I rarely remember my dreams, but I (sort of) remember my last dream last night. I composed two songs. One was a pop ballad, and the other was a peppy little dance number. They might even have been good. The problem is...I don't remember them!
For those of you who know about dreams, you know that if you don't record the details really quickly, they tend to fade. Fast.
So but for the aid of a recording device, I might be the next Gamble and/or Huff. Or Chapman and/or Chinn. Or Mann and/or Weil. Or Goffen and/or King. Or John and/or Taupin. Or Jagger and/or Richards. Or Boyce and/or Hart. Or Bacharach and/or David. Or Gibb and/or Gibb and/or Gibb (but not Gibb).*
*But never Lennon and/or McCartney, or Dylan. First of all, who could be? Second, those comparisons are the kiss of death. The only person to survive the curse of being called "The New Dylan" is Springsteen, and I think his latest album title explains how he did it.
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