Jukebox
Blues, Moon: Music, an Extension of Life
Arthur Miller, Aleck “Big Boy” Crudup, Barbecue Bob, Big Joe Turner, Big Mama Thornton -- just a few names that come to mind. And there are so many more innovators who have touched me. Without knowing them, I consider them my friends. I listen to them, spend time with them, allow their stories to melt into mine. Any time of the day or night will do. And Bessie Smith, yes. I love the old, old Blues, the originals. It is the raw sound that gets me -- the gut-level feel, the rhythm, the deep and complex heart of it all. It bleeds out a certain desperate energy that stands the test of time, making a definite mark that can change the world through this: one soulfully rich creation.
Undeniably real.
These people lived and breathed music that came straight from their lives, and the sometimes gravelly, imperfect nature of it is perfection to me. Some recordings that I have are hard to hear, back yard albums, and I can almost imagine the scene -- the white house, the rocking chair, the porch, the chipped paint, the pot luck, the lover, and the lonely dog. Strangely, these rough, spontaneous songs both soothe me and call out to me, hitting me right smack in my chest's center. Many may sound familiar, as they have been redone so many times over the years, and yet they always have a primitive, wild, fresh feel. I believe there is genius in the green simplicity of these scattered songs and voices. Full of fierce intensity and charm, they put me right in the moment. Back then, people joined in, whoever was there. They were in it together.
When listening, I can almost see the smiles and the tears.
I believe that life is best here -- inside spontaneous, soulful gatherings. Downtown Roanoke, I used to frequent a tiny dive called The Full Moon Café. There, love was quick and wild. Tuesdays, the band Radar Rose led an open mic, and it often turned into a drum circle that lasted late into the night, sometimes early morning, and the crowds always spilled off into the square. The Full Moon, although it was grimy as hell, was one of the richest music venues I’ve ever experienced. Picture hippies with necks full of hemp, punks with Mohawks, kids with ink and pierced-up faces, homeless people, wealthy businessmen, college students, people from the mountains, people from the valleys, working men and women, skaters, misfits, and criminals. Everywhere, tattered plaid shirts and homemade jewelry. And the most interesting part about it was that we all hung out together. If people weren’t playing music, they drank, smoked, kissed, danced, and the scene was always absolutely random, but somehow, on any given Tuesday, it always proved to work out just right.
Reckless, yet I never saw a fight. What if the world were this way? Utterly spontaneous, yet peaceful. Places like this, songs like this, they scream out peace. Music -- a part of breath, motion, and the struggle for existence. There is an awesome presence buried within these honest words and notes. As it was in the old Blues, music can become an extension of life, when the words and melody come straight from the musician’s journey, straight from his or her veins.
C.A. MacConnell
