Music has always been there.
In my loneliness.
In my best moments.
From just a wee guy,
with my personal stereo:
Europe.
Fresh Prince.
Technotronic.
Top 40.
Taped off the radio.
Hits of the year.
Mum singing in the kitchen.
Dad’s record collection:
Bob Dylan.
Guns N’ Roses.
Then Aerosmith.
First light.
First gigs.
CDs from Woolworths.
John Lee Hooker.
The Black Crowes.
“Smokestack Lightning.”
And Gun.
Through bass guitars.
Copying riffs from my brothers.
Talent show.
Jam bands.
Aunt J’s funeral.
“Whisky in the Jar.”
Onto
An acoustic guitar.
Steve Earle.
Bruce Springsteen.
Life savers.
Living on my own,
wheezy harmonica,
chords,
four-track recorders,
soul brothers and sisters.
Writing songs.
Learning songs.
Lyrics scrawled everywhere,
on the walls,
on me,
in books and books.
Open mics.
Gigs.
Connection.
To the world.
To the earth.
Found myself
at 5am,
before the sun came up,
before the day began.
The Clash.
Rancid.
A thousand others,
etched on my heart.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
