The tape is cued and ready to roll at the beginning of the beginning. The volume is set. The transmitter is online, and all the radios are tuned in, waiting to receive the story.
Hello, and welcome to the broadcast.
Listen to me, friends: music is made of time. It can be wound forward and backward, played again and again as a favored song. It is an incarnate spirit that calls us to heed the miracle of consciousness. When we listen closely it releases the rhythm that never stops pulsing, the harmony that sings in multiple voices, and the melody that liberates energy and divinity. The elements of music wend their way through our timelines: the events, the life changes, the losses and gains, the love, and the forks in the road.
Back when these reels of tape were recorded, the music demanded to be heard in a time of change and eruption—of love and death. It was our accompaniment as we traveled on an endless river while the sun rose and fell, and the moonlight lapped the bottomless water. We stood on deck while the wheels of the steamboat churned the stream. Our vinyl records rotated on turntables, revealing the music that was embedded in the grooves on Side A and Side B. The songs have never stopped. They still loop perpetually.
They are echoes in the time stream, sailor’s tales of travel without words, dancing spirits of Maya, faded visions of love, shows that never ended. Our hair stood on end as we walked through psychic fire, our path lit by a trimmed and burning lamp. A man from the stars landed amid the young dudes, while something behind the door waited. There were silver trimmed rose petals and diamond nights, a silent death, oak trees, a breeze through parched grass in the lingering summer, and guardian blue eyes watching carefully. Would we ever learn? We were babes in Toyland. During amazing journeys, we could see the city lights and the darkness at the edge of town merging with the fog, waiting patiently for dawn.
All of it, every note, every guitar lick, every screaming voice of joy and epiphany, every drum, organ, piano, synthesizer or saxophone solo, flourished at the corner of Post and Steiner, in the City by the Bay, after the stars of psychedelic alteration rained down and soaked into the fertile ground of a new season. The streets were no longer filled with flowers. The hippies had headed to the hills. There were shadows in the alleys and suffering in the streets, but we believed those seeds would sprout someday and burst with redemption. They blossomed then. They still bloom today. They always will. The music never ceases. It is the song, the concord, and the heartbeat of the cosmos. We are breath. We are thought. Music is the spirit of the depths.