“Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul … and such as it is to be of these more or less I am, and of these one and all I weave the song of myself.” Walt Whitman.
I used to brag that I’ve seen Slayer seven times. When I would hear of another member in the know of brutal rumblings coming from the stage of an army-laden amphitheatre, I would tune into their language to gauge what form of fan they were to the tunes I had found such rhythm in. I would ask a few simple questions relating to specific entities of carnal sound and continue forward systematically depending on their answers. If they knew a tune or two I required as part of the example being made, they were welcomed. If they knew many, they were designated a seat at my feast.
My roommate at Arizona State University gave me a new set of ears. This fresh duo of drums did not require an animalistic thrash of a restless tempo, but rather a sway into the tranquility of sound. I slowed down and began to hear what I had once sworn against simply for its lack of radical notion during my initial take when combining pace with perceptivity.
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