Riffs get cheaper when you make them nostalgic. Like any good music, the soul is in the improv, the state where nothing exists but the sound.
It starts with a beat. You feel it in the depths of your stomach. Slow, easy, thrumming running through your veins. Your head starts to nod; tiny subtle motions at first, then deeper. With each passing moment, your movements become more persistent, more frantic, more primal. You donít seem to care who sees, because you canít ďseeĒ anymore.
Progressing, the guitar plugs in infectiously. It sings to you in a smoky voice, creaking and burning with each chord. It teasingly sears your skin and makes your lungs tingle. Every note draws you deeper and deeper, but you canít bear to pull away.
As youíre being lulled so fully into your paradigm state, a voice rips you back, old and experienced, from the mouth of a wide-eyed youth. You try to rationalize that heís lip-synching buy your vinegary, condescending thoughts merely float his oil voice straight through your rhino-thick skin.
He sounds so good, doesnít he? Donít you just want to find a way through that radio, the one thing that stands in your way of him? If you could, would you dance in front of him? Make love to him with your eyes? With your dance? Heís just that good to you, isnít he? Just like candy is too clichťd, but candy does taste so good.
Oh, you want to stop. You so want to stop. You want to pull that dam, Devil-loving plug from the wall and get away from its hedonistic noise. Choices, choices, choices, young one. To stay and to find the cure, the treatment to your jukebox cancer? Or deny yourself and believe that your childish ways can be regained, and that you can just go back to living in your delightfully tainted world.
Youíve realized itís tainted, havenít you? Itís tainted because of you, and yet, because of everything except you. And you want it to be tainted; you canít stand what your world was, but you donít want to stop with what it is. You want more, and more, and more, and youíre not willing to stop till you get it; you just donít know what it is, do you?
Not so many choices now, huh?
Well, you could change the station. You could listen to something more appealing, more mainstream. But you donít want that now. You want your drug-induced orgies. You want to get wasted on the wine and then by drunk by the music. For it is in you now, and you are in it. To deny it, is to deny what you can never beÖas long as you remain a mold.
So break your plaster cage and get up. Stand up and awaken your voice. Feed those who lust for the music. Not just for some music, not just for any music, but for THE MUSIC. The music that leaves the soul breathless and numb; broken from information overload.
One note. Thatís all it takes to break you, doesnít it? Just that one note. Is it the one when the music starts?
The one where you feel the hysteria welling up in your belly, and you just canít contain itÖso you just give in? So you just writhe, feeling the music possess you, every pore, every fiber of your being.
Or is the one at the end, where you drop from exhaustion; your body still pulsing from the music, but your fevered brain crying for mercy. Of course, you know that all youíre going to do is sleep; sleep, and dream, and wait for that one more time.
Itís that one note that counts, isnít it? Itís that one note that keeps you sane and the rest of the world crazy, and you love it that way. You want to know that youíre part of something only you can understand; part of something that no one else can find but you. You want something that can displace the frustration that you suffer daily. All because you canít do it yourself.
You canít change what hurts, can you? No, you can only change others, so that they hurt worse than you; and the musicíll take role, easily and without regret. Itíll do what you canít. What you canít, but what you want.
So go on; turn the music up. Force it louder than you can stand; loud, and rough, and in-your-face mean. Cause you wouldnít take your poison any other way; thatís just the way you like it.