I’ve seen the best players of my generation, lost in the shadows,
strumming, blowing, beating on sacred instruments,
dragging themselves through the neon-lit streets at dawn,
searching for an ancient note in the digital madness.
Who, clothed in the pure fabric of passion, dive into the depths of sound,
reaching for the soul’s crescendo,
against the cacophony of the mainstream’s siren song,
jazz whispers, rock roars, ragas spiral into the cosmos,
in corners unseen, on stages unlit by the limelight’s glare.
They pour their spirit into strings, skins, and brass,
not for the fame that flees,
nor for the coins that clink hollow,
but for the raw, untamed beauty of a chord struck true,
for the sacred mix of melody and silence,
unseen by the masses,
unvalued by the merchants of rhythm.
In darkened bars, in hallowed halls,
where echoes speak more of history than of the present buzz,
there they are, the unsung,
playing not for the clicks or streams,
but for the whispering ghosts of Coltrane, Hendrix, Ravi Shankar,
who know the weight of sound, the colour of music.
And what of the crowds who clamour for beats, drops,
the autotuned anthems of fleeting fame?
Lost, lost in the maze of instant gratification,
unaware of the alchemy that brews in the cauldron
of a guitar’s wail, a tabla’s cry, a saxophone’s sigh.
Where is the reverence for the craft,
for the ancient rites of melody, harmony, rhythm,
transcending the now,
linking the chain of human expression,
unbroken, yet ignored,
by a world racing towards the next distraction,
the next thrill,
leaving the true artists, the sound-tamers,
in the dust?
Ventimental 