Sinners.
Now I ain’t seen the movie yet, but that word? It hits like a church bell on a Sunday morning—sharp, loud. My buddy Hearst out in Atlanta, real brainy type, said the film was “interesting.” Now lemme tell you, comin’ from him, that word’s got weight. Ain’t just filler. That’s a flag on the field. A warning. A whisper.
But truth is, maybe I don’t need to watch the movie. Maybe I done lived it already. Hell, maybe you have too.
See, down here in the Bible Belt, they don’t just teach scripture—they write it in sweat. You learn early what’s “holy” and what’s “hellbound.” They got rules for what you can play, how you talk, who you kiss, and which side of the tracks you walk. Aretha? Bobby Womack? They slid from gospel to groove, and that move? That was rebellion in real time. Not just music. A damn soul revolution.
I know that road. Played gospel with the Starlight Quartet when I was still wearin’ hand-me-down suits and tryin’ to tune my voice up to the Lord. We hit the road, sang about heaven, tried to stay outta trouble. But then them teenage years hit like a freight train with no brakes. I felt that pull. The itch to play dirtier, deeper, darker. The kind of sound that don’t need permission to be powerful.
Now my family, they didn’t try to stop me. Didn’t throw no holy water on my guitar or cast me out the house. They let me find my own way. That kind of grace? Rare as a cool breeze in August.
But church folk? Some of 'em tried to “save” me. Came knockin’, speakin’ soft but judgin’ hard. Thought I’d lost my way ‘cause I found my truth in the blues. I ain’t never cussed 'em out. Just smiled, nod, and keep on movin’.
‘Cause here’s what I know: music don’t care what pew you sit in. It ain’t about sin. It’s about story. Whether you’re praisin’ or confessin’, cryin’ or testifyin’, the sound comes from the same place—your soul.
So yeah, I’m still playin’. Still singin’. Still walkin’ that crooked path between spirit and sound.
But now I gotta ask you—what kind of music you playin', sinner?