Update: back up and running after a short hiatus

to all those of you out there closely monitering my site, you will be relieved to know that is back and kicking after a short break. 

The break was due to me being my usual flighty self and forgetting to pay the squarespace bills (isn't being a grown up hard?)


In even more exciting news, I have recently been accepted to Berklee College of Music and will be attending this coming fall for contemporary writing and production. In the meantime, I will be playing shows and teaching voice and piano lessons to children who want them (please let me know if you know of anybody who would be interested, I am currently looking for business on weekdays in the afternoon and on weekends)

thanks to all



Three new demo tracks (primary supplement for applications)

here are three brand new originals I've written and recorded within the past couple months

All lyrics will be posted under the "lyrics" section of the website - please take a look if you get a chance! (I mumble a lot)

these three are called As A Judge, C'est La Vie, and Flesh

all © Jill Blutt 2012


Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People (cover)

another cover of the song Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People. also done on garageband by yours truly, as well as a little harmonica noodling. I'm really proud of the harmonies on this one too.


Eyes On Fire by Blue Foundation (cover)

Recorded this on GarageBand on my macbook a while back. One of my first times playing around with production and what not. Guitar/vox/arranged/recorded by Jill Blutt :)


A Few Words (my college essay...)

The obvious thing to do would be to write an essay about how much I love music. But what is there to say about it? My theory has always been that if you can really explain why you play music, you shouldn’t be playing it. People like me know that there’s never been any rhyme or reason to it. If you’re a musician, you play music because you have to—because it’s your essence.

I’ve always had a penchant for the process of getting from start to finish in any context. As a kid, I’d be delighted when an opportunity to do so presented itself. I’d watch my closest friend, Pippa, play Ode to Joy over and over on her baby grand piano and feel my stomach flutter with envy. I had to know—I had to unlock the mystery that would allow my very own fingers to produce that complex, flawless collection of sounds. I’d never wanted anything more than to learn the language she spoke and be able to communicate through it.

My first experiences with music lessons weren’t all that I’d anticipated, to say the least. There was no sudden spark of knowledge and talent that befell me after I started working with my teacher, Marina. Instead, I was expected to quietly decipher meaningless black dots arranged arbitrarily on mundane black lines. And then, after hours spent under Marina’s strict scrutiny, I was supposed to sit and play the same thing again and again, presumably to improve my ability to understand the complicated language I was so determined to speak.

To an eight-year-old, of course, this all seemed ludicrous. Bach bored me, Haydn was humdrum. Any form of repetitive practice seemed entirely useless. Despite my hesitation, though, I savored the way I’d started to understand. I began to show off my newfound knowledge by plucking out every piece by ear before Marina even slid the sheet music in front of me. I befriended the black keys, and was thrilled to discover the flavor that they could bring to the songs I’d already grown accustomed to. Gradually, I found myself able to craft phrases out of the bits and pieces of technical knowledge I’d absorbed.

Eventually, I decided that my artistry had already surpassed the world of classical piano training. By eleven, I felt I’d already won. The keyboard was no longer a secret; it was no longer so foreign to me. But now that I’d had a taste for this language, I was determined to extend my fluency to more instruments

I found piano to be the most linear and literal of all instruments with which I became acquainted. The translation to cello wasn’t as direct, as if it travelled from a few seats away in a big game of musical telephone. My subsequent relationship with trumpet, albeit somewhat more successful, was equally fleeting.

Music lessons became lost in a crowded schedule amongst various other tangled priorities. The new challenge was to do it from scratch, to befriend other instruments on my own time. Soon, I spoke a little ukulele, was fluent in harmonica. I fell in love with guitar, and over time, it’s come to love me in return.

So far, I’ve found the most direct medium of communication to be my voice. In singing, I found the most immediate passage between my ear, my eye, and my brain—I could now interpret a coded symbol on a piece of paper and simulate a corresponding sound in a matter of seconds. This aspect, of course, has come leaps and bounds beyond the naïveté of my early piano days, but the ultimate pay-off is yet to come.

I like to consider myself a collector of finished products. In some ways, this makes me a perpetual work-in-progress. I’ve fought plenty of battles against the ambiguity of a new instrument, but I have yet to win the overall war.

I don’t think I’ll be quite satisfied until I’m able to take some impalpable scrap of an idea, some tiny hatchling glinting with potential, and transform it into a full package—polished and unique and capable of carrying immense weight to those who come in contact with it.

To play music is one thing, to write music is another, but to create music from the ground up is an art. Perhaps, eventually, I will be lucky enough to have explored this too.