small world, small grace

Tonight, walking in my little town, I took out my phone and listened to prime American soul music from the 1960s and 70s, Arthur Connelly, Brick, many songs I didn’t know, lovingly curated by a d.j. in London, on BBC Radio Two. (The Brits have long done well by soul music. There’s a wealth of obscure soul and funk and r & b for them to obsess about, even after several decades of discovering and rediscovering songs, artists, movements within the larger grouping of ‘soul.’)

It was past midnight there, sundown time more or less here. And while technology doesn’t often move me these days, the absurd wonderful fact of what I was doing was unavoidable. As Teju Cole would (did) say “I liked the murmur of the announcers, the sounds of those voices speaking calmly from thousands of miles away.”


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