It was a cool 75 degrees, the windows of my sedan rolled down as we cruised along Sutter Avenue. XM radio played in the background, cars whishing past almost muting the announcer’s voice as she introduced the next song, one long anticipated. I slowed for a red light, listening to short drum strokes, the eruption of musical accompaniment, a familiar voice I always found comfort in, one I’d replay, surprised each time by its tonal distinctions, its built-in depth, a time-release capsule rippling through verse, chorus, bridge.
Musicians on guitar and keyboard frolicked up and down scales; drummers beat rhythms into congas and snares with calloused hands and sticks. Music and lyrics came together just right, a story about life’s pendulum swaying between self and other, flight and stillness, togetherness and absence, pinpointing the spaces they intersect, brief glimpses into mysterious and magical moments, the kind of peace we yearn but can never own.
And as the song ended–a careful, intentional fading–meaning lingered. It was a whisper I could still hear and feel against my ear, its warmth an invitation to return again and again.