When I was 19, I made my first good week’s pay as a club musician. It was enough money for me to quit my job at the factory and still pay the rent and buy some food. I freaked.
Forced to recognize our inhumanity, our reason coexists with our insanity. And though we choose between reality and madness, it’s either sadness or euphoria.
I always loved music, so I would probably either be in a band with another group of people, or an arranger, a producer, a musicologist, a music history guy, something to do with music. Either that, or I would probably be in jail. Or dead.
