Jason Roweth

 

WRITER

Finding your roots while looking for elsewhere.

A musician's journey home.

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a story

I Don't Remember

“It must be here somewhere, man… “. Will scrambled under his unmade bed, behind the mouldy-backed cupboard, under the hippy rug that covered his tiny, dark, dank bedroom’s floor. But the hopes of Will finding his secret stash, like his hopes of making the great Spring come-back gig, are gone. They used to call out ‘Man Maloney’… Chant it over and over until he hit the first notes of the great guitar God solo, then the earthquake roar. You’d hear it over the band’s own self-styled thunder. It’s not that Will cared - in that moment - for the hero’s acclaim. There was plenty of time later for post-gig prizes. But the roar, the thunder, were Zen-like moments of sky-cracking unity… For the crowd, for the band, for the crew, all for one and one for all… The bed creaks. Will falls under the weight of past dreams, lost glories… and sings, “Must be here somewhere”.

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