The Good, The Bad, & The Unaffected (an Opinion Piece)

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With the expansion of civilization, and the rise of the technology machine, the outlaw, in many aspects, died. What emerged to fill the gap in the American psyche was the rock musician. To be free to be who they wanted, to play how they wanted, with no rules binding their creativity they thrived. The can be found in any garage, shack, concert hall, park, dive bar, or lounge, from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

When they are good they may be too perfect, a quality only a producer  or industry could love. When they are bad, or ugly, it is not for the audience, but for them alone that they play. Sure they may love or hate the audience, or lack their of.

(Or the intensely care free unaffected dancers, who grew up in the sixties, and have no mind to care what people think or inhibitions.. may fall on their faces in their dancing revelry. As a child of the 70’s I envy their silly freedoms.)

They may steel a young gun from the audience, to cajole him into joining their raucous revelry, and he may want to be a part of that, ego, and enjoyment uniting as one.. if only for a few songs. When he gets on stage he tries to hang on for dear life as the gang rides the melody around him… but he will survive and thrive, while the music plays.

But really, the music, the vibe, the gang they are with on stage, is completely and truly for the musician, to give everything he has in his soul, his feeling into the sound emanating from his guitar/ to keep the beat of the drum in time with the others, so that he fits in somewhere, if just for one moment/ to sound bluesy and cool with a rusty voice and a base and imagine the song is his/ theirs and theirs alone, stolen by the legends that created it, if only borrowed for a moment, turning and twisting it in such a way that it and always will be theirs in the essence of time.

Sure they croon, flap and flirt with the audience wanting them to enjoy the ride they are on just as much as they are; but in reality it’s a rag tag gang of thieves; riding the dusty stage with their instruments in hand, carrying a tune in time with each other, (comrades in musical arms) and each of them, with their own singular thoughts, loves, doubts, and cries, as long as the music plays… ’til the last song of the night.

(inspired by local artists, & D.R., who misses riding with his Pals)

by Sophia Bungay. Wickedlydrivenmedia @2017

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