May 2, 2017

Night Magic

Of the songs I performed at my gig two Sundays ago, one of my favourite was Walking the Dead. It's got some real vocal and guitar drone to it, punctuated by shrieks of the guitar.
And I get to bellow out pure pain in vocal bliss and lyrical confession on those final notes before leaving the audience stunned into momentary silence.

Only, I didn't play Walking the Dead at the gig. It isn't even finished yet. It's just that playing that night in many ways felt like being in my own dark, greenlit bubble with massive reverb leaving my voice to float like tendrils across the empty carpet and curl around the silhouettes of watching humans, guitar purring and growling (though often awkwardly like a bad cat that wants out of its laundry prison). And in that space, it feels timeless, like it still exists, like I'm still in that eerie, comfortable spotlight. It was dissociative, so I can detach it from its spot on the timeline and move it anywhere and play anything within it.

And I choose to play many songs there, one being Walking the Dead. It's like having a stage in my house, but I have it in my head.

But the more you play a memory, the more you rewrite it, and the tape slowly turns to fuzz.
Then I guess you go make a new memory.

No comments:

Post a Comment