Sometimes real feelings make it to the page, but never to print. Things that need to be said, but can’t be seen. Ever.

Check the crumbled papers in the trash some time. That’s where I found these. . .

Liner Notes
by Scotty


April 10, 2001

I remember Chris saying that I traveled with a keyboard. The fans probably thought the comment was about the music. But it was really about me. Not positive, but negative. What he meant to say was that I’m a loner. More comfortable with a musical instrument than with other human beings. That I pass long hours on the bus with black and white keys and colored buttons rather than share myself with the strangers who travel with me.

Chris will always be a stranger to me. I want it that way. He shares our bus now. Invited by you to fill the hours with his loud voice and video games rather than our conversations. I wonder now if being with me ever made you lonely.

These days it’s a lap top computer. No keyboard necessary. Just software. A place to go where I can still be with you. Where feelings can masquerade as song lyrics and find acceptance. Where I can say how proud I am of what you’ve become and how scared I am that you no longer need me. Where words about the warmth of your heart and the heat of your body won’t scare you away. Where selfish outbursts full of frustrated desire can leave my soul in search of music’s healing embrace.

Album notes are due when we get to New Orleans. I’ve stared at the list of names for days now, still unable to get anything down on paper that makes sense. Don’t get me wrong. I feel grateful to these people, all of them. Sometimes I think that making sure that everyone gets mentioned is more important than what I say to them. I worry that I’ll leave someone out and that they’ll be hurt by it. I even went back to No Strings and the notes for the first album just to be sure.

Now I wonder if you noticed. If I need to say I’m sorry. I never even mentioned you the first time around and in the last ones, you’re a name. Part of a one-liner bunched between Joey and Chris. All of equal importance in my life. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

And here’s some real irony for you. We’ve always been first and last in the notes. This time, I’m told, we’re together. On opposing pages, oozing with black and white sincerity, thanking God and the whole cast of characters.

That was the phone. I’ve done it again. Luggage call in fifteen minutes and I still have nothing on the page. Nothing for their eyes anyway. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start with my family and go from there. A shallow dip into the chaos and desperation of the past year. Or should I say challenges? So much cleaner and uncluttered. Less personal. Fewer questions to answer later on. A nod to the record company. A big group hug. And it’s done. This is about the music after all. Isn’t it?

I may burn in hell for this, but at the end of the day, for me, it’s still about you. The crushing burden of our past. The incredible promise of our future. This page won’t ever see the light of day, but I’ll sign it anyway. I love you Justin.

JC




April 10, 2001


I hate thanking people who don’t give a shit about me. I’m a paycheck to them. They should be thanking me. For all the hours I put into this record. For how much I was willing to bleed to get it done. I shouldn’t be thanking anybody but myself. Especially not you.

This is my album. That burns your ass, doesn’t it? I see right through your fake comments. How proud you are of me. Fuck you. I don’t need your praise. I can make music without you. I don’t need you for anything.

Damn you, JC. I went from something intimate and private into public relations overnight. And you just walked away. That was your decision. Now you can live with it. You didn’t think I’d survive, did you? I shaved my fucking hair off and said good-bye to you on the same night. I became somebody else. Somebody I knew you wouldn’t like. Doing things you wouldn’t do. Hanging with people you don’t like. Talking trash and getting laid. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?

I don’t believe that you can still get to me. You hate Wade and everything the bastard stands for and yet I’d bet my last dollar that you thank him in your notes. Because that’s the right thing to do. And you do everything right.

How do you think the chat rooms would handle our story, huh? Big bad pop star so fucking screwed up that his songs could pass for open wounds. No lust or shame. Never. Those were your hang-ups not mine. And let’s not forget exposure. God forbid that someone might find out that you actually cared --about anything.

You won’t ever get to see this because I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. You don’t get to know that I would still do anything for you. Anything.

I hate what we’ve become. And I hate myself.

Justin