His music is almost like a benevolent deity. No matter how far I stray into the depths of polished pop-rock, lamentably stirring soundcapes, or crunchy yesterphonics, when I come back to him, the wisdom of ages echoes from his fingertips. In fewer words than I might convey, he nods when I realize he’s been waiting for me, then continues on to blow my mind with provocative, sporatic melodies lined with harmonic virtuosity. Quite honestly, it frightens me. Imagine if the finest wines came in Capri Sun pouches, or the most subtly seasoned steak lined my shelves alongside the other Betty Crocker instant meals.
So thanks, Keith, on this night when I gain the acute sensation that several feelings have gone too long unfelt. Yours was the first feeling I could pull from the shelf and rectify without a moment’s hesitation.