Morning Blues...

There's something about listening to Blues the first thing in the morning, and also coincidentally the last thing at night. Morning Blues, one may call it. It's just beautiful. The flow, the chord progressions, the rhythm, the soft beats. No heavy drums. Actually, "Blues" songs barely need any percussion. It's all in the strumming of the guitar, more often than not. The occasional rock-organ on the keyboard is a welcome accompaniment. But most important of all things, that deep, guttural, heavy-as-lead baritone, alpha male voice that can stay in your ears for eternity, or longer! The voice needs to have a certain element of pain in it. An unquestionable moroseness. Let everything begin and end in Emajor7th, and everything will be alright, baby!

Now, not that I know the names of a lot many Blues artists. Or rather put another way, I shall list the few that I know. Clapton, Louie Armstrong, Ray Charles, BB King. Maybe a John Mayer. Maybe. Wow, I'm new to this. But I don't write this to enlist the manes of the Blues-artists I know. I wish I knew more of them. All that would do is only add to a part of my life called Intellectual Masturbation. There's plenty of time for that in life, I suppose. This is  coming from someone who isn't sure if the next moment in life shall exist. But that's the beauty of it all. We happily live on, hoping, assuming, and taking for granted the next moment, the moment after that, and the moment after the moment after the moment after that.  Sometimes, it just gets difficult to feel alive this way. Alas! Let's get back to Blues. 

It all sounds hunky-dory. The sound of everything coming together. That is until you pay a little attention to the lyrics. Each Blues song reeks of one thing, and one thing only. And NO, it's not love. LUST! Ahh! That wonderful raw, shameless thing! The songs don't just reek lust. They, each one of them songs SCREAM lust!

Here's where I suspect everything will go into erotica mode.

Here's the thing about just. As long as you're not Erica Jong(Author of Fear of Flying), lusty thoughts, the uninhibitedly R-rated kind have always been more socially acceptable in the minds of men. Traditionally, that is. This is despite there being no measurable extent to which a female mind can think of the erotic. But apparently, mind you, only apparently, the male mind seems more adept at conjuring images that are completely bereft of inhibitions. 

What is Lust? I wonder sometime. Why is there this incessant want to rip everything apart, only to be bonded in flesh?

Why is it that one woman, the one that each of us men think of, relentlessly, without a break, in dreams,  in thoughts, and in every fantasy, simply refuses to leave our imagination?

Why is it that you so badly want to hold her hair, pull her head back, and smell her, take in every fume that emanates from her being? Why is it that you want to unclothe her, and feel every square inch of her marble-like skin with every ounce of your existence? Why is it that you want to breathe down her neck, only to watch to see electricity run straight through her spine? Why is it that you want to taste her so badly? And why is it that when you're done, you just want to throw her away, exactly how she wants to discard you after you're done getting her to moan in bliss? Why is it that you want to slap her, hate her, call her a bitch, and make love to her, all at the same time? Why is it that each moment of her around feels like the last time you'll see her? Why is it that right now, RIGHT THIS MOMENT, you can't take her, you can't have her? And why is insanity screaming from within, trying to make itself heard through every pore in the skin? Puzzles of the mind. They don't allow for comprehension. 

This craziness feels good. It will feel good till you commit the stupidity of letting it out of you, and into a toilet drain, where it shall lie impotent, for ever. But instead, what if you let this deliration of yours resound itself into the universe via a song? A song true to your soul, and to that of countless many more. You see, songs don't lie. They let themselves out bluntly, even if disguised and mollycoddled with  articulate words. 

Take it slow, just how she likes it. Keep it hard, just how she wants it. What one ends up with, shall sound like Morning Blues. 
Women! Oh Women! How they steer your craziness to the edge of a cliff, at full speed! And then bail out just before the land gets over beneath the wheels, leaving you tied in the backseat. But hey! Who's complaining?
Here's Tracy Chapman!