The music starts when you manage to show up. It’s all around in campsites, people humming to themselves, bands of roving guitars and banjos…park the car and drink it in…a few days given over to nothing but constant listening.
Voices waited many days and hours to unleash, and the singing never winds down. Not at midnight, not at four in the morning…drift off and wake and it’s the same…some song in the distance, so get up.
The sun shone to wake me three days in a row. Coming in through the passenger window. The Sunday Revival is what slayed the most thoroughly. Generations of musicians played Wake Up Jesus Gospel “WHO is G*d, and do we really know HER” songs, to mark the morning time. Little riffs learned some time ago from somebody who isn’t here, but used to be.
I’m alone with all this history, all this music. It hits me with so much force that I have to pass it along. And so I do. Over two hundred videos that can’t even begin to capture the energy of leaving it all behind. He catches some of it, some of it just passes by. He marks time and grounds me enough that I can let go. Andrew.
Without a camera, it’s hard to see. I put it down and wander off, uncertain that I’ll find my way back to this spot. The car dies. It protests all the little errands and life hacks that only complicate matters. It’s just dead, until that jump start…..
……..driving home with a head full of music and a heart that got to suspend itself in the middle of families, memories, childhoods passing right before our eyes….it keeps going, and so do I.