Home > Uncategorized > We love what we love for reasons we can’t always articulate…

We love what we love for reasons we can’t always articulate…

We love what we love for reasons we can’t always articulate. People. Dogs. Architecture. Changing seasons. Books. Lager. Drugs. Naps. Netflix. An endless supply of benzodiazepines. Warm blankets. A fireplace. Central air. The view of the ocean from a rich person’s balcony. The corner table. Mashed potatoes. Swedish Fish.

I could go on and on, and I’m tempted to actually because it’s kinda fun….but you get it. There are little fragments of our often hectic lives that reach out and nuzzle on our necks and slow down our breathing. They can crystallize that glorious moment at the end of a working day when we toss all our 9-5 shit on the table….and collapse in a happy heap on the couch….determined to never rise again.

We hate what we hate too. We can’t often articulate why we dislike something so intensely, but to the regret of our species, we always seem willing to give it the old college try. Ask me why I adore the autumn leaves….and I’ll go around and around in endless poetic circles that mean something to me but will probably leave you wishing you never brought up the subject in the first place. But mention the words “Donald Trump”….and I’m likely to go off on a rant that, whether you agree with me or not, would definitively not be filled with soaring, Lincolnesque rhetoric. It might also involve spittle. My verbal take-downs of this fascist, fear mongering racist neanderthal have not been my finest moments as a human being. See? I just did it again. It’s hard to be a saint in the city.

In my daily life, I’m much more likely to hear about Donald Trump than the beauty of the fall. ‘Tis a pity that. “The world’s lousy” Ty Cobb once said. Too much Trump and too little leaves. This is why.

What I’m leading up to is music. I lead up to things differently than most people I know, but bear with me.

When I feel that the world’s lousy…..when the amount of stupid I ingest on a daily basis begins to feel like an overdose….when I’m down….music lifts me up. Every time.

The sense of camaraderie is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. You meet once…that’s all it takes. Some of these people I see every week. Some of them I see maybe once a year. Either way, we always seem to pick up where we left off. There’s nothing at all awkward about the passage of time. Once you’re in, you’re in. Once you play “Magic Bus” or “The Weight” with somebody, they leave the keys under the mat for you.


L to R Joe DelRosso, Jim Barrett, Bryan Banks, Joe Wegleski

When musicians gather, the conversation is relentless and articulate and beer-soaked and sometimes doesn’t even require words. A glance across the stage at the guitarist who just nailed the solo….or a spin around at the drummer who is making the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. The unexpected harmony vocal falling down on your head like a soft summer rain. Watch when musicians gather at open mics and fall into impromptu jams. They are always smiling. It’s why the call it “playing”. Nobody “works” music. Well….some do I suspect. The ones I’m subjected to when my kids take over the car radio. But the people who sit in boardrooms and auto-tune voices for public consumption are one day going to grow old and sit in a confessional with a copy of “Live at Leeds” and beg forgiveness from a Priest whose life was transformed the night he saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Trust me. I know these things.

I played music with friends on Wednesday and Thursday this week and it made my week less lousy. Can you do better than that?

Can I articulate why? Well….I tried and that’s all I can do. I’ll say this as well. On our way to play music, we’re all listening to it. While preparing to play…we sing along to the jukebox. I’ve had times where during the intermissions musicians gathered outside in the parking lot with acoustic guitars for a quick play (perhaps a pull on the peace pipe here and there….but that’s what friends are for). When the gig is over, what happens? The jukebox is fired up immediately. And when the gear is all packed up and we’re heading home…..we’re singing along to the car stereo. There’s no thought process to any of these things. Our brains are wired this way. It’s like blinking. Or hating Trump.

And so to my brothers and sisters who fight the good fight with guitars and drums and keys and harps and the beauty and wonder of the human voice…..Wiggy and Jim and James and David and Joe and Joe and Joe and Luke and Mark and Bret and Edward and Bryan and Asialena and PJ and Chuck and Martin and Maggie and Jack and JP and John and Rob and Rob and Johnny and Tiff and Father Paul and Ronnie and Fran and Mark and Lenny and Gary and George and Chris and how many others……I say “thank you sir, can I have another…”

In a bit..


Categories: Uncategorized
  1. jimbob
    March 11, 2016 at 3:45 pm

    Mexican is not a race, islam is not a race, can you explain your comment calling him a racist ? Probably not!

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