Wait until next year

It is a noise.

A beautiful noise. Something kind of spiritual, although that is just too easy to say, sounds throwaway, clichéd. The kind of thing you should say. That others say. That you have read. Will read. But true. Some kind of truth. Listen and be there in the moment. Not a music to pick apart, analyse, understand. But a music to live within, again sounds throwaway, clichéd. It all sounds that way when you say it. Whatever you say. It all sounds that way when you write it down. Whatever you write. Perhaps the best music leads to the most leaden responses. Leaden sentences. Leaden explanations. They don’t belong here but that is all I can manage. Jazz. More than just jazz. The sound of street bands, in the next street. Street bands that you don’t get where you are, where you live right now. If they are anywhere these days. If they ever were. Those street bands you imagine march down those streets you’ve never walked down, but would love to walk down one day, if you could find where they are, those streets, those bands. Those streets where you could walk, then sit, take a drink, take it all in. Some kind of joy. How church music might sound. Should sound. How those carefully ramshackle bands who take risks but don’t really take risks we all like would sound like if they dared. If they were a little less careful. This could be our post-rock. If that meant anything. Labels. Folk music. Labels. Of its time. Out of time. A moment in time, captured. But a whole lot more than that. Not time. Don’t unpick it though. It might unravel. Maybe it already has. Don’t check. Might disappear. As we might disappear down those alleys we always disappear down. Fill in too many gaps. Or not enough. Make it what we want it to be. Not what it is. Whatever it is. Projection. Validation. Whatever we look for from music, art, sound, noise. We could say be within it, whatever that means. Whatever it is. Like that matters. Be within it. Just listen.

Just listen. This exists. Listen. It is a start. Start.