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Un nombre distintivo, no? Micah? Un profeta hebreo menor de edad. Blue? Un nombre a mitad de camino del hippismo. Red, white, and? (Blue) Moon of Kentucky? Smaldone. podría ser italiano o antiguo Inglés.

Este es un realmente decente chico bién. Micah Blue tiene una voz original, y también es un virtuoso del ragtime finger-picker, . Sus cancioncillas con encanto antiguo – y austeros Tin-Pan Alley tunes con letras de Soren Kierkegaard. Como una luz única, su música ilumina mucho a la vez que lanza un montón de fuertes sombras., hermoso, oscuro y profundo.

Cuando toca en vivo, se tensa todo el cuerpo, más de lo que cabría esperar de un músico popular, al igual que podría estallar sus cuerdas, o romper el cuello de su guitarra. Sin embargo no hay rastros de ironía en su música o en sus actuaciones.

Véase, hace frío en la noche allá en Maine, de donde él es, y cuando tienes los ojos de dios en blanco sobre ti, y tienes en la siguiente puerta a Jukes y los Kallikacks drogandose con freón o algo así, sólo hace a un hombre pensar seriamente en donde encaja. Willem de Kooning, mirando hacia el cielo estrellado sobre Black Mountain en los 40’s comentó que “el universo le pone los pelos de punta”, y me imagino que Micah podría estar de acuerdo.

La conciencia humana puede ser un artefacto improvisado, unido con alambres de rescate y cinta adhesiva, pero tendrá que ser suficiente. Y bien puede ser cierto que el pesar y la pérdida son ineludibles de la condición humana (si te casas te vas a arrepentir, y si no te casas te arrepentirás también de eso). Pero también es cierto que la música es un baluarte en contra de nociones como la fragilidad humana, y la música que Micah Blue hace es más que suficiente. Ofrece bálsamo y auxilio a un alma cansada.

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Micah Blue Smaldone. A distinctive name, no? Micah? A minor Hebrew prophet. Blue? A hippy-ish middle name. Red white and? Moon of Kentucky? Smaldone. could be Italian, or Old English. I understand his grandfather (on his mother’s side) fought with the John Brown Battery in the Spanish Civil War and taught young Micah plenty of the old songs – but don’t ask him to play Jarama Valley in Catalan. It’s just too sad. His grandfather never got over it, and the whole Comintern business still sticks in his craw. His great grandfather (on his father’s side) was the local IWW guy who saw to it that a little bit of Joe Hill was scattered in the Pine Tree State.

Well, I just want to say to the country that this is a real decent, fine boy. Micah Blue’s got an original voice, reedy and spare, and he’s a virtuoso ragtime finger-picker, too. His songs are charming, antique ditties – austere Tin-Pan Alley tunes with lyrics by Soren Kierkegaard. Like a single bright light, his music illuminates much while also casting a lot of sharp shadows, lovely, dark and deep.

When he plays live, he tenses up his whole body – tenser than you’d expect for a folk musician, like he might snap the strings, or snap the neck of his guitar, or just snap. But there’s not a trace of irony in his music or in his performance, and I guess that’s the Yankee in him.

See, it gets cold at night up there in Maine, where he’s from, and when you got the blank eye of god bearing down on you, and you got the Jukes and the Kallikacks next door getting high on Freon or something, it just makes a man think seriously about where he fits in. Willem de Kooning, gazing up at the star-spangled sky over Black Mountain in the forties, remarked “the universe gives me the creeps,” and I imagine Micah might agree.

Human consciousness may be a makeshift contraption held together with bailing wire and duct tape, but it will have to suffice. And it may well be true that regret and loss are inescapable human conditions (if you marry you will regret it, and if you don’t marry you’ll regret that too). But it is also true that music is a bulwark against such notions of human frailty, and Micah Blue’s music does more than suffice. It offers balm and succor to a weary soul.

“Micah is so good,” Jack Rose told me, “he’ll make you throw your dick in the dirt!” I certainly agree with the spirit, if not the letter, of Mr. Rose’s sentiments. I’ll have to let you personally be the judge on that score, though you ladies will have to determine some sort of equivalent for yourselves, assuming you concur.

o en Tequila Sunrise

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