Beneath The Pale Moonlight,

Someone Once Asked Me Why People Sing. I Answered That They Sing For Many Of The Same Reasons The Birds Sing. They Sing For A Mate, To Claim Their Territory, Or Simply To Give Voice To The Delight Of Being Alive In The Midst Of A Beautiful Day. Perhaps More Than The Birds Do, Humans Hold A Grudge. They Sing To Complain Of How Grievously They Have Been Wronged, And How To Avoid It In The Future. They Sing To Help Themselves Execute A Job Of Work. They Sing So The Subsequent Generations Won’t Forget What The Current Generation Endured, Or Dreamed, Or Delighted In.

I Never Wrote Anything Down. I Never Kept A Diary, Never Kept A Journal. I Did Write One Letter Home About Touring With The Doors That I Used As A Reference For The Book For Some Details There, And Then I Was Glad I Had That, But That Was It.

I Can't Draw. But I Can Draw With Sound. That's The Most Useful Thing I Learned In Terms Of What My Craft Is... The Arrangements Were Mine. They Were Little Lines And Stuff That I Had Written Myself... And I Was Locked Into This Idea That Vocals Didn't Count, Melodies Didn't Count, Songwriting Craftsmanship Didn't Count. The Only Thing That Counted Was High Arching Guitar Solos...

I Think That Frank Sinatra Was Maybe The Greatest Pop Singer.

The Essential Elements Of Singing Are Voice, Musicianship, And Story. It Is The Rare Artist That Has All Three In Abundance.