It's difficult to describe the pain of pouring your heart into an artistic endeavor that never realizes its full potential or sees the light of day. Although it will never compare to the loss of Micke, it results in a kind of grieving process all its own. My albums are like children to me, made from my essence and experiences, the emotional equivalent of DNA and epigenetics, I imagine. Even today, it's depressing to think about. So I think about it as little as possible. Move on, make new things. However, revisiting the situations those songs detailed, if only in prose format, has brought the ache of failure and loss back to the foreground.
I do not have the masters for Goodbye Susto at my disposal. That hardly matters; I never was fond of the direction it took once control over it was stripped from me. All I have is a set of digitally mangled demo tracks to piece back together. Still, these recordings were indicative of a particular time in my life and, although I could theoretically re-record it all, it wouldn't quite capture the essence of what it was back then.
Today, I sat down and literally faced the music, so to speak. I've begun with the first song I managed to write as I emerged from a vast creative desert.
I couldn't have imagined I would feel this empowered.