Music is love looking for words: a night with Gregory Porter

This is one of those that needs an ice breaker. Writing this feels like a once in a lifetime opportunity. A shot at proving that we are storytellers.

It’s a band of emotions. Gratitude singing I am able and no one could be more deserving. The off-key anxiety making us question whether ink even has a smell or is that too, a fictional experience? A couple of months ago I declared my love for words in a tweet. Last night I met the reason for the tweet. I experienced an intimate night with Gregory Porter.

I would like to apologise for the unculturedness I’m about to confess. The first time I heard of a Gregory Porter existing was in August last year. For years, I deprived myself of guaranteed eargasms. Last night was a dream, a movie, a fairytale if you must.

There’s this joke in my circle. Where we view my life as a series about a budding writer who is on the verge of her big break. Last night, I got the opportunity to experience this beyond the giggles.

Msaki is a genius. Having her ocean-deep spirit set the tone for Gregory was more perfect than the word itself. Her aura, the prayers, her voice, the musical arrangement, her sound. It said ‘let’s get this show started.”

Another highlight was the band. More especially Tivon Pennicott’s powerful yet mesmerising sax sounds. Last night, I experienced words in a way I never thought possible.

Do you remember the first time you watched Tyler Perry’s Diary of a Black Mad Woman? Do you remember how each soundtrack fit you into each character’s shoes? That’s what the intimate night with Gregory gave its audience.

It gave Madea movie.
It made us relate to American culture.
Like an international concert should.
Transport you to the place of the sounds’ origins.
Gregory said, HEY South Africans imagine you’re LAURA and Let me take you to the Alley.
He said Be Good and Let the Liquid Spirit free.
1960 what? 1960 who?
Black lives mattered then, they still do.
Genocide,
A Musical Genocide, at least.
He took us to church!
We found our Way to Harlem where he was baptised by his Daddy’s horn.

The concert was a perfect blend of political correctness, art and talent. I could go on forever, but I will save the lessons learned for next week’s #SundayBlog.

This was another reminder that, WeLived.