Random Scribbles #4

[Ty]

Random Scribbles #4
Have you ever met a person that no matter what happens, you can't help but smile and appreciate every moment you're around them? I tend to be a private person; not allowing myself to be absorbed into people that have contagious personalities. Therefore, this type of situation does not happen for an extended period of time. This same thing can be applied to music and the many local/regional musicians I have met, befriended and parted ways with over the past six years. But there is one musician that strikes me differently. His name is David Onions (no joke) - further known as Bluebird. Give him a listen and you'll understand.

I originally met Bluebird on myspace. It sounds a creepy and sad but it's true. I opened up my inbox nearly two years ago and I had this message from this guy that said something along the lines of "dude I really dig your music...want to play a show with me in Lakewood?" I said yes to this stranger, drove out to the west side of Cleveland and as I was looking for parking, I saw this long-haired, chain-smoking, plaid-wearing guy with a foo-man-chu waving his arms at my car. That is how we met. The rest is quite hilarious - playing shows where no one was there, playing shows where no one had room to wiggle, playing in sweaty dive bars and playing in upscale hotel art galleries and grocery stores. We've shared gear, money, sweat and dreams of better things.
There is a certain truth about Bluebird and his music - a truth that I envy, admire and love.

Bluebird, to me, is the epitomy of folk music - music, words, sounds and the soul of the common person are put on a pedestal through each of his songs, most notably "One Helluva Lover," "When God's Ashamed To Speak," "Goodbye LeAnne" and "Mary Jane."
This is what I wrote about Bluebird that night nearly two years ago at The Symposium in Lakewood. I've added sentences and thoughts since.
------------

The walls echo with approval even when the hearts you've played for have not opened. Keep humming, keep shouting, keep stomping and sweating but most importantly keep playing. The steel pipes and broken bridges of this rusted town show themselves in your hands - calloused, cracked and bleeding but still functioning and still responsive to the chords you strum, the notes you scream and the harp that cries in agony. If God was ashamed to speak then I have no pity on him and spare no mercy for his shame because it is your trials and your failures that been shown in vain. There's no one here to hear what you know, to feel what you see, to see what you taste and to reap what you sow. After all, this game is one helluva of a lover and how were you supposed to know?
That your words would reak truth like the yesterday's trash on the porch, steaming and filling up the noses of those of us who'd give anything to carry your torch and dance with your soul in the back alleys and broken sidewalks, full of empty cigarette boxes and yesterday's hopscotch chalk. I woke up this morning with my head hanging low and you know I've been smoking since you been gone. There's a truth in this drafty, smoke-ridden room - just listen to that Bluebird sing.