My neighbors must hate me. If not to my face, then they surely do when the mass of sonic energy rolls across the yard, crossing the boundary into their territory and rattling their walls as rapid tremors run through the ground, causing glass vases to tremble precariously and shaking pictures on the wall so they hang slightly off kilter. But I can’t help it. I need my guitar like children need to eat an entire bucket of candy on Halloween night. It’s an insatiable itch that can only be satisfied by scratching until the skin bleeds raw. Continue reading
I’ve never been much good at sleeping. From the hours of 8:00 am to about 8:00 pm, I’ve got weights tied to my limbs and head, I’m dragging and exhausted. But once the sun goes away and it’s dark and cool outside, my brain is filled words and ideas and melodies and it overflows until I have to lay in my bed writing all over my hands and arms to get everything out, and to make sure that I won’t forget when the sun rises. By about midnight, I itch to play my guitar so badly that it feels as though my insides are on the verge of tearing open and exploding, but facing the wrath of my family, recently awakened by a late-night jam session, would probably be worse than self implosion. Since I can’t make my own music at this time, I do the next best thing: listen to other people’s music.
When I’m like an accumulation of hyperactive, excited gaseous particles, I need a steady beat to crawl into my ears and liquify me. I need to bathe in vibrations, and come out fresh and clean and enlightened. Continue reading
It was dark, probably about half past 12:00, but sleep was not an option. At times like these, there is only one thing to do: play some music.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the thousands of songs on my playlist and then I found it. I sunk back into my pillow and closed my eyes, listening to the pops and crackles of recording technology from a time when my grandpa was a boy living on a farm in Alabama. Electricity buzzed through the atmosphere and I was in a rickety wooden shack in the deep South, maybe on a cotton plantation or maybe in the middle of nowhere. The air was no longer chilly but hot and humid, as a man with so many troubles that he sold his soul to the devil sang about standing alone at a dusty train station, crying for an unrequited love. Continue reading