Take music and art and combine them together in the mindset of a nineteen year old, go on, I’ll give you the time, 19, maybe 20, a sophomore in college. And you’ve got this thing where you still can’t talk to people, even one person really, without feeling like all 20,000 students at this very right-wing South Carolina State School are watching you, passing judgements, making corrections,waiting in line to point out all the things you are doing wrong.
But music is loud and something to get lost in. And on most nights you can be found, propped up in a chair in your dorm room, facing your stereo: Denon Amplifier, twin Kef Speakers that when you sit close enough, you swear you can hear the singer strain their voice when they get to the part of the song that upsets them.
Music, all the little notes and all of those lyrics make up all the words you want to say but can’t.
But then you meet a friend who is also a musician, a guitarist who just so happens to write and play in your favorite band in town. So speech is not necessary, and when it is necessary, it is about the only thing that the two of you deem necessary, music.
When he sits on your dirty dorm room floor, he plays the things you want to say, the things you will one day try to write but can’t even picture what that looks like yet.
All you have in this world right then is you and him and beer and an acoustic guitar. All you have is his southern drawl, working its way around the Who, the Byrds, and maybe, if the timing is right, he’ll sing a little, Love Minus Zero, No Limit. He’ll sing that Dylan song, he’ll sing “She says there’s no success like failure, and failure is no success at all.”