Last updated: 9 hours ago
A song sung by its maker is no longer the stuff of mere entertainment. It takes on a sacred character, because it comes from a sacred source. What is that source? Nothing short of a human being, a singular soul, frail and fraught, unique among his eight billion roommates, born once in the sordid panoply of time and space, whose confused and desperate need to understand himself and his life and the short mean muck he swims through has assumed the form — not of a poem like Goethe, or a symphony like Mahler, or a novel like Tolstoy or even a film like Kurosawa— but a song. Just a song, sung with all the gorgeous imperfection of one human life. This man is a prophet and fool and his mumbled message, doubtless faulted, limited in scope and audience, destined to fail, is yet more likely to save the world than all the number ones in Nashville.
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