I am alive because of American music.
I am dressed in Stax Records, Chicago Blues, Cajun bands, jazz from New Orleans trad to be-bop, Motown classics, Phil Spector Wall of Sound, New York punk, surf sound, Bluegrass, raw country and music from every State from 1880’s to recent times.
American music save me from the reality of my past, give me some hope and peace in times of extreme trauma.
American is my healer, my party mate, my space to know grief, my mother and sister.
I can scream into Blondie and the Ramones.
I will cry to Aretha, Stevie Wonder and Otis Redding.
I allow joy in with Chuck Berry, the Beach Boys and Cole Porter.
I allow the blues guitar solos to stop me thinking and reach a place where logic is unimportant.
I dance to Chic, Little Richards and the Ronettes.
I listen to the protest songs of Stax and Atlantic Soul, and know the hard route to justice.
I map my survival and sanity out through listening to American music.
I am in the Blues, in those jazz dives, in the sweaty punk venues, in Memphis, in Americana.
To survive the hell that is prostitution, there must be some private passion, American music was mine.
To know me, is to to see that.