|
|
...the title of a massive a capella gospel hymn sung darkly on the soundtrack to Crossroads. Karate Kid meets Bluesman meets Lucifer. Shames Lucifer. You rock, Karate Kid. Well, the title makes sense. It's been almost a month since last I entered the studio. Two-week pre-emption thanks to the Jazz Marathon, another week sacrificed for the gearbox, normal rotation with the alternate, yet again. Makes it so easy to think that I could just walk away... ten years, see ya. Then the On Air light goes on... and, off we go. A little crusty on the performance, but there's that adrenaline surge again. Everything sounding nice. Pushing the Two-Chord Jam ejector button. Great new UB40 for the trays, themes suggesting themselves, an hour of soul-style Rock Steady. The way I'd like to hear it, if I were on the other side of the speakers. Screw you, Clear Ch*nnel Communications AND your playlists. Peppered with phone calls. Requests, concert suggestions, where-the-hell-were-you calls. Friends, DJs, Groovers. It's bigger than me.
My job... fix this. Put the sound in the ears that need or want to hear. "If you haven't heard it before, it's new to you." A thing of beauty is a joy forever. And not a single "motherfucker" in the lyrics. Before leaving town for the trip to the station, I led Inga to the gasoline trough. Next pump over, Hip-Hopping Honda Rice Rocket surrounded by pale central Virginia MandM wannabes (yes, I know how to spell it). Tachometer must've been graduated with "MFPM," as in "MotherFuckers Per Minute," and it was redlining. I'm thinking that these times are rough on the youth, but hoping that they survive to open their minds past the confines of crack house reality... and grab onto something that fires their imagination as thoroughly as this has done me. Guess I'll keep making the trip. Somebody been callin' my name. |
|
|
