I recall first hearing music, when lounging on a living room carpet, below a timber-framed TV. It was 1990; The Saw Doctors were bringing "I Useta Lover” to the Late Late Show.
In 94, from the cab of a Vanette in Roscommon town, I heard Whigfield’s “Saturday Night”. The tones soaked into my bones like butter on steaming roosters. Ears hung on every line; as heels hammered the street to the disco and amber sodium vapour stretched down Main Street like a runway.
Music can draw you in and paint a backdrop of your life. Years later it can haul you back to old times in new places. Memories flood the wiser mind; as brass, keys, strings, wind or drums; springboard from the stage or stereo.
Snug in vinyl furrows, iron filings, CDs, mp3s, or laminated in the soul of a live performer; music seeks release, to free the artist from the art, to enchant the listener to jump on-board.
From a young age, I’d become fired up; whenever I realised I shared a space with a musical instrument. It became the fulcrum of the room. Christmas later brought a nylon-stringed guitar; overtime each string was set free from the neck. In the late 90’s a Tanglewood moved in; aimless anthems began to merge with reason. The rest has wrought into history.
I hope my sounds render well in your life and encourage you to also explore a creative chasm.