It's about 2 AM, on the Knitting Factory main stage in New York City. Shaa'ir + func has already dropped their set, and a massive jam of exemplary musicians is taking place. I get off stage for a second of down time, though I'm vying to get back on with an urgency that is only felt when energy is so highly elevated that a source energy from the earth's core itself must be feeding it. func is killing it, driving through dense sound with continuous flow...offering a spine to the body of sound in the room. I get back on stage, let my feet ground me into where the six musicians playing are at...my ears take over, my mind shuts off...and I sing about stormy weather. Whatever parts my lips, I have no more than a second to realize and release. That's what's so amazing about a jam. It's inception, and it's demise are simultaneous. I speak about the musical mandala we are creating...I see friends, fans who are future friends, beautiful women, conscious men...I see people unafraid...I see people excited.
....and I think of Dylan Thomas...I think of how beautifully preserved our light is...I think of how we are NOT jaded...how we are NOT conformists....of how we are NOT haters...of how the middle finger is a lovely sign to hold up in unity for a brutal ('cause sometimes you got to be strong about what you believe) NO THANK YOU. So, I sing, we will not go gentle into that goodnight...I sing, that we rage against the dying of the light...I sing, that what happens in this room tonight will seep out into the world outside...I sing, that I raise my middle finger up in the air, not in hate, but in a brutal no thank you to that which compromises my individuality. I see a sea of middle fingers up in the air, and giant smiles stretched from ear to ear......
maybe a tear drop falls my passion finds it's way out of my body somehow
so i don't internally combust
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears,
I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas
