Life is a delicate and demanding thing. What it extracts from us is often a price we feel unprepared to pay. This is particularly true when we are handed the demand suddenly, unexpectedly, unceremoniously. We want to bargain, to protest, to campaign for equity. Yet often equity seems to have very little part to play in those critical moments.
I love finding new music and artists. I have, as long as I can remember, kept my eyes and ears peeled looking for that voice, that writer, or that sound that speaks to me. And I don’t question it, the Muse, I mean. People ask me how I can like, say, Dylan’s voice, but not some other (fill in the blank) guy’s. I can’t really make sense of it, it either works for me or it doesn’t. And my tastes do not necessarily relate to opinions as to an artist’s merit. I really love blues and blues rock, but there are plenty of groups in that category I have no time for, while I can champion the merits of Rory Gallagher’s catalog all day long. Take Hendrix for example. While I don’t listen to him in a regular rotation, I completely respect his originality, skill, and his place in the history of Rock and Roll. But I take my psychedelics in small doses.
J.M. McSpadden III is a writer and a roots music enthusiast who believes that every life needs to find its own soundtrack, and every road trip is an opportunity to full tilt boogie. Let's face it, people, a car ain't nothin' but a stereo on wheels. A portable listening room.