Dear Mr. Tambourine Man

Dear Songers,
Dear Songists,
Dear Sound Makers,
Dear Lullaby Crooners,
Dear Ballad Belters,
Dear Whistlers,
Dear Song Writers,
Dear String Pluckers,
Dear Spoon Clackers,
Dear Rhythm Movers,
Dear Yodelers,
Dear Subway Entertainment,

Listen to the sound you put out there.
Let it echo its way back to you.
Really listen.
Makes the noises you most want to hear,
The ones you REALLY desire to hear.
Not what the guy before you played,
Or what you think we want you to jam.
Sing the words you would want sung to you.
Theres so many to choose from,
And they're all at the tip of your lips,
If you just allow them to flow.

Play a chord you've been dying to play,
Or curious to experience.
Experiment.
Never erase a line of inspiration.
No matter how untrue it is.
Or how short you felt it.
What matters -
Is that you felt it,
One time or another.
And so has someone else.
So let that someone else know,
That they're not alone.

Making music,
Is like masturbation for the ears.
Instead of being fed the music,
You play it for yourself.
You feel what you need to hear,
And you jerk off your ear
With a tune
That sets your spirit free.

Oh to be a music man...

Maybe in my next life
or later down the path

But remember,
Slow down that guitar solo.
Take a long steady listen.
Make love to the riff!
Don't hold fear,
Because music doesn't judge.
And the truer you hold to yourself,
The more the rest of us will understand - And listen - Over and over again...
And we'll say "he's been there" or "she knows"

Today I saw a man.
An older man with a guitar.
Whose been places.
And wears the same old pair
Of worn out jeans
That have come along the way with him.
Who earns his pennies in a cover band,
Replaying the words of past souls.
And without word,
He played an original tune,
Thats been in his back pocket for years.
I knew he had been there.
I knew he had felt that.
I knew it was truth.
I knew it was a passage of his path.
I knew it was him.
I knew.
I knew.
I know.
I didn't even have to ask.

He knew every detail.