Bourdain and me
Sometimes I think I am done with music. I fantasise anxiously about entering the actual world of adult, garages and retirement funds and corporate coffee corners.
But then there’s Saturday night and it’s past midnight and I sit in front of a piece I haven’t touched since six months and I enter the world of sound, of voices , those echoes I so strongly relate to.
Hours go by and I just let one fraction of a sound repeat itself and I think : if this isn’t what I am supposed to do in life, then I really don’t know. I really don’t know.
I am in love with my music. I do often wonder whether it is delusion or real; if my music was that great, wouldn’t it be heard all over? I don’t know. I really don’t know.
My ears are my brains. My hearing is my greatest gift, my ability to hear sound while k write notes on paper, these are the gifts and joys I bring into this world. Some people might think it is strange and it for sure might be, but there is an endless fountain of joy there, an almost appetite-like satisfaction that fills you up with each bite.
Hours become brothers and the pieces get made, released, written, rehearsed, recorded, forgotten and I sigh. Not because I have to. Because I need to.