"Without music, life would be a mistake." , said once a mustachioed fellow.
What kind of silly question is “Do you like music?”?, because everyone likes to listen somethin' that they can’t say, but the melodies or lyrics can; can take what you feel inside.
All the “good” composers (because there is a LOT of crappy musicians) understand that connection between the feelings -the things you can not tell by the guilt of the useless words- and the compositions. Chopin understood that connection, by playing piano –that monster- and make it cry and laugh; he put at the melodies the anger, the sadness, the desolation, the Love –in his real leanguage: the Music-, the childhood, the Time that not forgives and all that crucible of things that we call “feelings”. Hendrix understood too, by his way. He could talk the lenguage of his guitar, he could make love to her and fall in the torrent of the melodies, the ecstasy of the holy communion among man and Music.
Saving the list of artist (or wizards) who could touch the Hidden Muse – Cobain, Curtis, Wagner, Reed, Bowie, Morrisey, Morrison, Parra, York, Sinatra, Sabina, and a long etc.-, I’ll keep with the last poète maudi: Bob Dylan, or Rimabud with a guitar slung on his back.
But, why Dylan? Just because the lyrics, as a mirror of the soul of the deprived of life and the commons feelings, the ones who maximize the emotions, or experience emotions as they should be lived. Listening to their songs, I feel like I’m reading my very own diary, as if this life has already been experinced; or this soulmate is telling me the history of my life, telling me about the scars of time, with his guitar. And while I’m paying attention, cigarretes ashes there they go on the floor.
