Analog monologue

Wow. My twenty year old CD player died last night. It was Gato Barbieri’s fault. My brother Jon was over spinning Sonny Rollins’ CDs and then put on both discs of Gato’s Latino America. Must have been all that crazy Argentine yelling, or maybe the bandaneon doubling up on the melody but behind the beat so Gato’s skronking and the banadaneon’s wheezing a half beat later and there’s crazy ass obscure Latin rhythms dancing in and out of everything and the CD player said fuck it I’m never shuffling another goddam disc ever. I’m Irish, inanimate objects talk. Even better, they argue. But twenty years. They just don’t make things like they used to. Twenty years ago I could jump up the stairs two at a time and comb way more hair and remember things. They don’t make me like they used to either. Now I’m down to vinyl and cassettes. How analog. An analog monologue in fact.

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