The Soundtrack

And then there’s music.

Thank God.

Thank the heavens. Thanks to whomever or whatever.
Just be thankful there is such a thing.
Thanks for the sound.

Thanks for the lyrics that sing what we can’t say.

Thank the makers. Thank Beethoven. Thank Mozart. Thank the bands that turned me on to something I had never heard before and made me feel extraordinary.
Thank them all.
Thank Zeppelin. Thank Morrison. Thank Townshend. Thank Janis.
Poor Janis. Poor Hendrix.
Poor all that we lost.

Sorry t the generations that came after mine. Sorry to the generation now because music is not the same. Very few create anymore. Very few understand or know what it really means to hear a song and feel alive.
They don’t know. I tell you they don’t get it. They’re too wrapped up in technology to understand what it feels like to hear someone “Unplugged.”
They don’t know what it feels like to stand in a stadium and here a band play or watch the crowd become so entranced, so taken in that everyone sing in unison.

Thanks for the tunes and the melodies.
Thanks for the enhancement of memory. Thanks for the randomly played song that brings us back to a time from long ago.

I say this often and I’ll say it again.
Thank God for music.
Thanks for the different sounds. Thanks for the different genres, and while some of this is not my thing, thank them anyway because of all things I know, at the worst of times, sometimes, all you need is a really good song to keep you sane..

Music . . .

Let it play. Let it do its trick.

Let yourself become part of this.

Get in a car.

Play something good.

Play it loud.

Sing along.

Scream it if you have to.

I tell you this works.
Sing until your eyes tear up because the lyrics fit you perfectly. Sing out loud and let the anthems take you where they will. Don’t worry. Don’t care who listens. Just do it. That’s what I do.

I heard a good one this morning. I sung along. I sung as loud as I possibly could. The volume was all the way up. I screamed the lyrics, like, Please God, just take this away . . .And it did.
“I’ll ride the wave where it takes me . . .” is part of the lyrics.
Trust me it was a good wave to ride.

I remember a time when I was young (of course) and hiding away from my neighborhood. I was in a small cement block at the side of one of my town’s sumps. A small flask of gin in my pocket. This was rotgut. The cheap stuff. This was the fire-breathing water. This gin was the kind that made my vomit burn, but hell, I drank it anyway.
Why not? It was stolen anyway.
It was sundown in autumn. It was me against the world. Or more accurately, it was me in my own world, overthinking, and rehearsing the things I always wished I had the nerve to say.

The sky was orange. I lit the end of a Marlboro Red and blew the smoke upwards into the sky. My long hair moved and lifted from the calm breeze. In my heart, I had too much to say but no words to say them, In my ears, however, I had The Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon. For the time being, this said it all.

I once knew a girl. Though, not intimately, I knew her well enough to say I know her. She said she would never with anyone. Said she could never; with me, that is, because she never saw me that way. Either way, I knew her. Just not physically.

She would play music when no one was home. She would dance. Said this is the only way she could get it out. Said she would dance and sweat and sing but sometimes there just weren’t enough songs.

I learned more about why she said she would never with me. I learned more when I found about the injustices done to her.

She never knew this but I always admired her. Separate from physically, I admired her for her bravery. I admired her resolve. She was strong yet weak. Loving, yet, she kept her distance to keep you away. She smiled (I swear) to defy everyone that hurt her. She lived . . .
She turned me on to a song once.
Told me, “It’s just a box of rain.”

She meant it’s just a box of rain. Wind and water. Believe it if you need it. If you don’t, just pass it on.
I get that . . .

Nothing plays the world like a song.
Not to me at least.

Ain’t it funny how we can tie things up in music and pack it away in the memory compartment to relive again at another time when the people we love are gone.

When I think of Mom, I relate her to a song by Paul Anka.
I think of her face the last time we danced together. She cried at the opening lyrics.
“Good morning yesterday.
Anka was right. “You wake up and time has slipped away.
This is a song about the “Times of Your Life.”

And The Old Man, I think of a song he liked called,“That’s what friends are for.” He liked that song. He never said much about other songs but I know he liked this one.

Music has always been a friend to me.

It never leaves.

Never complains.

Never argues.

It just plays . . .

Even if there’s no sound and nothing to play, all I have to do is plug in to my memory, and I can hear it clearly.

Sleep well, my old friends.
Hey Tommy, remember that time in Speno Park by the bleachers?
Someone had a radio. Remember?
I do.
I think that was the last time we hung around together as kids.

There are times (like now) when emotion fills me. I’m not sure why. I can’t place my finger on it. But I know Jerry can. The Love Scene, Zabriskie Point. I’d like to share this with you. Give a listen. Watch the video. It might do something for you. If not, just pass it on.

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