|
|
It just occurred to me that i'm wearing the same shirt that i wore the night i saw Roy Orbison. It's not nearly as black as it was then. There's a small rip, since repaired, on the sleeve. But the aura still rises off of it. Since tickets were ordered as early as possible, we were three rows from the front of the stage at Wold Trap... close enough to see the glint off of the shades. Carl Perkins opened... with his two sons, he machine-gunned some of the best roots rockabilly to the bass boom of a thunderstorm that tried to crash the party. When the guest of honor took his place in front of the microphone, the heavens hushed. Eveyone who was on the lawn moved closer, under the open-air roof. And the angels listened. Gone for years from performing, long after losing his first wife, then his two sons to a fire... you'd wonder how anyone could have the will to make music to set the spine humming like a tuning fork. But will, he possessed. Finding notes a man half his age would crack to reach... then stopping the rhythm, and doing it again. Twining voices with the feminine chorus like a tapestry of hurt... and triumph. Sturm und Twang. I don't think i'll be getting rid of this garment. |
|
|
