"Now, man, that alto man last night had IT-he held it once he found it;
I've never seen a guy who could hold so long."
I wanted to know what "IT" meant.
"Ah well"-Dean laughed-"now you're asking me impon-de-rables-ahem!
Here's a guy and everybody's there, right? Up to him to put down what's on
everybody's mind. He starts the first chorus, then lines up his ideas,
people, yeah, yeah, but get it, and then he rises to his fate and has to
blow equal to it. All of a sudden somewhere in the middle of the chorus
he *gets it*-everybody looks up and knows; they listen; he picks it up and
carries. Time stops. He's filling empty space with the substance of our
lives, confessions of his bellybottom strain, remembrance of ideas,
rehashes of old blowing. He has to blow across bridges and come back and
do it with such infinite feeling soul-exploratory for the tune of the
moment that everybody knows it's not the tune that counts but IT-" Dean
could go no further; he was sweating telling about it.
from On The Road by Jack Kerouac
This, for me is what music is all about. Music that you know, deep in
your heart, was fated to be played; was created by a set of circumstances
you don't quite understand, nor want to. A collective melting of thought
into an indescribable groove. Food for the soul; nourishment for love. A
simple set of notes when played in sequence causes you heart to beat with
the fundamental tune of the universe. A reason to live free; a reason to
fear death; a reason to fear nothing. Music tells you what you really
want; it teaches you how little you need. The only true art. The only
truly beautiful art. IT.