Strange week. But, at some point, I think it was... er, Friday
morning? I had just worked an overnight shift and then dropped off my
car so the mechanics could make sure they hadn't left the number 3
clamp sutured up in my engine the previous Thursday. (They hadn't, it
had merely gotten too stressed out from the previous operation and,
forgetting to take its medication, allowed its oil pressure to climb
too high, causing some sort of fracture in a major artery, whereupon
it dropped into shock from oil loss).
They gave me a lift to the T station in Central Square. I wandered past the Firetrucks and Cop Cars of God combatting the evil snake of smoke crawling out from behind the big Church in the intersection and crawled myself down into a hole where I asked a brightly colored demigod for directions. It merely indicated that my thoughts should be turned Outbound.
Obviously it was an agent of chaos, for when I escaped its lair and traversed briefly the light to enter the Womb of Trains, I found myself separated by a great crackling gulf from the most exquisite music I have ever heard made in these clean-scraped passages of time.
But lo, a roaring dragon swept in from one side to battle another, approaching from the opposite direction. I chose the one I thought had a chance of winning and was swept away. The dance began, but the battle was averted for now, as it has always been. War cries, bellows, shrieks and screams drowned out the music but brought the two creatures to yet another stand-off and they went their separate ways, each at peace with its own perceived victory.
But the music would not leave my head. It wove itself into my thoughts and my hips and I regretted leaving that particular waystation. And as we entered Harvard Square to disgorge some half-digested passengers, I leapt free and changed my coordinates so that I could return whence I'd come.
I understand now that I am trapped with my Inbound tendencies.
I accepted this and climbed aboard the next creature who chose to stop and feed. Re-entering the place where I had begun, I found the music once again and made my way down the platform so to better hear.
Two young men, clean but unshaven, mildly disheveled, a guitar case full of money from appreciative listeners, played. They even had hangers on who ignored the monstrosities passing back and forth behind them, calling out for sustinence, in favor of the sweet electric nectar.
Between songs, I confessed to the musicians that I had heard the truth but left, only to come back for the music was sweet and called to me. They were much impressed and laughed and took my offerings and gave in return a flat, silver disk. A humble copy of their souls.
I affirmed my faith. I stood, ignoring the calls of the roaring dragons, ignoring the milling mindless on their way into the darkness, and I listened. And it was good.
They are named Jason Harrod and Brian Funck (their names and their band) and their CD is called DREAMS OF THE COLOR BLIND. It is published by Heated Brick Records Ltd and produced by Mark Heard. It is copyright 1992 and all songs were written by the above mentioned Jason & Brian. The CD cost me $13. They list, in the small print, an address for "Correspondence":
Write to them. Achieve this music.
And I say unto you, they make a sound most pleasing. Especially if you like the sort of gorgeous oddball stuff of Toad the Wet Sprocket. I can't really think of anyone else with whom to compare them. They are quiet, but not subdued; lyric but still rough; voices young, but most certainly not untrained. Some phrasing is awkward, some music simple, but it is an EXCELLENT piece of work and I have listened to it half a dozen times since I bought it, all of 60 hours ago.
It gets my stamp of approval. Or it would, if I had one. I am very pleased. (I get nothing for my endorsement. I just like the music.)