Traces of us

My mother tends to just watch me at times. Most do, with respect to their own children, I imagine. Still I find it curious.

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Busker

I stopped under the pale orange light to listen for a moment, because occasionally you realise you can. It was not just his generous figure that took up the pavement, it was also his grunty voice. He wore a fading black shirt. His black beard was unkempt. His white stratocastor, though, gleamed.
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Us and them

After dinner I walked into my room and closed the door behind me. It’s a small room, and in the corner sits my keyboard, hunched by a makeshift microphone-stand clothes rack, with just enough room for a cheap chair to sit amongst the scramble of cables. I sit. I reach to pick up a jumble of papers, sheet music I printed off yesterday, and lay the first page on my lap, as I don’t have a music stand.

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Speaking of speaking guitar

Improvising and composing music are the two driving reasons for keeping up my guitar playing. As fun as it is to burst out an old classic with the band nothing beats the sense of freedom and creation that comes with improvisation. But there’s nothing more frustrating than spinning on a backing track or your band counting in a rhythm and finding that you just can’t get anything worthwhile out.

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