Jeffrey Foucault: When Every Song Is a Protest Song
Music is a mystery, as strange as dreams, or laughter, and at its best it enlarges the space for our common humanity.
By Jeffrey Foucault
I’ve been having trouble writing this thing. I mean, if we pulled on our boots and wrapped up in heavy jackets, drove down to the falls below town to walk the access road to the No. 2 dam, I’d have my opinions. After a while. After a decent interval. But I’d want to hear what you’ve got going first. I’d want to hear about your folks, and your work. Your kids. Probably I’d hesitate to get into the heavy stuff. A stray barb and a dark chuckle might be all.
I wake at three, humming like a tuning fork, vibrating with the collective churn of a few million other souls, everyone wondering where the ship of fools is headed. I get up and dress, start the water for coffee, go out to make kindling in the moonless dark. Empty the pan from the stove into the fire scar out by the barn, and watch as the sparse coals from the night prior blaze up as they fall. I kick the snow from my boots in the front hall, twi…
