Kyle E.
Google
The Clear Blue Note
The House of Blues is a cathedral of folk-art wood and neon heat,
A company party—a sea of nametags and "how-are-yous"—
The bar beckons with its amber lie, its heavy, fermented promise,
But I say No.
I want the sharp edge of the "Now," the un-smeared reality of the night.
I stand in the center of the swirl, stone-cold sober and electric.
Then, the stage glows—a soft, indigo hum.
Men I Trust steps out into the light,
And the world slows down into a long, liquid line of prose.
The bass is a heartbeat—thump, thump—steady like a freight train crossing the plains,
Jessy’s guitar is a shimmering wire,
Emma’s voice is the mist rolling off the bayou,
Cool, detached, yet holding everything together in a gentle, rhythmic grip.
The coworkers are drinking, their faces softening into a blur,
But I see the fretboards, I see the silver of the cymbals,
I hear the space between the notes.
It’s "Show Me How" and the room breathes as one giant, swaying lung.
I am the observer, the sober traveler, the beat-poet of the soda-water glass,
Finding the "It"—that pure, holy moment of sound—
Without the fog, without the ghost of the bottle.
The music is the only intoxicant I need,
Floating through the Orlando humidity,
Clear as a bell,
High on the truth of the song.