As if yesterday’s chagrin wasn’t enough, now my throat burns and I can’t speak. I cough but the phlegm seems to stick, my nose — however — runs like a maniac.
I blame this on the dusty venue from last night. We watched Ely’s concert and the seats were covered with thick dust. I could only imagine how much we were surrounded by invisible specks as the music traveled through them, within them.
Last night we listened to dust.
He doesn’t sing like he used to. Not anymore. We miss the others. We miss the rawness of the act. We miss the connection. We miss the awkward tunes, the “non-rockstariness” of you. We miss your old version.
Or maybe we miss the old us and our old ears?
“The question of what exactly we remember when we listen to old recordings, or whether it can be called remembering at all, becomes less and less answerable over a lifetime.”
[Geoffrey O’Brien, Sonata for Jukebox: An Autobiography of My Ears]