Music IS Life

It really is life.

Or it is mine anyway. It has always been there and since I could hear before I could read it trumps reading as my favourite thing of which there are a fair few. Reading with music in the background clearly runs a close second. And the live performance, the flesh, the voice, the instruments give me a contact high that feeds me for days.

"Live Instrumentation" per Ms Jill Scott

I know there is a song for my every thought and a singer for my every mood.

I am exhausted today because I have been out three evenings in a row watching artists at various stages of their lives and careers present their gifts to Londontown. I loved how Regina Carter made her violin sing, the bow flying, her mouth unsmiling. Could a performer be more aptly named? David Sanborn reminded us in a 35 year old piece called Lisa how you never leave an old love behind and you can joke about it now but you never forget and there is a wryness in your chuckle. And who can top a living legend like Archie Shepp who unceremoniously shuffled onto the stage sax in hand ready to work while the compere was trying to get into his stride. I like that the man knew what time it was and exited stage left with as much dignity as he could muster. But hey no hard feelings dude, this is Mr. Shepp he doesn’t need your flattery nor do we. We know his worth.

Ornette Coleman closes this Sunday and there is nothing more to say.

There is nothing more to say

I have been depressed for two days running because my iPod and constant companion fell in the damned toilet. I love music. SO much that I unhesitatingly  plunged my naked hand into what must be the motherlode of bacterium. I wiped it and rubbed it, shook it and almost scrubbed it and clean forgot why I was in the toilet in the first place. There are 4000 tunes on that magic gadget, all mine. I was beside myself until I dried it overnight on the heater and it came back to life the next morning. But I have been plunged back into mourning as the silver lady sang no more this morning. And by now you know it’s not about the money.

Too..Quietly There

I need it, when the days are grey and I get out of bed and shuffle Sarah, Billie, Dinah, Jill. Maybe today needs Marley or Miriam to get me going. Nina for my battles and Wicked when I feel camp. Soca when I long for sun and rum and Kathleen when I should be in church. On the train, on the bus, walking or on the plane with headphones pressed close to your ear you would be surprised at the nuance you hear. You can hear a laugh or a count or a line that was whispered so low on your stereo but now practically shouts out loud and changes forever the way  you receive that tune.

I accept that I self-medicate with the stuff, almost shooting up each note and how hard is that when Maxwell croons like an angel so you know the ache of this woman’s work. I accept that I may have strayed over into unhealthy compulsion but like the lady said I want more, more and then some.

I am gonna put it back on the heater tonight and say a little prayer, or maybe I’ll have Ella croon Lover Come Back. Failing which I know where the Apple store is. And a little Meshell Ndegeocello at the Jazz Cafe  might steady thrum all the hurt away.

 

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