Sitting off stage right in the timing booth is special. The sound quality isn’t tweaked to perfection. It’s wimpy. Weak. Strained and spread thinly over the area. However, you can actually hear what is happening. You can hear someone’s hands against the body of the guitar, the way their fingertip picks the strings. The way they sigh out the left over air after ending a note.
And you can see them.
Joe’s arm moved. He would pick and strum with his whole hand, every finger moving as part of the sound. He’d close his eyes and lean into the mic–and the cameras grabbed every soulful opening of his mouth to project out to the world–but his right arm was what mattered. With each note, a different muscle, bone, nerve rose and fell. His skin became something that held him inside. It contained him. Under his skin, his body moved and from this movement came sound and from the sound came music and from the music came something more.