The artist is from a different era, vocal, golden exposition. To enjoy rhythm, to enchant by blues, to personify the fairer beauty. We enter an age of dissonance. We need more. We live decadence and intolerance. I can’t grasp what I grapple with; as it’s a place made reachable, by certain combination. It lives freely, until it restricts itself. Such casual weather becomes a storm for another. The artist has memories. I fathom a genre; but to have given it soul, a delicate entity. To know it and feel it. To live it. I see Harleys. I see lowriders. I smell cognac. I hear ice cubes. I see aesthetic glasses. The artist swayed into traffic. So much to give. Each has a compass, fed by inner universe, thwart and moving like motion. Some memories remain with joys, some disappear into winds. The artist is an iconic figure. If one knew the motivation, to sense acceptance, to qualm in silence. I see filled clubs, attire out the 70s, I see long Cadillacs. Up in the hills, along those streets, we see Bentleys, Corvettes, and a few in Royce(s). A youngster had dreams. So thrown into it. Elders run the rooms. So facial, such gesticulation, spirits, I’ve a clue on what we mean by normal behaviors. Such controversial and genuine responses. The artist is a father of blues, a kingdom in soul, an advocate of amore.
