11pm and I lie in the hot bathtub, my laptop echoes through the window, and only an incompatibility between water and electronics prevents me from beginning this text, which result and purpose I ignore, as I will probably do by its end, provided it ends.
It probably took 5 to 7 years to get Endless from ECM’s shelves into my father-in-law’s and into my hands, as my first ever attentive listening jazz record. Of course I ignore the time delay in which it evolved lonely in the authour’s head, but it was worth every second.
Although I dislike and, for personal reasons which are not worth considering, I tend do refrain a very bold evocative style, I proudly confess that this theme still – and will, probably ever – wakes, every time I play it, even when at repeat mode, the same light of hope as it did for the first time, in the early-90’s.
Although I was not fortunate enough to be “blessed” by a musical gift, I keep the pleasure and the joy of relating myself with music on a very – one would say –simplistic way of like or dislike, which has probably prevented me to go deeper in several occasions, but allowed me to follow my instinct, in a quite non-scholar way.
Sometimes I imagine how the author relates himself about this part of his musical history. I guess in the musical creative work there is always a part of connection and a part of disconnection. Sometimes I care about it. Sometimes I do not. This text begins a new era of confusion, as an Endless doubt about my (excessive?) care and the fear of rejection.
My conceptual relationship with musical themes does not arise as often as probably a mainstreamed orientation with recommend; most of the times, the music does not enter my grey areas in a very conscious way and I only relate with it in a superficial and epidemic way – and I or part of me dance.
I have always thought Endless as a continued (Endless?) struggle between hope and disbelief and always have looked and heard into its last four accords as my discrete, future, endless and hopeful hope in life, as my safety net, as my last resort.
I am sure there are several – musical and or mathematical, highs and lows, beats per minute, and on and on, and on and on - theories, on notes and so on, which are good to explain my reaction as part of a predictable brain. I prefer to live every second of each experience, with the music silences, with the music and the author’s shouts, with my urge to silence, with my urge to shout, with my urge to cry, with my urge to smile and with my urge to laugh.
I tend to think that one can never say that he is crying on and over music, only. This comes to me as a background, which involves and embraces your other feelings. With Endless, the world has appeared in a fairly less monochromatic way, and brought me my inner joys and my inner pain and, most of the times, my inner joy in a form of dry tears of happiness – not as transitory joy, but as a profound and, dare to say, Endless way.
