Somewhere Down The Crazy River

Listening to Somewhere Down the Crazy River by Robbie Robertson and thinking about sultry nights under heavy moons when you can’t sleep so you walk the streets of the city. You’re not looking for trouble, but you’re open to trouble finding you. The night is to explore and life is waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes you are too much energy mixed with alcohol, no ice, and the night ends with harsh words with boys who want to be men but are untested. They puff out their chests and their legs go stiff, the easier for the breaking. They don’t really want to fight. That’s why they lose.

Sometimes it’s a slow dance on a dirty dance floor. Her: big hair, red, red lipstick, high heels and nothing to say. You: leather jacket, big, sincere smile and a false name.

These are the nights before the path is truly chosen. If you’re lucky, you don’t fall into choosing. You stay upright and conscious and live forever.

If you stay righteous, you walk away from mortality and refuse to get mired in the deep mud. In youth, you have to move like water because fire burns. Mortals get caught by branches and twigs along the narrow path and lose their way into Ordinary. They wind up trapped in canyons that echo the same thoughts off bone walls. They see, hear, taste, speak and live and die nothing new.

The gravel in Robbie Robertson’s voice knows the rough road. His music rises above stupid fights with anonymous wannabes. Somewhere Down the Crazy River is a lazy current to a mystical place where you confront yourself and lose your bullshit in the soulful sound of yearning and needing and wanting more than Ordinary.

It’s a song about how to live, awake and aware. If you don’t want to be mortal, listen to Robbie, over and over, until you are lifted and carried on that slow river of heart and mind.

The one thing you gotta learn is not to be afraid of it. You like it now? You’ll love it later.

On Writing and Word Jazz: When anything could happen

I’m listening to “Wind” by Ibrahim Maaloouf. I am inside and outside of the music at the same time. It’s smoky, bluesy jazz, the sort that uses rich, full notes to have a conversation with your soul about emptiness. I am acutely aware of my aching distance from this bar scene, this cherished scar. 

The air is blue. Maybe that’s the lighting or maybe that’s the hanging cigarette smoke, curling and twisting slowly. Maybe that’s my mood. Maaloouf’s muted trumpet is the instrument most like a mournful loon echoing across a lake at night.

The floor is sticky with splashed beer and spilled grenadine. We swirl our drinks, making them last. We all sway slightly in Maaloouf’s wind, to the feelings the musician stirs. Each breath is heat and lime, igniting need and imagination. Rum is a pickpocket, slipping away with our shyness. The city makes us turn away from each other, avoiding eye contact. Maaloouf, in this bar, now, lets us meet each other again.

The suits are sharp and the ties are leather and thin. The fedoras are not ironic. The curvy woman at the bar wears fire engine lipstick. She looks my way as she sucks an ice cube. Cue glances that turn to smouldering gazes and flirtatious smiles. We are each other’s next glorious mistake. Once we leave this room, anything could happen.

Remember when anything could happen? 

The waiting, melancholy rain makes me want to linger over our drinks, contemplating possibilities. There is sadness, but it’s the romantic kind to revel in. It’s okay to be honest about my feelings on a night like this. I won’t be so free to be honest again until I’m in my seventies.

When I listen to Maaloouf, I’m not even thirty. I am awake and I won’t even think of making my way home to my own bed until dawn. Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? The slide has begun, sure, but I can still say my potential isn’t wasted. Not yet. 

I wish I played jazz. I could still write but I could riff. I could play the same song over and over and my audience would plead to hear it again, exactly the same. I could produce art in three or four-minute sprints of genius instead of book-length marathons. You’d dig it and I’d be cool. Every night would be this night, real and unreal, a scene from a movie before the complications ensue.

If I were Maaloouf, I’d hear the applause from the stage. From my desk…. No.

I’m listening to “Wind” by Ibrahim Maaloouf. There is sadness, but it’s the romantic kind to revel in. I can almost taste the santo libre.