May Have Never Heard Before
"I want to hear something with horns," I say, finally.
"Cool," John DeVore replies.
"Have you heard this one?" I ask, handing the CD to John.
He takes the CD, questions and admires its quiet and nameless cover art, turns it on its side to read the spine, and: "Oh! Calexico. No, I haven't heard this."
Happy and satisfied, I announce: "Track three."
John cues the track. I move towards the couch. "Sit in the center," John urges.
Track three of In the Reins is called "A History of Lovers," a story of a man perhaps meant to murder:
Louise came to rescue me, missing the irony
Blood made her heart change its beating
I hope that she's happy, I'm blamed for the death
Of a man she found better than me
I move to the center of the couch, anxious. And then. I was not prepared. I could never have been prepared. How could I have been? And, I've found, it's been the same way each time since: I am caught off guard. I would like for this never to end. I want never to be prepared.
Monty says he is happy for me. He is happy, but he is also jealous. Jealous of these first few hours I spend re-experiencing my favorite songs. He says:
You are where we would all love to return.
How special this seems, and sad. It hadn't occurred to me. I hadn't thought of it having to end. But, maybe that's what it's like to be ready for love.
"Do you think you're ready?" she asked me.
Maybe to love is to see no end, to never be concerned with the possibility of loss. Or maybe that's just stupidity, carelessness, ignorance, the whole man before the crippling crash.
For three minutes and nine seconds, from the opening strum of thick acoustic guitar to the finale of glorious trumpet rush and triumphant cymbal splash, I sit, unable to hide my smile, no control whatsoever over my stupid, silly grin. I am happy. It is so special. To have this happening in my own living room
Thank you. I can't believe I have a listening room. I hear myself think: I can't believe I have a listening room, I can't believe I have a listening room, I wonder if it's a good listening room, I wonder how big my sweet spot is…
And then, "Red Dust" begins.
"This is what I was waiting for," John says. "This is when I like them the most. When everyone is doing something that seems so simple, but there's really so much going on."
I nod. It's all the space in between, it seems to me. The simple riffing, the notes dancing and twisting, the spare drumming all together creating just so much aloof and almost careless (or perhaps better to say: carefree) ambiguity, all leaving so much space for interpretation and misinterpretation, raising questions that beg to be answered, or if not answered because what perfection really wants to be uncovered, what puzzle really wants to be solved? at least approached, discussed, wanted. The space left clean compels and keeps and holds.
"Women like mystery," JA tells me.
"Screw it," I say, stupidly.