By Peter Newling
It was the spring of 1967. Judy had locked herself in her room because there were too many distractions in the rest of the house. She knew she had to knuckle down and come up with a song – a great song. The other members of the band were relying on her. But it wouldn’t come. For days she’d been searching for inspiration – but it had only resulted in a few very average refrains.
Her husband Luke was in the kitchen. He hadn’t seen his wife in days, and was getting a little worried about her state of mind. But he couldn’t help getting a bit annoyed as well. Nothing was getting done around the place. His life had ground to a halt. All the things Judy had promised faithfully to do, she hadn’t done. His attempt at cleaning the guttering had just been thwarted because Judy hadn’t taken the faulty ladder back to the hardware shop, as she swore she’d do the day before. And the day before that.
He wandered up to their room, tapped quietly on the door, and went in. He found Judy gazing helplessly out the window. He came up behind her and put his arms around her shoulders. “How’s it going?” he asked gently.
“It’s crap. I’m crap.” said Judy. “It’s just not happening, Luke. Every song I write is bad.”
He kissed the nape of her neck. He put on his most encouraging voice and said “Oh hey, Jude. Don’t say it’s bad. Take that bad song and make it not so shitful.” He started to leave, but turned at the door and added “Oh. Remember to put the ladder into your car. THEN you can start to make it not so shitful.”
She smiled at him as he left the room. She took a deep breath and thought about what he’d said. Finally, she closed her notepad and sighed “If there’s a great song out there somewhere, I’m nowhere near it”.
The band folded shortly afterward.