Then: Gleefully grabbing slabs of sound, not knowing what they contained but intrigued by the titles.
Now: Piles of unplayed still slabs, waiting, waiting to be heard again, performances long ago preserved in moments of glee, or reverence, or intensity, or passion.
Next: Undo the piles, listen to the moments, legacies of souls who heard in their heads sounds that would not fade or die, sounds to keep, if not for all time, then at least for longer than their lifetimes.
Baton passed, the sounds are here,
Waiting, preserved in cardboard boxes,
Waiting, preserved in old plastic,
Waiting, not intended to wait, but to be spun and savored.
How long must they wait to sing and play again?
