Growing up every Saturday afternoon I knew I could find my father in his bedroom playing records on an old record player. As I got a little older he advanced to big speakers attached to whatever the newest computer model he could afford to have. The one constant however was the music.
The man taught me the love of sound.
The feel of the bass coming through the floorboard and pounding a distinct rythm into my soul.
The sound of the harmonies had an absolute calming effect on whatever stresses my childhood overthinking had caused over the last seven days.
He would pull out a chess set sometimes for us to spar without words. Shifting little wooden pieces around the board attempting to out -think each other.
I’ve managed to fall in love with music just the way he does. Every sort of music has heart and soul, even if its not my taste.
I envy those that can close their eyes and play their feelings on an instrument. I dawdled and gave feeble attempts but was never able to truly make magic happen. Not even the type of magic originally spun by someone else.
I’ve come to accept my place in the musical world is simply through someone else’s imagination.
Instead I dedicate every emotion I feel, and every Saturday afternoon, to loud speakers attached to a music playing device like my daddy taught me.