Music & Video

I picked up a guitar when I was young, and for a long time, its strings gave my fingers the means to let that voice get out what it could – to the extent that an average talent allowed anything at all. For three decades, that guitar was how I communicated with those around me. My mouth, merely adding more confusion and complication to an already disheveled existence – it came down to my fingers, working across those strings for order and a calming structure, to blunt the mania of a life in constant threat of a complete collapse into full blown anarchy.

Still, there was only so much that those strings would allow my fingers, or that my fingers could deliver even if the strings gave them more than what they possessed in themselves. After all, there were more than 12 notes screaming inside my head. Even if you factored in every potential for accents, timbre and rests providing those 12 notes with proper context and environment, that voice was seething with frustration at being trapped within a skull that had no idea how to give it the kind of liberty it craved.