Tuesday, March 10, 2009
When He Sings
When he sings I travel.
I'm on the front porch of my old house watching a tornado come to take it all away. A fire jumper who was one few who survived, a family hiding in the woods, a tired trucker hoping to get to the next motel safely. I'm a heartbroken mary magdelene, a soldier waist deep in mud with a shouting captain, a grandfather thinking of the grandchild he doesn't know, the first day of spring after a very long winter.
Sometimes I'm back in my own history. I'm on a couch curled up with a friend listening to this song, holding onto one another for dear life as we knew we likely wouldn't see each other again. I'm looking out a road-trip car window at northern ontario forests passing by and singing loudly with my fellow travelers. I'm at a concert, sitting in the same row as my first love and their new partner and i'm trying desperately to pay attention to the music and not think about them. I'm lonely on the bus in the depths of my sadness, crying into my lap listening to this one. I'm in the california sunshine walking under plum blossoms and thinking that his songs sounds like a sunset.
Without a doubt, Richard Shindell is the best songwriter I have ever heard. Each song is like a memoir of someone's life, or at least a moment or two of it. And I travel into his songs in the way that I do into a book. Where it almost feels like its my own memory.
Today I found out that he has a new album out, which has me doing a happy dance and totally made my day...
Then again, sliding down a gigantic concrete slide on a cardboard box 20 plus times and squealing with joy wasn't too shabby of a highlight of today either!