What music feels like.
i need to write this down. Its 3 in the morning. originally had plans, but they were blown
by somebody going to sleep. Can still save the night. Grab the music player. Go outside.
Go to the car to get a cigarette, just one. Need the oxygen for what i am going to do.
Turn on the player. Put out the cigarette. Jam. Listen to song after song dancing around
in the middle of the street. Typical Encinitas, you don't hear a single thing, only the
sound of the air and your footsteps. Start playing the air bass. It comes naturally. Put
on Green Day. Natural favorite. Figure out you need real guitar for this. Go inside to
quietly grab electric. No pic for now, just skin and strings. Player goes back on. Its
Holiday, off American Idiot. Not a single noise around. Play the open E string. It
resonates for a while. Only a whisper really. Thick surburban walls keep the noise out of
the rooms of the middle class. Only the sound of your footsteps and your bass. Pump the
player's volume through the headphones. No more cares in the world. Just you, your
instrument, and your music. Jam. Nothing else but running up and down the street listening
to a large amount of sound that nobody else can hear. Not a single car goes by. Ever. Its
3:23, still nothing. More than just a simple practice, its a major turning point in life.
You know what it is you are doing. Probably crazy to the common viewer, but nobody is
veiwing you. Its a comfortable alone feeling. Jam. Jam. Jam. Nothing matters except hitting
the strings. Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Slows it down in the verse, but the chorus, Jam.
You can't stop playing. Sweat is everywhere. No more cares, just you and your bass. The
loss of sleep isn't affecting you, you are on your musical high. Keep the jam. The outro is
the most killer part of the song, you let loose. Your footsteps and jumps echo over deaf
ears. Its only possible because of the lack of traffic. If a car rolls by, you are off to
the insane asylum. It doesn't matter, its Encinitas, you will stay in the street. 7 hours
from now, it going to be packed with soccer moms. you look down around you. Sweat drips
off your everything. Another song. One more to bring it in. Jam so hard you can't
breathe. Shouldn't have smoked, but it doesn't matter, the musical high carries you. You
are in the most public place, yet there is nothing. Not a single dog barks. Silence.
Player switches on. It Blink. It had to be Blink. Nothing else will the do. The first
song you ever learned. Taught to you by the guy who passed out. The man you trust. The
man who gave you the inspiration to play. The man who is the reason you are in the middle
of the street, with no cars, 3:30 am, with your bass. Its on. Jam. The notes flow without
your own control. You concentrate on yourself flying around the street. Every note is hit
perfect. Amazing, considering the circumstances. Its the confidence, and the pure
absurdity of what you are doing that gives you this amazing skill. Things are clear. You
hear everything while people no more than fifty feet away hear nothing. The songs almost
over. This night will live forever. It is unbeleivable. The end of the song comes. Its
over. Jam hard. You won't ever forget this feeling. It is amazing. The silence. You
walk back inside, up the stairs. You type this out, to hopefully share the 3am jam session
feeling with others. Its euphoria, ecstasy, and untouchable. You suceeded in your task.
The one you didn't know you needed until it happened. Look. Jam. When you shouldn't ever
jam. But do it anyways.
