A quirky little piece. I was starting to get the knack of recording -- the sound is pretty good. Although I'll win no prizes for my guitar playing, it actually hangs together better than I thought on first listen, with only a few blown notes. Something strange is happening in the beginning, where the guitar sounds out of tune, but later seems to correct itself. I wasn't good enough to tune on the fly, and I don't seem to be bending notes, so I don't know exactly what's happening there.
What's it about? Damned if I know. "Flatfoot" was American criminal/gangster slang, dating back to the '30s (and probably earlier). It originally applied (I think) to beat cops. Pounding the pavement in cheap, government-issue shoes cannot be good for one's arches.
So that seemed like as good a reason as any to repeat the word like an incantation at the start of each verse/chorus, accompanied by the spidery guitar line, increasingly ominous bass, growing sense of dread, and whispers and groans. The rest of the song is just your standard adolescent angst:
Mysterious stuff being put in boxes, said boxes then being put in storage . . . diaries and their "dirty looks" being burnt . . . uh-oh. . . . thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking . . .
I'm trying to remember if I've possibly forgotten something incriminating of value in storage somewhere . . . thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking . . .
OK, there were three times I've had to buy storage space:
#1. Beer was involved.
#2. Actually that one was kind of funny. This guy had an acreage out of town with a bunch of sheds that he was renting out. So somebody had given me a couple of hundred pounds of moose meat that I had no room for. It was 30-below that week, so I figured I could stow it there until I could find a friend with some spare freezer space. Then I kind of forgot about it until late in August.
Needless to say the moose did not age well. You practically needed a gas mask . . . yeah, yeah, we've been over this again and again. I had utterly no idea you were storing your favorite neon-green leisure-suit there. Yes, I know that it was well-and-truly a "Chick Magnet."
I've sent it for dry-cleaning more times than I can count, and they just can't seem to get the stench of Death out of it. Must be the way it reacts with polyester.
#3. Just speaking hypothetically, what do you suppose the Statute of Limitations on something like that would be?
So! Conscience clear! Whew!
We never had this convo. Right?