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"