The old concepts may have amounted to merely idealistic nonsense after all, or perhaps they were pearls of wisdom, truth overlooked mainly by scoffers. Whatever they were, at gatherings in the past we would often listen to the whole side of an album, if not both sides, in those ancient legendary days of vinyl engravings. When hissing and popping were average normal parts of the overall experience, the fact that we had any good music at all was what mattered, and not whether or not it was perfect and flawless, or as good as — maybe even better than — the real thing (live music is best). Just having it was enough. Oddly, even if it was enough, we still wanted more.
Everybody wants more, even when there is no more.
For some indefinite period I intend to post more of these virtual facsimiles of those vinyl loving days, and before long it will surely be something other than Moody Blues and come from some other location besides just this one ‘recorded light’ place I stumbled across, just the other day while looking for something else entirely. That is how it goes: I find what I should have been looking for while being directed toward some other intentional goal that gets temporarily forgotten. What was it this time? I forgot! If it was recorded heavy, perhaps it would not have flown away from memory. The bird flew. It was supposed to do.
On the Threshold of a Dream
Perhaps it is like being past the threshold of any dread. That would be the best I might ever do, and I do not.