When I think about where music can take us, how music can affect us and shape us, this is where I travel. An open front door on a cold Monday morning. A man is standing just over the threshold, preparing to go. The porch framing him is a soft winter grey. The terrazzo tiles at his feet are glittering like jewels.
The man’s face is gentle under sleepy-wide, dark-brown eyes. He has a heavy moustache, as many young men do in south Wales in 1984. His hair is glossy-thick, shiny blue-black, the hair of a Celt over cow-like lashes. His familiar smile is forcing itself up at the corners. His body is at odds with it, bent over two walking sticks, mismatching.
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