[Little lamppost on the corner...evening sighing, “All's in order,”] It was December in Minnesota: cold, harsh, and incredibly white. I thought I had finished my album line-up, having recently written "Ruby Red Lipstick" and "Eloise, Eloise." Many of the mock-ups were done, and the concept was swirling around, present, but hidden; I could make out its shape, much like the fluttering snow twirling in the streets, but the edges and lines were still quite undefined. There was so

I’ve wondered a hundred times if I should try to explain myself. I’m certainly a fan of the “Its open to interpretation!” camp, which both excuses me from too much responsibility and simultaneously rejects any sense of authority over my art. Quite frankly, I fear that any venture of mine to expound upon my music’s meaning either renders it null and void or runs the risk of ruining it for somebody else. And yet, here I am, three years later, still wondering. There are many dif