Watching one of our PBS stations at too-late-to-be-up-o'clock, and there's a begathon special on Stevie Ray Vaughan. And it reminds me that a goddamned helicopter crash ate him.
I mean, he's up there, all wonderful gaudy costumes - half gentleman highwayman and half Texas braggadocio, and all brilliance; he's playing that battered slab of a guitar, with strings he can make do anything. Anything.
He coaxes sparks and scratches up tearing, ripping sounds and screaming, streaking howls of music, and that's what we expect; and then he turns around and plays flowers and water running somewhere, and you can take a deep breath and it's the same guitar.
And he's in love with that guitar. And there's always a place in the music where he does ... something ... and I swear the sound makes him slip and slide across the stage, I swear it moves him by itself, takes him up half an inch off the stage ... it only lasts seconds, but it's the music that does it.