Rub a dub, three men in a recording studio, where the talk is like the music itself, which
is in play and in flux and is a form of communication underscored by a form of communion of which astrophysicists speak after sitting at a black board for months to work the terms of a black hole until it all finally falls into its proper actuation, with
the nominal and phenomenal exception that we don’t know where we’re going while floating in this tonal tub, but we’re working it all the same, as
phraseologies and currents of frequency bounce off three pairs of ears, of oars in the water, processed
through three separate brains in real time and sometimes you struggle to say what you’re thinking next, but
we all hear with more than our physiognomy and it always works one way or the other in real time,
four-quarter time, syncopated and synchronized in that shared space of rolling signal flow, now
then again the air is punctuated by the emotional high of a sequence that comes together, a trio of voiced rejoicing, the sound coalesced into fruition, the kind of which you never saw coming and therefore is all the sweeter for the fruit.
You happy? You good? I’m so good, we’re all so fine with it, we’re all so very fine. This is music, not as determination or even destination, but soley the process of getting somewhere by good intention and faith the size of a semitone. If the whole world knew that kind of magic, why…
it would feel like we could all say adios to war.