At the Bruce Cockburn gig tonight I heard songs that are already part of me, lyrics that echo in my head - spirits open to the thrust of grace; all the spells that I could sing; the minds' eye runs out along the steel rail - and new songs that will be part of me now, from the image of sunrise tinting the snow pink to the angled, jangling jazz piano riffs. Songs of hope and despair, faith and pain, terror and wonder. He squeezes his guitar with those clever fingers and out come lilting, swooping, chiming, singing, flying notes that pour the poetry into the blood through the mind.
writing about music is like dancing about architecture, so my hands shape the angles of a roof, my hips echo the curve of a garden path, my head tilts up to see the sunlight on the building. You can't describe - but maybe you can embody it.
And I think peteyoung enjoyed it too ;-)