Radio

It was a late night with her – red wine trickling through brain arroyos – when he discovered he could slow dance to any music so long as he wanted to hold her close. The stark, pained beauty of Billie Holiday’s voice – forlorn love and absolute pain set above the dim-light-bulb-suspended-from-a-ceiling saxophones; the unrestrained fiddle that keeps the bluegrass/country/folk guitar from digging its own grave; the rhythmic jazz rock via coke and cognac of Steely Dan; Lou Reed, or a thousand imitators, singing from his veins; classicly-crooning Elvis and his pied piper flock of modern-day wannabes; Roy Orbison, singin’ for the lonely, preaching to himself so honest and true and beautiful the congregation remains standing room only; Rail-car Guthrie; can’t-see-straight, smoke rings fading, last-call piano blues; untie-me punk anthems; the make love now beat of trip-hop, urgently fueled by painfully sexy vocals; a long, convoluted movie story by Dylan, cinematic lyrics burrowing so deep he takes the lead role; weed-hazy slick rhymes filling out a pulsating beat; corny, generic love pop, with or without a sentiment worth believing; who-sang-this, what’s-it’s-name oldies he'd heard a million times; a rock-culture founding guitar riff; screaming metal guitars paired with fantasy-world lyrics… It all sparked the dance – solemn as a Victorian waltz, dirty as an underground discoteque.