Easy to forget how many obscure soul and R&B and even rock and country groups there were back in the day. But think about how many soundcloud rappers there are in every corner of the American Earth, getting cursive letter face tattoos just above their eyebrow, thinking that’s the magical missing piece to becoming the Next Big Thing. Capitalism still eats up people’s dreams, as we get trained to think our dreams need to turn into money, and somebody exploits that weakness in vision to their own benefit. This track is from an old Virginia soul compilation that I couldn’t even find to illegally download online, so somebody sent me a burned copy. Prince George is the county southeast of Petersburg, south of the James, headed down to Nat Turner country – a wonderful expanse of rural Virginia that I’ve often wandered through, and in fact prefer to the interstate if I have to go to dreaded Virginia Beach. Shit, at this point, I don’t even like riding 460, so I jump onto 10 for as much as I can. That’s state highway 10, not even a US highway – places even more littered with ancient dreams where folks sitting at a picnic table beneath LED lights on a warm Saturday night break into mythical “remember back when…” and memories of those dreams float back up to the aether, one more time, to give the night stars just a little more shine. Or maybe not. All I know is sitting at a picnic table talking shit with folks who have lived real lives is much preferable to capitalism and this fuckin’ abomination of a cultured life we have to lead now. I fell in with the wrong crowd, just by being born in America during this period. Still hoping for a miraculous recovery though, because at my heart, I’m just a country bumpkin, and a born mark. Some of us are dreamers more inclined to get exploited than connivers meant to profiteer. I'm okay with how I am and who I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment