blues

She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts out how true it all is.

At first the music almost repelled me, it was so intense, and this man made no attempt to sugarcoat what he was trying to say, or play. It was hard-core, more than anything I had ever heard. After a few listenings I realized that, on some level, I had found the master, and that following this man's example would be my life's work.

For me there is something primitively soothing about this music, and it went straight to my nervous system, making me feel ten feet tall.

Moment by moment, in life's winter life frozeEchoing a history of blues, a milestone rose

A real musician ain__ gonna choose his own guitar like an evil master choosing his slave. The guitar will choose his master and when he does, you__l know it.

The guitar poured out its soul, its history, its dreams, its pain, its victories, its secrets. The guitar__ strings purred with blues and ended with a haunting solitary song with no lyrics.

The guitar breathed. It inhaled and exhaled, and music filled the shop as the instrument picked the heartbreak of generations.

Musically, he was like an old man in a boy's skin.

Have you got any soul?" a woman asks the next afternoon. That depends, I feel like saying; some days yes, some days no. A few days ago I was right out; now I've got loads, too much, more than I can handle. I wish I could spread it a bit more evenly, I want to tell her, get a better balance, but I can't seem to get it sorted. I can see she wouldn't be interested in my internal stock control problems though, so I simply point to where I keep the soul I have, right by the exit, just next to the blues.

Night after night on starry wingsNight lovers soared so highMiles apart, across the oceansTheir love forgot to sighIn heavenly flight__ timelessnessThat highest height treasuredInto the deepest of all bluesTheir depth of love measured.From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers

Stop thinking about the steps. There are no moves in blues, only movement. Just listen to the music,_ Matt whispered into my ear.I let go, softening into his arms. The sways became steps, and without even realising, I was dancing.

Rats! It's rainy outside,And to be a good fellaInvite a smile so wideNobody needs umbrella!

The music plays . . . and your sense of reality is heightened to a dream.

Now listen for your song. Everybody__ got a song. When I used to chase the Trane_ John Coltrane that is_ he used to tell me, __f I know a man__ sound, I know the man._ Do you hear the melody playing in your mind? Does it move you, nudge you off your seat?

You got infinite channels and limitless rhymes, but the riddles of livin' stay undefined?

The music echoes in the emptiness. It reminds us where we came from and where we__e bound.

You play me with your jazz & leave me with the blues.

When you break it all down, my punk rock is my dad's blues. It's music from the underground, and it's real, and it's written for the downtrodden in uncertain times.