A clear voice separated itself from the din,
singing,
“I remember being free! I remember being free!”
It was one of those moments that we can all
point to in our lives that just makes sense; just
feels right. My friend and I were sitting in the
back of the room, already entranced by the happenings
of the night. The words struck me to my soul and I
knew that I would be writing about them.
Music is the great equalizer. Every person has
the song that gives them definition or clarity. Every
culture has a rhythm or style that binds its people.
Music can be a middle ground in conflict or a battle
line drawn. It can be magical, like an elixir for the
soul. A simple chord can call the senses to attention,
raise the hair on the back of a neck, tug at the
heartstrings. It reminds me of magical words that
I heard over twenty years ago on my old turntable,
words that have stuck with me all these years.
“I can’t wait to share this new wonder. The
people will all see its light. Let them all
make their own music. The priests praise my
name on this night.”
Now anyone that is familiar with the old Rush
classic album “2112” knows that the priests weren’t
doing any praising at the end of that song. But as a
twelve-year-old boy, I was dancing with the discovery.
I had a similar feeling sitting in the back of that
smoky room. A thrown-together ensemble playing an
improvised groove conspired for a new magic moment
for me. The flamboyant wall of sound thrown out by
the lead electric base, the double rhythm of the two
drummers, and the soaring notes of the tenor saxophone
all sprawled majestically over the orchestrated chaos
of a hot DJ. Throw in some rappers and it makes for a
one-of-a-kind experience.
The singer's name was Aretha and I had never seen
her before, though she was obviously a regular and a
favorite of the bandleader. She clearly struggled to
find her place amongst the cacaphony all around her,
but she brought the power up from her soul and the rest
were muted for a magic few seconds. My heart was with
her up there on stage.
Six months ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of going
to this show. My ex(?)-girlfriend has been an advocate
for my expanding my musical horizons. Opening my ears to
something new, as it were. The fact that it’s a one-way
argument is beside the point. I have taken her words to
heart. That is what I’ll examine in this issue of the
“Times.” There is more to this great world than one genre
of music, one type of writing, one type of movie. The
stockpot is full of an ancient and diverse mixture of
sound. Fasten your safety belts and enjoy the ride.
Terry Bowman
Editor
"21st Century Times"
