I wanted to sing a song to myself, pull out an old, familiar tune to set my heart to in hopes of lifting this soaking wet curtain from around my head. But the notes fell on deaf ears. That music just won’t move me like it used to. So, I picked up my 6 string accoustic assistant that goes by the name of Alice. She’s dark and beautiful and, normally, we make the night time dance to the melodies that resonate from the action of my fingers across her strings. But every note sounded sour and out of tune, so I put her away before my frustration with the notes that won’t play and the songs I can’t hear or write for whatever reason pushed me to do something drastic.
For having been so close for so long, mistress music, you seem light years in distance from where I’m sitting now. Having lost my grip on anything that strikes my ears in the ways that they used to, I’ve resorted to silence and writing this letter to you.
Since childhood, I’ve been in love with your magic in the absence of silence. Popping cassettes into my mom’s boombox from days before I was born and losing myself to the sounds of a million different voices that resonated smoke filled rooms and outdoor arenas when my mom was my age. You were still a stranger then, madam, but you still infected me with sonic invention and prepared me for what would come later.
Teenage years is when I came into my own tastes with the gritty guitars of punk rock. Popping in that first dubbed cassette and hearing AFI come through the stereo for the first time and I new it was love and it was because it was me that I heard through those cheap speakers, that was my anger and my outrage in those years when friends were few, the school days were long and the summer days were even longer. You… you brought a new concept to my heart and to my mind that there were people out there who knew what it was like to be me and their feelings known through the buzzsaw guitars and buzzsaw drum beats with snare hits like gunshots. It was there I found acceptance in you when I couldn’t find it from my peers. I belonged somewhere and, while the people who were like me weren’t tangible, at least I knew they existed and I wasn’t the only alien.
Punk rock fed my fury into heavier music and that was where I learned the true extent of the expression of the darkest parts of myself that I thought no one would want to see. When you’re a musician, you bear it all or you go home. It’s that simple. When I picked up my guitar, I felt you and I couldn’t take the onslaught or the fury and so I expelled what I could of you in my violent motions. You were my muse then and you taught me to feel what I was playing and put my heart, mind and soul into it.
So, for all the cassettes, CD’s, LP’s and DVD’s and the countless hours of listening, writing and practicing I find myself run dry and empty. I wonder where you have gone and why, oh why, mistress music, you have foresaken me? You don’t strike my heart like a hammer to hot iron but like a hammer straight to the anvil. And it hurts sometimes. Is this something you can grow out of or has my soul just gone colder than it has in a long time and I just haven’t noticed? I have always been the person to get so buried in music that, even through the stereo, I have to find my way to the top again to catch a breath. Now, it’s all a memory. Where did all the passion go?