He’s not banging on any electric guitar here, not wielding an axe over a crowd of screaming fans. This is not to say he doesn’t have fans, but those who adore him, who follow him from gig to gig love the way he becomes the music he wants to make.
At first he plucks as if he has a harp in his hands, then a violin, then how his strumming widens and hastens with the trumpets’ pace and the trilling aye, yeye-yeyes of his brothers.
He doesn’t say a lot, even when he’s asked directions. He just wants to keep playing the rolodex of songs in his head.
shewhodaresnothing 