mazarinefv

There are some few people that speak with music. The jukebox is their voice as they admit that others have formed the words in better ways than they ever could have. When drumming a couple can 'converse' with returning beats. The rhythm moves emotionally, evokes a response and carries the energy forward with increasing intensity. A jukebox war can be the same way. I participate in many forms of musical conversation. Singing, drumming, finger pickin' or putting a few bucks in the jukebox. No matter where I am I have the option of letting my voice be heard without ever talking. I'm understood by people on the other side of the space I inhabit, people I may never come in direct contact with.

Some are tabbed in my mind with particular rhythms, instruments or songs. Lucinda Williams Live at the Fillmore sings Joy and Righteously, and I begin to mourn a friendship barely begun and harshly ended. Liz Phair's Flower brings the taste of coke and the smell of stale beer. Amon Tobin's Chomp Samba is the pang of starvation, the bones chilled feeling from no heat and the smell of mildewed carpet.

Listening to the music I remember times when I was starved, cold, alone and scared. Curled up under every coat and blanket I owned, wearing everything I could in an attempt to stay warm. Wondering how I was going to pay the bus fare to work, wishing I had just a bite of something to eat. I remember circling the bonfire with my drum, dancing and laughing with the rest of my adopted family. Mud caked on my feet and streaked up my legs. Breezes cooling the sweat on my back and celebrating with the voice of goat skins and carved wood.

I remember those I never got a chance to draw, to hold, to create with. I remember and recycle the music. I've lost where my mind was.