Dear Calgary +15 hallway guitar busker,
You rock. When I leave my desk to get dinner, feeling a little worn from the day, I can hear a melody down the hall. As I near, that melody grows to a wall of sound that’d make Phil Spector proud. You appear to know all songs of substantive cultural contribution written before 1980, and none after. Your moustache looks much more experienced than one that just surfaced for Movember. Conversations about the crummy markets or office politics are drowned out as we pass near the epicenter. I agree the lady playing the violin at lunch is talented, but the sheer power emanating from your effort is leaves one’s mind no option other than to be cleansed as it passes. In contrast to the quantity of hipster music I’m hearing these days with femme voiced male twenty somethings whining about urban decay, you’re the equivalent force of a category A thunderstorm pounding the metropolis as a reminder that Mother Nature wields the world’s real power. Your bold power chords replace voices, yet no communication is lost.
