A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
For the night he talked only when he had to, speaking mostly with his fingers dancing a forbidden dance across his guitar strings, affecting the audience in a way beyond the imagination of science or metaphysics.
Walking through the crowd, he never took off a beat, as fans desperately seeking some way to capture the moment forever lined up with their digital cameras and camera phones. I preferred to save the performance for my dreams.
Clearly I'm no professional music critic but I can tell revolutionary, purely original, advancing the art form type music by the way it affects my thoughts. My bastard spawn of Ken Kesey and Virgina Woolf stream of consciousness skips and skats to the musical food it is given.
Last night Buddy channeled my brain into a place where I even believed I could write cohesively about music.
While I am sad at the narrow minded, foolishly bottom line driven, conservative Columbia mistake to move the home of the man who single-handedly evolved the most divine of all art forms, I was certainly happy to see the release of all that frustration into those moods they call the Blues.
To be truthful, though the story began last Friday as I went out drinking with some co-workers. Got to talking about money, and memories, and the phrase got dropped: "You only regret the money you don't spend."
A few black and tans and lifetime changing live music stories later, I mention that Buddy Guy is currently in the midst of his final residency at his home club Legend's in Chicago, and that tickets are still available. I'd never seen him live before.
I ask if I have to go?
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