All I ask of a song in it’s few moments inside me is to pry from my rigid musculature a wash of emotion. I do not come to it to be entertained, nor absolved, nor removed, nor distracted. At its end I want to tear up, or to grin knowingly. To suppress a laugh, to be a ball of rage, or helium alight with elation. I want to feel.
And more than any art or storytelling, more than paintings or movies, even more than the poetry which makes me, music has successfully cut through my calculations, my strategies, my self-formed turrets of armaments to beat back reason.
It’s unreasonable, that the voice of the singer, the words of the songwriter atop the drumbeat in concert with the whine of guitars should pass unslowed through and into my heart. But it pries open my mind and leaves behind a valley where the runoff trapped in the mountains can collect to irrigate, and feed, and overwhelm the village.
So many opening riffs. So many brutal lyrics. So many cracks in cleanly held notes. It’s in the throat. In the center of our will, where we voice or truth. In the threat to tear down our world, or to admit it has already been torn down. That’s it. Make me feel.
Nothing else matters to me, not your training nor packaging, not your noise or technique. If you can speak to the frailest leaves in me, and move them in the breeze, or bathe them, or convince them it’s alright to fall, you have me. Will always have me.