Monday, October 7, 2013
The Withdrawals of You are Starting to Settle In
Since I came here about a month or so ago, I have been exposing myself to a myriad of different artists, songs, and films. There has been no break in the overcast sky pattern that tends to plague Lima during its dim winter. The sun shows itself rarely, if ever, and when it does you begin to see a taste of what the summer is expected to bring—people become more social; they blast their car stereos with all four doors open and begin dancing on the sidewalks. It's a glorious depiction, and one I love to witness when the rare moment occurs. But, unfortunately, this occurrence is quite seldom during this time of year, bringing instead a more subdued version—people shuffling down the cracked sidewalks, keeping to themselves with their eyes focused on the ground. It's not that they are inhospitable, they're just in that old winter mode which tends to produce a rather somber time of reflection. No one really enjoys winter, whether it brings thunderous blizzards and power outages, or simple overcast skies and a sense of despondence. It can be a struggle not to let the clouds beat your motivation to a bloody pulp, so I have been remedying my situation with some Peruvian beers and a little dash of Santana I-III. That's right, good ole' "Santana", "Abraxas", and "III". It's extremely refreshing to say the least, and does its best to make up for the sun's rude malfeasance, albeit the lack of physical light. Searing guitar leads, furious bongos, ambient minor sevenths, and a healthy dose of swirling and whirling organs do enough to produce their own, immortal brightness, despite delivering the usually-optical sensation through a completely different sense. But, no matter how brilliant a luminescence the music achieves, it creates a longing in my heart for my own electric guitars and strange array of effects and amps left at home. My acoustic did join me for my trip down here, and for that I am beyond appreciative, but I do sorely miss the electricity running through each note, delivering a reverberated sense of sustain and feeling. The buzzing hums of the seemingly liquid tones being bathed in oceans of delay and phase, giving way to a crescendo of crisp, clean, and thick chords—I miss it; I want it; I crave it. There is no replacement for that feeling of being in a dark, dank, smoke-festering little room with other musicians, jamming out to a universal feeling that is as harmonious within ourselves as it is in the notes and beats we play. The syncopated effort, among a lingering stench of cigarettes and big dreams, is a beautiful euphony that delivers an unparalleled sense of unity and accord. Music is an art imbued with a beautiful sense of symmetry, allowing you to disrupt its ambiguous congruity with sonic prodding and aural assault until you achieve a balance of your own desire. Bottom line: I'm having electric guitar withdrawals!