On the floor, with my head between the speakers, I listened to my library for hours. I heard things I'd never heard before: spittle hitting the mic, catching on its wires; each of the conductors¹ deep, concerto-bracing breaths, the taps of the baton, the misplaced stabs at the high-hats, the time-keeping footwork too close to the bass¹ pickup, and heavy pick-scrapes across steel. I rocked out on my back, staring at the careful brush-strokes on my wooden ceiling, under the new coat covering the old, nicotine-stained lead paint. I couldn¹t get enough‹the amp sizzled under its own electrical weight, scalding-hot to the touch, and I was enchanted.
Del med dine venner