Michael Griffin

So I am sitting in my kitchen, Ken has brought over a lap steel guitar and the challenge is to play him every song I ever wrote. Why? Cause that’s what you do on a Saturday night in the bleak midwinter. At least that’s what you do in my house. Ken likes my songs. Thinks I should play them for other folks. You know, folks who know how to string three words together but would rather not. There’s a studio in my basement and a studio in Ken’s living room. The more “finished” of these songs happen...

So I am sitting in my kitchen, Ken has brought over a lap steel guitar and the challenge is to play him every song I ever wrote. Why? Cause that’s what you do on a Saturday night in the bleak midwinter. At least that’s what you do in my house. Ken likes my songs. Thinks I should play them for other folks. You know, folks who know how to string three words together but would rather not. There’s a studio in my basement and a studio in Ken’s living room. The more “finished” of these songs happened at Ken’s house. The more “sketch like” of these songs happened in my basement. I like the sketchiness because they are raw transmissions of the emotion. That’s what it’s like when I write a song. Something needs to be said. It has me at a visceral level. It can’t be ignored so I write it down and contain it. I guess the power is there, because over the years there are total strangers who come up and ask me to play that song you played last time we saw you. You know, the one about…