There and then I awoke. 

I awoke from scattered sounds that were on memory islands that the sounds were repeatable but no correlation between different sounds makes any sense and the way to bridge them together; a dose of hardcore prog rock with a dose of alternative indie with sprinkles of jam jazz, shoegaze, trip-hop, and a teaspoon of Texas country was completed by a sprinkle of Gregorian chants both auditory and visually cooked by a teacher at a community college who would listen to the monk chants in trance expressive movements that had been the missing ingredient. Before I awoke I threw small pebbles, I had another country made guitar, a few cassette tapes, a stack of CDs purchased or burned from slow Napster download. However further consuming that I awoke.

When I awoke, I became a sponge of sound.

I dabbled in bluegrass, dub reggae, lo fi, dischord, I went to hippie music festivals, hipster music festivals, massive venues, local bars, I saw Zappa Plays Zappa live, I had a record player that has repeatedly played Super Furry Animals and Charles Mingus and Dungen and Squarepusher and Del the Funky Homosapien and when looking back proud of what sounds I heard, with exception that I am ashamed of my darkest musical secret: I saw Creed live before I awoke.

When I was a sponge of sound, I began contributing to sound.

I grooved, jammed, rocked out with other musicians, I babbled in hired bass gun to full time commitment; I made sound in theaters, dive bars, street bustling, decrepit warehouses, basements, alleys, I set up mics and recorded to 4-track tape, 8-track tape, studio tape machines, to digital 0’s and 1’s (but good enough) through Pro Tools or Logic or Garage Band. I traveled the country producing sound to some listened ears and some new ears to experience the sound we were making. At this time I met many people with similar brainwaves.

Then, the sponge ceased absorbing and the sounds turned static as the drive came to a stop.

Metaphorically all the cassette tapes, vinyl records and internal brain databases burned, exploded, deleted as the sound became meaningless words blabbed to other humans  (and robots). I had forgotten the other people at the music festival, the bar, the venue and enjoying the sound waves simultaneously. The visual knocked out the auditory.

But then I further damaged my abilities through quick and vicious random patterns to further cease the spiritual sounds. 

But gradually over the recent years I awoke again.

Tiny sparks and grease for the neurons resurrected the sponge as new life was accepted. Sloth became cheetah in series of new streams, new vinyls and a new local act alongside the rediscovering the staple favorites. David Gilmour and Adrianne Lenker and Danny Carey and the ghost of Ginger Baker all rejoiced as the connections of music still thrive. And now the visual side acts in harmony with music.

As of now I feel awoken to the soul of sounds.

-Andrew Thomas, 2024