It’s been a few weeks since I soaked in my real favorite music on the ride home.
Blues, I missed you. You are light in my darkness, warmth in my cold. Timely and timeless, never old. At work I am surrounded by pop tinged genres. Lady Gaga and One Direction sing out from the room near my office, Kenny Chesney and Miranda Lambert twang it down the hall, Linkin Park rocks the northwest corner of the building, Colbie Caillat whisps comfortably numb next door to Pink Floyd.
When I slide into my car, it’s Buddy Guy, Joe Bonamassa, Tommy Castro, Stevie Ray Vaughn. Three chords, twelve bars, songs about guys who live in bars, lyrics of heartache, heart break, hard-ons and hard times. Gritty guitar licks, brassy sax riffs, hoarse cig-tuned voices, a shot and a beer pours through my ear.
The DJ calls it Bluesville. I call it home.