my top acoustic guitar player: brushing and strum-shuttering his way into legend, letting chords tremble and move around without a home, hovering over the flames, tunings perfectly suited for his rambling/shambling/shambolic/
moody as all hell and tunes any child would do wonders to give a good listen to in their early developmental stage/stasis. paint this into the crevices and let sit: floorboards of the mind shining up in lacquer full-spirit, a holy music.
tune it up, move through the octave lows, finger-roll the opens and slipper-stomp the bedtime tradition, teach it to everyone you know.
the rural lives on in cleansed free-time-fuckery is-blues. nothing post. just is of, is now, is of the continuing, just continuing, is blues. and you feel it.
we get caught up in the incredible guitaring from the old blues people, but the heart-heavy power of being shredded (almost a hundred years ago old now too) has now resurfaced.
this has that life-magic of years of getting an amp to say whatever dissonantly made the most sense and is now turned to/getting squeezed out of the raw elements. no feedback or loudness needed in any way to carry it. the wood and voice and hands are doing all the damage now. and it's pretty/beautiful damage bleed. could only come from a hardworking been-through-a-lot to bear these cross note marks and be this topped-up with feeling/instinct/immersion.