But recently I've felt as if I'd fallen into a musical void... like nothing I was listening to felt like me anymore; nothing moved me. But then a few weeks ago I was on a drive back from NYC and my friend said "can you put on that guy that we heard at the concert from a few years ago?"
"Wrabel?" I said.
"Yeah, yeah, him."
I played "11 Blocks" and suddenly I felt that 16-year-old Jacqueline knock on the door to my soul and say "hiiii honey, remember me?" And for the rest of the drive back we listened to all those songs I thought were ~out of the box~ from my high school years.
This is a long, drawn-out way of saying... sometimes we can go back to what feels good, musically. It doesn't mean we aren't inspired, it just means maybe we need to remember why we started writing music in the first place.
The difference for the case of “Two Kids” is that I didn’t fall in love, I sat at my piano and thought of all the different ways I wanted to foster a relationship with someone who was out of reach. It was a fantasy song that detailed the first date, first kiss, first whatever… And we’ve all been there; we’ve all met someone and thought “oooooooh God, this is really going to kick me down the rabbit hole.” We fantasize, we daydream, we do all the things that build up expectations in our head about someone who we barely know. We know it's gonna hurt us down the line but we do it anyways.
Releasing this kind of a song, a love song, sometimes leaves you more vulnerable than if you were to release something that’s rooted in hate or jealousy or any other type of negative passion. Love songs are a shot in the dark because everyone can connect about similarly experienced pain but not everyone can find common ground when it comes to love. It also opens you up to every variation of “who is this song about?” But hey–that’s songwriting.
I am so grateful for all the love Two Kids received after its release and in the months that have followed.