Dick Dale performing "Nitro" spills forth from the speakers on my desk. The man plays his guitar UPSIDE DOWN, as you will notice if you are looking carefully. Impossible to sit still in his presence.
Tony Iommi is a steel-spined riffer, with thimbles at the ends of his fingers to replace the fingertips he lost as a kid. His sound is all him and no one else can reproduce it. I segue into Black Sabbath after my surfer rock on this dim day with too many headaches.
The pile on my desk slowly shrinks as the music I have queued up on my computer gets more and more involved. The tapping of my heels marks time and the rhythm of my hands as I complete tasks is a ritual of its own.
I can reward myself for a productive morning by watching along with as well as listening to a segment from THE CONCERT FOR GEORGE. This is how I want my funeral to be.... a line of a dozen guitarists all intent on playing "My Sweet Lord", not in harmony, but in unison.
I can die happy now, even with an untidy desk.
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