Luminescence
All the words I write seemingly have no reach.
Which wouldn’t be problematic if I wasn’t writing to be read.
It’s crickets as they say. With kisses from a very small circle of dearest. A few of which are supporting me in this season of internal exploration of how scarcity develops meaning inaccuracies. What meaning do I give to the lack of engagement, to the crickets? Scarcity, the precipice demon in the climax of story.
Something of potency. Intensity. Necessary intimidation in the chemistry of art production for consumption. The classic love hate relationship playing out.
Truth is, I love the intensity and intimidation, which is why I don’t resist the curation of words penned by me. I like the persuasion of crickets, a lullabic serenade into the unknown space of the night.
And I think I am unoriginal in the necessity of tension.
I reasonably presume the artists I write about have touched, at least a time or two, the same.
As a consumer of art, I prefer the vibration of music above all else.
Close second, literary works and then film. But this is a musing on the first, a musing on music as medicine for both those that create it and those that consume.
I’m predictably human like the rest of us, so there are preferences within the preference. Particularly with music, I lean towards the outliers cloaked in some measure of obscurity, but with haunted talent. I like how that vibe soundtracks my personal work.
Music creates infrastructure, walls for energetic creation, and it’s currently on tap, through technology. A redeeming quality for this insanely dark time in human history. Access is so valuable given it’s the employ of humans to create, regardless of their willingness. Science has proven cells sync with vibrations, frequency, and energy as the cells understand it. Music curates resonance.
Presently I am bathing in luminescent continuance, flow akin to a spring river, this is more than streaming music. It’s even more than attention and respect for graceful kings and queens roaring naturally, it’s the felt sense of love, in the center of not just me but a sea of human beings.
The path revealed of how I came to unexpectedly be at a show that I can’t not write about.
A human who holds adoration and love for me, knowing what I yet did, offered me tickets to Gregory Alan Isakov and The Lumineers, just a few hours prior to a show last week.
My preferences for haunting obscurity, lyrical depth, and vibrational resonance, soundtrack intimacy with the darkest versions of myself, that’s been Isakov on common occasion. So, the romantic in me wants to weave a story about how some past version of me breathing through movement and into stillness with Isakov resonating infrastructure in my ears through old skull candy headphones, brought me into live integration of the same tracks. Brought me to some kind of manifestation magic that continues to feel like a reclamation of joy previously stolen.
And reclamation is a comprehensive healing endeavor. Isakov offers powerful infrastructure and permission to occupy individual obscurity for personal reclamation missions on “caves“, where he suggests going back for what was left behind, sojourns into the history of the past. An elegant repel into the echoed acoustics of the self, tis one gives voice to the 8-14 year old spelunking Audrey, who has a lot to say. The affinity for language in the supportive lyrics support expression processing and filing.
(practiced repel Audrey in the foyer of childhood home, circa sometime in the late 80’s or early 90’s)
‘If I go I’m Goin’ held space for a therapeutic plant medicine processing in my childhood home earlier this year. Metaphorically this muse illustrates the character of a house and how it contains the humans who create within it, along with the complexities of intimate relationships, like addressing appearances contradicting actualities. Could be a representation of some external home or human yes, but the real game changer is when the resonance is entirely with self. The haunted stuck self of the past still smoldering from the necessary combustion of the phoenix within it.
(grown Audrey in the very same foyer 30+ years later taken inside the journeyed experience - photographer Anna Boynton)
Incredible artists pair well in performance containers, like wine with a meal. It’s not always the headliner vouching for the opener, for me with this show it was very much the other way around. Isakov figuratively and literally opened me up to utilizing the Lumineers more consciously. The symbiosis happening between these two groups of musicians dances like the northern lights and even sometimes overlaps through exchanged covers.
That’s what brought me to the mainstream where I might stay for a while and enjoy the vibes of Royalty.
The last Lumineer season for me was their first, at least formally lit and outside of their ‘free beer’ performing days. The self-titled debut album was a quick launch into vibrant stardom and diverse relevance, so I let it rest there, with a bloom or two for what it takes to ride the wave out of the unknown and into the luminescent spotlight. I found an occasional singular muse in the albums that followed but arrogantly resisted a full listen. Which I’ve recently discovered was just me withholding medicine from the self.
Group love making, that’s the intimacy of lyrical stories that writers often share during live shows, vulnerable interconnection through language art. When Wesley Shultz shared live the origin story of ‘Where We Are’ my ducts opened a waterfall of emotion. How do humans survive the violence of metal collapsing at high speeds? Wesley did. And so did my personal lover. Who did not know where he was in the overturning of our family vehicle, and neither did our then 5 year old, who confirmed his survival by inquiring around what had occurred from the belly of deployed bags all around him. I was the human approaching the vehicle afraid of the probability of death, and what we all wanted more than anything was someone to tell us we would be okay. A violent flying through space seems to me to be more portal than anything, we are all changed through it.
(this one seems reasonably obvious, our car the day after in the wreckage lot)
Duality seems to be a planetary curriculum for all existence within it, and “walls’ illustrates duality created dissonance happening in an individual, which brings the same into relationship, creating confusion and tension, which is actually a tortuous but brilliant and often necessary medium to work with.
‘AM Radio’ is the anthem I’ve developed an addiction to. It’s not a medicine room infrastructure, it’s a dance with or at least around my lover, the one whom I’m sharing a consistently evolving relationship with. We’ve been through some breakups energetically, maybe could say an energetic divorce, but he’s the one thing I could never give up.
Close second is writing. I couldn't give it up if I tried, I know because I’ve attempt to almost daily. My mind will craft words without me, I do well to surrender and create with it, even if I am bringing a bag of tortured resistance with me. That’s actually what’s sort of happening right now. The stream of words flows simultaneous to sound waves and lyrics. I’m just a human with a busy mind and a penchant for damn good music. Audacious enough to say this might the singular qualifier for the creation of a music review.
The artistry of musicianship deserves well articulated public reviews, which I presume is in abundance out there in the world of everyone has a voice at their fingertips. Though I am not presently exposed to the literary muses on the spectrum of music review, not many issues of stones rolling through my awareness, nor hidden gems written by others on substack, or even instagram. I’m wondering if the total lack of awareness around the current styles and practices might actually be an advantage and additive to the joy that can be derived in uninfluenced writing?
Perhaps the independent music journalist, rogue writing without the standards of industry, has something to offer in the end, even if it’s only to herself. That's the endearing quality of music as medicine, it’s both personal and completely unoriginal at the exact same time.