Among the popular theories of the origin of the term HOBO, I chose the contraction of HOmeward BOund. There is only one reason for opting that. This article is about Brule. About home.
Watching and listening to Brule and the AIRO band on the night of Friday the 13th, established a thought that home is where the real music is. Paul LaRoche (stage name: Brule) through his distinct Native American music, inspired the audience with his family life – how tensions became triumphs, how identity and reconciliation fulfilled a dream and how his love for his family and culture sent a message of hope to all those who continually love his music.
It was a blissful feeling. I felt a stirring touch of tranquility in every strum of the guitar from his son, Shane, hum of the flute from her daughter, Nicole and beat of the drum from the talented Moses. I admit, never in my entire life had I experienced this genre of music, not ever. The long existence of Western music in my country has much to say on my tendencies of becoming a true R&B aficionado rather than a classical fellow.
I grew up in a family whose life revolves around music, learned “Delilah” at an early age and sang in public when I was about 9 years old. Mom was the professional singer. In one article I described her beautiful high-pitched voice as one that could cause a light bulb to explode and a house lizard to slip from its stronghold.
Ok, it’s hereditary. My older brother started singing on platforms at age six. All through his college days, he became the guitarist and vocalist of a local band. Younger sister faced a roaring crowd in her first grade, sang the piece so well and got a good pat from her classroom adviser and a good grade on top of that.
The youngest, Jeffrey, is the Rhythm and Blues prince. Owning the lion’s share of mom’s vocal dexterity, no wonder he indisputably succeeded her to the throne. At age 10, he conquered the airwaves by becoming an undefeated champion in most contests he was in. His extraordinary talent brought him instant TV stardom, even up to now.
Voice training was hard when I was young. I’m still curious up to now if the strategy of submerging myself neck-deep in the sea on early mornings and singing at the top of my lungs, really worked good for my voice. I can vividly recall I had to bear the dawn’s coldness and give up the early morning dreams in bed.
I am writing this piece because I, to a certain extent, after listening to Brule, miss singing at home. Unlike in my quiescent town, where only birds, and cicadas, and lizards are my competitors, here I can only vocalize as quietly as possible, or moan melodically, or sporadically chirp like a dying bird. Here, no do-re-mis blaring out from every living room window. In this cold State, needless to say, the singing blood running through my veins is momentarily frozen.
Home is where my love for music started. Just as Brule had turned tensions into triumphs, so must I adjust every life’s valley into peaks. Brule obviously has more of what little I have about survival. However, I have a family that is so supportive all along.
Music loves me. I may have cut a dream of becoming a singing superstar, in my heart, nevertheless, I have my own tribal rhythm to chant and a song to constantly sing. Brule said to hold on to the dream. Thanks to Brule, so I go on. In fondness of music I shall go on…living…loving it.
Enjoy the rest of the Hobo Day week everyone!