It's like casual sex with three other people. You ring them up any time you're feeling frisky in the 'musical creativity' department, you grease up your instruments , head to a seedy looking establisment with toilets that time (and apparently the cleaners) forgot, hire out a damp, smelly, grotty little room, and thrash about for a few hours making sweet, sweet music. That is of course until one day when you feel totally comfortable with eachother, you dispose of the contraceptive barrier that encompasses your ideas, and its a beautiful thing. The little ditty sperm merrily swim into the lyrical womb, marinating in the amniotic fluid of a polished bassline, feeding on memorable guitar hooks and rolling beats through a P.A. umbilical chord. Then you realise it just got serious. you have to be a man, you have to commit! You move out of the shithole where conception took place to a fancy new studio. It costs a little more but you have responsibilities now. You tell all your friends that you are now publically spoken for (music wise) and despite the little niggles (you're too young, you dont have the money, what if it grows up to be a worthless little turd who costs more than it makes) you are happy.
Then it is born....
One night of pushing and the song has shuffled onto this mortal coil. A beautiful shiny little CD baby.
You try to raise it right, pouring your attention over it, loving it, nurturing and masterin it until, in your eyes, it is the pinnacle of perfection.
You unleash it on the world.
How will it be percieved? will it be popular? will it be loved? will it be edgy, deep, profound, witty and thought provoking?
You are elated!
It makes people happy!
and with it comes hundreds of little foster kids in the shape of fans that cling to your every word, follow you around and generally just revere you as some sort of rock deity.
Alas though, the spark between the parents is gone.
You try and keep it together for the kids but the first born becomes a battle that inevitably comes down to money and pathetic one upmanship.
You tell the littluns that the love is gone. they cry wishing for a tour that never comes, maybe a few even commit suicide
The ones that survive get lured away by simon cowell and his catchy band of sirens and they forget that music once had integrity.
EMI steps in, and snaps up your royalty rights for a (pretty small) one off payment. You feel like a whore, putting a price on creativity and gradually slip into a vortex of whiskey and shattered memories......
.........maybe i'm looking a little too far into this.....