doing_it_all_for_my_baby raze mutilated melodies weave their way through an instrumental intro half a step from home. muddled monochrome memories flood the frame. a solemn monster sounds a single note on a dust-dappled hammond organ. though his body dies, his shadow still draws breath. i never paid for the bottle in my left hand. the clothes i wouldn't buy smelled too sweet to belong to me. the man who wrote the song pounds out chords as clumsy as they are ambitious on an ancient upright piano in a california roadhouse as epilogue to the memorial service for a woman i never knew. he's silver-haired and twice the size he was when he dreamed of signing a record deal. paunch half-hidden under a loose-fitting sweater. his eyesight might be failing, and his skin might be sagging and spotted, but his voice hasn't aged a day. words you've heard a hundred times or more seem truer somehow when they're sung by someone so unafraid to be stripped bare in the harsh light of day. the chorus hits, and like those middle-aged mourners, we find a way to smile through our pain. we're doing it. doing it. doing it, doing it, doing it, yeah. 230219 what's it to you? who go blather from