Lanegan

The trees are still albeit for a few coughed out gusts blowing back a branch or two. They look like they have been dodging buckshot, anchored to the forest floor, patches of nude leafless extremies adjacent to the fledgling orange and rusted presentation of Autumn. The rain has dried up to a mushy dampness, the clouds chock full of chalky grey, glued together in a stoic laziness over the neighborhood. They pose no threat until the next front meanders in like a bully on a full playground.

It is a perfect day to saturate with the songs of Mark Lanegan. This soundtrack will be the last perfect ingredient in my cauldron of unabashed joy, that will simmer all day until the murky cusp of the evening, upon which I will breach the winded path of aimless motorists, hitting the city to see the man himself in concert. That day has finally come.

Mark Lanegan's music has been more than an occasional sonic bullet point, more than a fixation or phase in a long life of listening. His voice and lyric have taken shape as the vessel, the escape pod, the parachute, the remedy, the accidental elixir, the lubricant, the glass punched through in case of fire, the jump start, the come down, the virtual warm blanket, the dim beacon, the conduit, the flint, the skeleton key, the antagonist, the soothsayer, the tarot, the rhyme and reason to many a heavy moment in my life.

Ive seen him in concert before, yes but for some reason today feels more right, the conditions seem precisely optimal, the yin seems more lego-ed into the yang.

This mood is what music to me is defined by.