Starting only with a feeling, or maybe just the impression of a feeling, I attack the guitar. I've never seen the virtue for my own music in the intricate complexity of skilled play. I like the warm familiarity of full chords, struck with ferocity or joy, syncopating to the pulse of a feeling, or maybe just the impression of a feeling. Dancing, or compelling to dance, through the trance of chord progressions, I herd the hearers with dissonance and resolution along the rise and fall of the melody, a particular path through the terrain of the harmony of the whole. When the feeling, or maybe just the impression of a feeling, crystallizes in my throat, I pull it up with my mind and push it up with my viscera into words. I try to mean just enough, but not too much. I try not to convey concrete ideas, to tell a story without falling into a plot. I'm not particularly interested in the soul interruption of a narrative. I want to convey something more primitive, like a feeling, or maybe just the impression of a feeling. I don't like to dress up songs as though they are obligated to pretend to be more beautiful, more meaningful than they really are. A song should be allowed the dignity of being whatever it is, of coming to be in the heart and mind of every hearer. If the song that lives in you has rapport with the original song, the song that lived in me, then I have done well. I have given you more than sound. I have given you a feeling, or maybe just the impression of a feeling.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Talk to me, won't you?
Later. Love.
