They tell us not to judge a book by its cover. Despite all the truth and goodness we see in that, how silly and out of this world a concept like that is. When they trump their data proudly, insisting it takes a mere 15 seconds to get set on a belief, or to put it more bluntly to smile at their likes or smirk off with pique, how can one find the patience to test out their temper?
It is with this poorly rooted, shallow rationale that I clicked on what chose my millennial want. Ibrahim – Beirut. Two exotic names for my sight, with a powerful pull, regardless how trivial was such an impulse.
A gentle harp-like, heavenly sound, set against an invisible background, ever so smoothly starts lurking, heavily breathing, gently caressing, closing not only my eyes, and there is the trumpet who’s recognized such foreplay and answers likewise.
She cries and her pangs of pain or pleasure can be felt from afar. Her long, black hair’s released as if a torrent, a gushing rush of gurgling waves, and the fall of her jewelry, soft clashes of coupling chain, her bare, ebony skin shivers with a shy, silly shudder. She speaks of her ancestors, of memories lost; a wedding, a burial, coos of a child, she no longer knows what is human what not, yet her chant still continues, ‘tis the only way that she can; she needs to be sung.
Hear the wife of Poseidon as she sings out for you, watch her dance sway and her history reveal. Her calling needs answering for her bearing’s too heavy and her lust quenched surely not merely by one.
This trumpet you witness, you’ve not heard before, for though it is jazz and mature, her soul’s oriental, acknowledged by few, yet Ibrahim knows how to play it for us too. It speaks of feelings innately understood, the crux of a being, the crux of all, being though so few.
She numbs and she settles- you and her too, reaching the height of quietude for a good minute or two, only to grip you most violently and throw your whole living into the midst of the noise, a rise of intense spirit, a fierce, fully harmonic battle and riot between the old strings and percussion.
You’re now alive and awake. Unlike the bitter state of awareness, this time you feel grateful. You’re not yet sure what you felt, but you doubt not its virtue, its weight. It scarred, and now you’re anointed, ordained to begin your quest, your baptism- all due to your now new friends, Ibrahim and his aids.
It was a fortunate occurrence. Led by ignorant habits, such as seeking blindfolded, I’ve bumped into fate and she smiled upon me. Pushed by a shallow desire to click on something so foreign I came upon one of the most beautiful songs. It would be a logical fallacy to support and encourage such foolish behavior, this chase after inviting, alluring identities, for the chance of such a fortunate accident happening are maybe accidental and surely superficial. However, I’d feel like a fraud, a supporter of a creed I don’t believe in, a Pharisee in need of a revival if I argued against it.
Thus, my fellow disciples, trust your instincts, make hasty decisions and click away all your fancies, as we’ll all pray that fate will bless you with happy accidents and a poignant aesthetic taste.